The early start
the silent hour
the wind outside a-moan
The ticking clock
the coffee hot
the time to leave from home
The coat so warm
the wind so cold
the sleep still in my eyes
The red eye train
the comfy seat
the long trip, no surprise
The journey north
the many miles
the place far up the track
The working and
the waiting for
the train to take me back
©Jemverse
Photo – Jempics
You picked my broken pieces
split and dispersed
all over the town
and in the sorrow laced lake
where I was left to drown
You found my lost bearings
and the shattered beliefs
and weaved them together
one at a time
to some magical relief
And before I could comprehend
you transformed my despaired being
to some rhythmic melody
much like the castanets
in a Spanish dance
Copyright © Shantanu Baruah
You picked my broken pieces
split and dispersed
all over the town
and in the sorrow laced lake
where I was left to drown
You found my lost bearings
and the shattered beliefs
and weaved them together
one at a time
to some magical relief
And before I could comprehend
you transformed my despaired being
to some rhythmic melody
much like the castanets
in a Spanish dance
Copyright © Shantanu Baruah
A line in the sand Separating us for now Can be washed away
Source: Daily Haiku – Mon. February 11, 2019 – Poetry For Healing
The steady rain kisses my cheeks Mixing with my tears I am waiting for you to come and quell my deepest fears Where are you so late my love?
It was perpetual summer, richly fragrant with potent mary jane and pungent patchouli.
I was sixteen.
She was two years older – so far out of my league that she should never have even noticed me. And yet somehow I was there, amazed at my good fortune, hopelessly in love with her, and in complete awe of her friends. They were ultra hip, achingly cool and comfortably rich.
Whereas I owned the Levi’s I stood up in, a couple of faded shirts, a borrowed guitar, and my notebook of spidery poems.
There was a gentle candle-lit dinner party in one of daddy’s spare houses. The room was beamed and flagged and full of style and music. I was a pretty boy – an amusing novelty to wear like a trinket on her arm. Although I never realised that at the time.
The conversation turned to views of what a perfect…
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The Reluctant Poet 