The Butterfly 🦋

THE BUTTERFLY
I sit by my window,
I behold a magic butterfly!
A rainbow butterfly!
Gorgeous hues of red, blue, indigo,
Orange, green, heavenly mauve,
Immaculate yellow,
Fluttering loftily,
Flying stealthily,
Flirting with sweet flowers so lovely!
A discreet kiss on the lips of the white pansy,
A soft caress on the dahlia’s cheek,
A gentle stroke on the red nose of the poppy!
Hibiscus, violets,
Budding marigolds,
Chuckle and open their folds,
Engrossed by the magic butterfly!
A fragrant red rose,
Spreads her velvety petals,
Lingers and whimpers!
In the wilderness, disappears the magic butterfly!

Anita Bacha

SPRING IS HERE


With a magic splash of fresh paints,
Trees and plants
Grim and dark,
With a spark
Into emerald green, are changed,
Donned is the sky in glistening blue,
Splendid and meek, the golden sun
Flirts jauntily,
Budding flowers kissing delicately
Coaxing beauty in the fun;
As spring plays with colors,
With the melodious songs of birds,
With the waltz of cheery butterflies,
With the noble heart of man,
New hopes, like fresh petals unbolt,
Blossoming gaily in the garden of life.

Anita Bacha

My Sweet Lord


The grains of sand tickle my feet,
I close my eyes,
Is it you, my sweet Lord,
Filling my soul with vibes divine?
The sea amorously laps my toes,
I close my eyes,
Is it you, my sweet Lord,
Sending cosmic waves down my spine?
As I stroll down the shore
‘I have caressed His Feet! ‘whispers the sand;
‘I have kissed His toes!’ murmurs the sea,
You walk with me, my sweet Lord!Anita Bacha

How to tell you (3)


How to tell you,
What is softer than the skin of a baby,
Softer than the feel of snow,
Softer than the petals of a rose,
How to tell you,
Nothing is softer than your hand,
Lying under my cheek,
When I sleep;
How to tell you,
What is a hand without warmth,
Or warmth without a hand,
Or a 🌹without petals,
Or petals without a 🌹,
Or me without you,or you without me.

Anita Bacha

Photo credit: Anita Bacha.

This is the third poem entitled ‘How to tell you’ that I have penned down. I thought my readers would be confused to read (3) in the title. Enjoy! The picture was shot by me at the wedding of my friend, the groom,in Rajasthan. His hand decorated with henna in the picture. I am using the picture to illustrate my poem. There is no connection between the poem and the picture.

My birth mother and my adoptive mother

My Birth Mother and My Adoptive Mother.

Her shiny brown eyes like ripe tamarind pulp,

Her olive color skin, her long flowing black hair,

Her cute oval face and sweet, crying voice,

Her fragrance, vetiver interlaced with wild musk,

Tore my heart apart as I let go of her linen camisole;

She is my mother!

Locked in her arms, I snuggle, forgetful of the world,

Throwing my legs and arms in gleeful abandon,

I yawn,

Languidly I open my eyes,

Her loving, sky blue gaze,

Her porcelain white skin glowing in the sun light,

Her golden curls dancing around her pretty face,

Her perfume, carnation interlaced with red rose,

Fill my heart as I bury my head in her silken stole,

She is my mother!

Mother is the one who renounced me,

Mother is the one who found me,

Mother Is

Mother always will be

Anita Bacha

I am sharing this poem that I wrote a decade ago when I was Head of the Central Authority for Inter-country Adoption , set up by The Hague Conference , in Mauritius. Strange are the ways of God, I found.Not every bud becomes a flower; not every daughter becomes a mother.Anita Bacha.

Illustrative photography: Anita Bacha.

You Are

You walk in my life unaware,

Inviting my pen to play melodies,

Of indescribable beauty on strings,

My fingers throbbing with love;

Don’t walk away unaware,

Breaking the rhythm of my heart beats,

Striking your name on strings,

My fingers blemished in ink;

You are the dancing script,

The humming pen, the amorous words,

You are around me, within me,

You are the poem you whispered in my ear.

Anita Bacha.