GOA Revisited

Sun glows in blue sky,

Gold ripples dance on the sea –

Time to set the sail.

Colorful fishing boats in Santa Paulo

Young tourist poses,

Older man sips lemonade,

Generation gap.

Sea view point

Humble hatched roof hut,

Lies behind tourist hotel,

Fisherman’s sweet home.

Fisherman’s hut in North Goa

Sun sets at seaside,

Colorful streaks brush the sky,

Footprints in wet sand.

Sundowner in Panaji

Sleek evening ripples,

The sun embraces, lying down –

Romantic season!

Beautiful sunset Santa Paulo

Roses for all seasons

Pretty yellow rose,

Sunbathing in the courtyard,

Intruder fly bites!

Yellow rose London summer

Exquisite pink rose,

Flaunts her fresh,youthful beauty,

In the spring of life.

Garden rose London Spring

In the morning rain,

Bruised dust-pink rose shivers,

On a bed of thorns.

Late summer rose Stratford London

Frail rose bud petals,

Burn in blaze of dry season ,

Thirsting for rain drops.

Rose bud in dry season,Rajasthan

Lush garden roses,

Half-blossom bends to her weight ,

Till the last fold falls!

Summer scarlet rose.Mauritius

INK

Ink leaks from my pen,

Blotchy petals on paper –

I write poesy.

Anita Bacha.

( In the picture, my poetry book INK ! This book consists of 100 love poems and is available in my birth country, Mauritius. It is published by #Éditionsdeloceanindien , a newly- founded publishing house.)

My latest poetry book INK

True to His Word

True to his word,

He was there, in the park,

Waiting for her,

She halted, looked around,

His words echoed in her ears,

In the morning gentle zephyr,

‘I will be there!’

‘I will be there for you!’

He cried out,

Last time they met and parted;

Stoic, handsome and shy,

Greener against the blue sky,

He smiled under its vast parasol;

The sight of him warmed her heart;

They talked,

They had so much to say to each other;

Then they fell into a deep silence,

It was not love,

It was not happiness,

It was a soul connection.

Anita Bacha

A tree

The Socks

The Socks
In coils like two cotton balls
Coated with dust
From under my bed
A brush stroke brought out the socks!
Forgotten
Abandoned
Consciously or unconsciously
The socks you left behind
Sad, blue
Filled with bitterness
The stare blank
The socks
I caught in my trembling hands
Gave me a lump in my throat
The socks recalled your being there
Curled against me in my bed
It was not a dream!
The socks made me a little scared
Fear the idea that you will never come back
To warm my bed
To cover me with delicious cuddles
The socks made me chuckle too
Giggle at the idea that I had never seen such large feet
Such big toes, teasingly tickling my feet
The socks revived in me the great happiness
These senseless moments
When we both laughed like kids
Happy to be together
Pleased that we had met
Pleased that we were in love!

Anita Bacha

The socks

Le Visiteur

Assis sur une chaise haute,
Grand,beau et silencieux,
Il tirait sur sa derniere cigarette:

 La pandémie battait son plein,

Il est arrivé tôt ce matin-là,

Il posa sur la table un sac des ravitaillements ;

Assis sur une chaise haute,

Grand, beau et silencieux,

Il tirait sur sa dernière cigarette ;

 Petite,

 Elle atteignait la hauteur de son front ;

 Le contour délicat de ses yeux,

Une minuscule fossette dans le menton

Et, ses narines sensuelles la captivaient ;

 Elle chassa amèrement

L’envie folle de serrer la tête de l’homme,

Contre son sein ,

De couvrir son visage basané des baisers ;

Elle aussi avait fait la guerre,

Mais la guerre de la vie ;

 Langoureuse,

Elle chercha longtemps dans son regard,

Un signe,

Une suspicion d’amour,

Rien, un vide,

Autrefois, il a connu l’amour,

L’amour qui trahit et qui fait mal,

L’amour qui tue,

Et il mourrait doucement ;

Elle mourrait aussi à force de l’aimer,

Incapable de déclarer son amour

A un homme sans âme.

Anita Bacha

Photo by Thau00eds Silva on Pexels.com

Waiting for Spring

The fall forays my garden as a sorceress,

The sky covering the morning sun with thick dimness;

Broom sweeps, leaves and flowers fly off in a maelstrom,

Cold downpours freeze the subterranean thunderstorm;

Birds flee up in the skies with a scream;

Trout hide under the stones of the stream;

I look full of hope, my love, at the radiance in the horizon;

No matter the rain, the cold, the melancholy of the autumn season,

Whatever the absence, the long days of waiting, the starless nights,

Whatever the tears, the suffering and the frights,

I wait, mad lover that I am, for your return in spring;

Pining for the promised kisses, the delirious frolics in the field,

I dream of the elating scent of the rose on your tanned skin,

Of poppies, crushing on your mouth my stolen longing.

Anita Bacha

Spring