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!
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.
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, 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.
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.
Sunday lunch in a friendly bistro, On the outskirts of Brussels; A hanging smell of blubber, Roast, mash and stew, A man in an old over-coat, Others in woollies and stoles, Silently bent on their plates, In their eyes, hope twinkles and smiles, Shafts of sunlight Break through closed windows, Heralds the onset of spring; Like man, Nature too is keen on change. A new coat, cheerful and light, A scarf painted with colors, beautiful and bright.
Photo Credit: Anita Bacha.
I lived in Belgium for some time, more particularly,in Brussels for work and in Linkebeek with family and friends. I love the Belgian people both the French and the Flemish. I adore the food. I have left a piece of my heart in Belgium and I entertain the sincere wish of going back one day when the Spring breaks through.