APPLE

A small pulpy red berry,
but carries a huge memory
allowing sighs, tears and smiles
altogether.
Since apple was your favorite fruit
I'll bake an apple pie today,
and worry not,
I'll make sure the vanilla extract I pour,
wouldn't kill the apple flavor at all.
O' yes I'll keep the apple peels too
and serve the whole of it
to your pet Nancie,
I'm sure she'll swallow it with a gulp;
like you used to do
when I served fresh to you
with toppings of some wheaped cream..
O' Dear, such a happy eater you looked!

A sweet crispy whitish berry,
but carries a huge memory
letting your heart heavy..

-

Face behind faces
mysteries behind smile
stories behind eyes
hiding intentions
pressing emotions
carrying false pretenses all around.

The modern man he is
full of sophistication and maturity.
Either lacking emotions or curled up
in self-conflict.
A sad person indeed!

-

Hey you, listen.
Stop a moment,
hug yourself
and breathe.

-

They might have had a battle,
that none could witness.
They might have had wounds
that none could see.

Not all battles are alarming,
not all battles shed blood.

-

অভিমান বোৰ আচলতে মৰম,
দুৰ্দান্ত মৰম।

-

They say, 'forgive and let go'.
But they didn't say,
how to tackle the war inside.

-

she's a book written
in obscure words.

-

She's voiceless
yet carries music
in her heart,
speechless
yet utters stories
through her eyes.
She's veiled,
she's segmented,
that intensify curiosity.
Like an unfinished story
she intensifies ardency.

She's a book written
in obscure words.

-

Things that we ignore
often have stories
or an art in itself:
raw and unique
having an honest toil behind.
some have awful monotony,
some are showcased yet confined,
some have imperfections,
some have life yet voiceless
viewing dead, facing unjust,
accepting trespassing all daylong.
If dead isn't viewed,
how could life be adored?
Isn't it strange
how some things born as givers,
as an object of prey, only.
Some are waiting for better days
with hopes in the hearts.

Things do tell stories
what your heart carries..

-

If I weren't a poet,
Where would my emotions dwell?
How would I weave them?
If I weren't a poet,
How would I bind my yearnings?
How would I adore them?
If I weren't a poet,
Wouldn't those affluent affection be more indulgent?

-