Tag: writing

The Pond part-2 [Audio Poem]

An unexpected visitor

The bird that sat on her window, it looked familiar as if it belonged to a different place

She can see that the city was not his place

Maybe he followed her train to where the trees don’t grow

Where the cars’ noises block the voices in her head

She can no longer hear her best friend—the inspiration

Looking out of her cold studio apartment’s window, she can’t see the stars

Her lover’s words resonate in her ears, he was right—she misses counting the bright pins in the sky

That yellow cheerful bird’s singing covered all the other noises around her

She wondered if he had been a messenger, if he carried a letter from The Pond for her

Although her apartment stood high above the man-made trails beneath

It was no match to the mountain she used to live on,

The broken kitchen counters that he’d promised to fix,

The cotton filled pillows, the wooden chair he proudly carved.

She closes her eyes humming with the bird, harmonies she once knew so well

She can smell it, the pond’s stench—what she hated and loved so much

But it escapes her before she can capture it; she wished to paint it on her pale grey wall

The memories were too old, and the paint has run dry.

The Pond [Audio Poem]

A hesitant kiss on the cheek, close to her mouth,

He doesn’t know what to do, can’t stop the train.

Soon she’ll be gone.

The frogs in the pond, he yelled, they are begging you to stay… it’s not just me!

These trees! They cried all night while you laid between the sheets.

And you know the cricket, that one that you asked me to take outside, he sung by our window all day long…it’s not just me dear, it’s not just me!

She couldn’t look him in the eye. One way ticket is all she can afford. Is all she wanted– secretly.

The vibrations of the ground told him that the train is near.

There’s nothing he can do

He looked at her, with a sad smile: “look at me darling!”

“You know, the mountains won’t meet the flat ground you’re going to…the smell of hot concrete will make you miss the pond’s stench. The stars! They won’t be visible dear! Won’t you miss the stars?”

Her cold hands that he held on to were so warm once.

She wasn’t in love anymore. The pond was a thing of the past…she’s ready for the next train.

She didn’t even pack her clothes

A hand bag is all she took, filled with papers and colored pens… and a dried old flower that he couldn’t remember giving to her.

She hasn’t stopped loving him; she just needed a new muse.

Her fuel was inspiration and the pond has run out.