Divine Love I
—Poetry and Original Artwork by Rhony Bhopla, Sacramento, CA
MORNING POEM TO BE READ ANY TIME OF DAY
Your flowers charm me, Morning. Shapes
and colors of desire. Mist of velvet fragility.
Innocence never seeks, Love. Blue sky
canvas with radiant hues⏤desire is living.
Tagore said, On the day when the lotus bloomed,
alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not.
Amazement is flowering of the imagination
separated from the generous blooms of Earth.
Let’s be amazed in the rhapsody of flowers,
gorgeous kisses on our eyes.
Their petals are the lips of plants, kissing us
every morning, reminding us we are loved.
Innocent cheek kisses, those kisses blown
in the air. Just the pecks we forget to give,
those blameless ones full of imprints of love.
Enjoyed, cherished, and satisfying.
Whichever admirable name you are called,
kiss me now.
Your flowers charm me, Morning. Shapes
and colors of desire. Mist of velvet fragility.
Innocence never seeks, Love. Blue sky
canvas with radiant hues⏤desire is living.
Tagore said, On the day when the lotus bloomed,
alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not.
Amazement is flowering of the imagination
separated from the generous blooms of Earth.
Let’s be amazed in the rhapsody of flowers,
gorgeous kisses on our eyes.
Their petals are the lips of plants, kissing us
every morning, reminding us we are loved.
Innocent cheek kisses, those kisses blown
in the air. Just the pecks we forget to give,
those blameless ones full of imprints of love.
Enjoyed, cherished, and satisfying.
Whichever admirable name you are called,
kiss me now.
Divine Love II
BREAKUP
Once a flower
now petals
escaping from my hands
one flutters and lands
on your forehead
where I kissed you
one lands
on my lips
where you kissed me
one is lost
where you and I
tumble together
without knowing
where the other is
each one exists.
Divine Love III
PSYCHOSIS
Doctor’s Notes at Scrubs Maximum Prison, London
Expressionless man, barricaded
mind, exists—silhouette
dance, like speed of pink flesh
floating lotus in a pond.
Imagination—hostage, he writes
his story with omphalic ink,
spilled in vagarious patterns,
analyzed by anonymous carers.
Puts his finger through a moth hole
in the chest of his blue sweater,
word-moth flutters between synapses,
lemon squeezes out his mouth.
Dr. Soumya Swaminathan Hope Meets the Lotus
YAGNA
we follow each other around the havan like betrothed
lovers the priest is wearing an orange
lungi skirted around his waist cotton
waves roaring Ganga we are daughters
sitting in a mass shadow of swooping flies the fire
rages the drums beat the living are ravenous
when you smile the dark red lipstick melts
around your mouth a continuum
of enchantment and vulgarity ornamented
the man commands us to walk a thousand steps to nowhere
the lesson: eat flower petals wherever you are
soothe your tongue on the waterfall of desire
his black dyed hair conducts a swarm of velvet flies
their feet carry dust of incense ash to a deity
we are the effigy of human
Benazir at the Base of Chhogori
BENAZIR
Then the moon joined in
And a few of the tenor-voiced stars,
And the earth offered its lovely belly
As a drum.
—Hafiz
Drumbeat followed you into exile, coalescent furies, mercurial justice.
Thunderous bomb did not annihilate your ideology, your hope for justice.
You were brought up a bloom in fields of fallen kings.
Light shone over Pakistan—glories called you Justice.
Visionary for the terrorized, the spoiled innocent.
Oh, unabashed lips, mottled berries confidante to Justice.
Moon eyes lined with kohl, like empty sky around stars.
You led women of Islam to know the transparency of justice.
You said this, triumphant woman, and I follow your promise:
Human dignity fights greed, war is no means to justice.
You said, expose tyranny in military rule, bloody bite of the extreme.
You, voice of the down-trodden in all cities waiting for justice.
Drumbeat filled your exile, you drank from empty cupped hands
which gushed sweet compassion, mercies, perfect justice.
When you returned, your urgent cry spoke for the illiterate,
accused the uniform, and idolized democracies willed by justice.
Protected daughter, mighty mother, your wish is the icon—
I breathe the air of your voice, mourn bodies deserved of justice.
Return to me, so I may tend to the wounded at your feet.
Teach us to learn from the ordinary, to deliver speeches anaphoric for justice.
Moment of your death, a sound blast, ever-second beat of my heart.
Will you return to the people, share hope-filled stories of justice?
I, Rhony, follow your echo, Benazir, from the tops of Chhogori.
White scarves descend as flurries for human rights and justice.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BLOOD OF A POET
—Rhony Bhopla
This page is stripped of its skin
every letter gathered now
a heap shredded into fine dust
my lips swell toward the moon crest
luminosity brims with courage
like a lone drummer ascending
new stories: I am a baby elephant,
a bee, a flower, a ladybug,
my blood is a night arrow.
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Rhony Bhopla for fine poetry and artwork this morning! For more of her art, go to www.facebook.com/Rhony-Bhopla-108384477669371/.
Tagore and Faizullah Agree Desire Does Not
Blind the Mind with Delusion
—Artwork by Rhony Bhopla
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