About Anita Bacha

Published writer and poet, mother, love to read and write

LOST 

Lost in hopelessness before we met,

Lost we found each other on the net,
Lost we were in blank togetherness,
Lost in nothingness,
Lost you wander away,
Lost you betray,
Lost I let go of you in sadness,
Lost I snub to take you back in forgiveness;
Lost without each other,
Lost we are forever.

Anita Bacha
Illustration/photography/Anita Bacha 

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

 
 
 

Waiting

My sleep has left with you;

Waiting on the isolated shore,

I am all alone drunk with remorse;

In the moonless night,

My thoughts, lost in the dark blue sea,

I dream of your nimble form,

Floating on the tranquil water;

I wait and I watch for the waves,

I wait for you to drown in my arms

Anita Bacha

Illustration/photography/anitabacha

moonless night

NOSTALGIA

Anita Bacha

O mystic traveler!

As a warm gentle waft,

You’re in thro’ the secret doors of my alcove;

Snuggled under the red satin quilt,

In gentle strokes you caressed

My thirsty body;

Whispering musical words,

In the naked voice of silence,

You stole my soul,

Left behind a sorrowful corpse.

Anita Bacha

Fistful of Sand IMG_7643

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NOSTALGIA

O mystic traveler!

As a warm gentle waft,

You’re in thro’ the secret doors of my alcove;

Snuggled under the red satin quilt,

In gentle strokes you caressed

My thirsty body;

Whispering musical words,

In the naked voice of silence,

You stole my soul,

Left behind a sorrowful corpse.

Anita Bacha

Fistful of Sand IMG_7643

Sing a Song 

O! My foolish little bird!
Why are you perched on this desolate twig?
The leaves have yellowed and fallen,
The leaves have drifted away;
Your feathers as soft as pain,
Your silence drowns in rain;
O! My foolish little bird,
What love do you seek?

Anita Bacha


 
 
 
 https://m.facebook.com/Ani.Bacha/

SPRING FRISKIES

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

https://m.facebook.com/Ani.Bacha/