Lover’s Dream

My dream wiggles out of the dormant shell,

Like a snail drenched in celestial deluge,

A dream of red wine that fills the lover’s heart;

My drunken mouth finds your soft mouth,

Crystallizes into an evening of dew,

My ardent lips find your moist lips,

In a kiss predestined and long due;

A kiss of flesh, a kiss of blood,

A kiss so divine,

Uniting our body and soul,

Once again in many lives;

A union blessed by the gods in heaven,

Sprinkled with holy rain drops and drizzly tears,

Precious gems thread in a rosary to chant our name,

Cheered by the moon and the stars ardently,

Lovers reborn in eternity

Anita Bacha

THE MANGO SEASON

I think of you all the time,

But I think of you more in the mango season;
I think of you when I eat ripe mangoes,
Peeled with a sharp knife,
Sliced, mixed with raw sea salt and fresh red chilies,
Like you eat ripe mangoes in Ceylon;

I think of your visit every mango season,
My thrill when you arrived at the airport,
The unleashed love in your hugs,
The gifts of delicacies and fine lingerie,
And you, my obsession,
And your panic attacks, your bouts of depression,
Your tears and your snorts;
I’d cook for you, I’d brew your tea, and I’d warm water for your bath,
I was so overwhelmed to have you in the mango season,
Every ripe mango was a feast too juicy,
Every moment, an eternity,
A promise of unbound happiness,
Counting the days deemed pointless;

When you confessed your love for my best friend,
The mango season crashed to an end,
We’d roll over the top of mango trees,
We’d swim in a punch of thick, sticky mango sap,
We’d come out naked and sad,
As you walked away from me, my hand you forego,
I loved you so much; I had to let you go;

I wait for the mango season every year,
I wait for memories that linger,
For ripe mangoes as sweet as love and petting,
Added salt and chili sarcastically begetting
Grief and pain,
Corollaries of an amorous adventure again
Anita Bacha

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

INK

Inspired by Manache Poetry’s Next Awakening, I have written the second and last half of this poem.

The first half was complete but followed a systematic writer’s ( or lover’s) block. One sentence “do not let go of my hand” was all I needed to dip the nib of my pen in the ink pot of the vast ocean of  Love and write…

INK

In chaos, my world collapses,

My pen drops,

A wound on my ring finger,

Betrayed …

By my sister,

An ironic wasteland is my heart,

Dumped …

Love loses its eulogy,

Fragmented…

In a puzzle chemistry,

Poets run out of verses

Tumbled…

Face down in infamy;

Suddenly,

Loose petals of words,

Fall in cascades,

Cover my lifeless body,

Awakened…

From the torpor

Of self imposed penalty,

Wet…

Under the mosquito net,

Stained…

My bed linen,

With ink from your pen !

Anita Bacha

IMG_7463.JPG

Grieving My Lost Love

Your face I behold in a dream
So lovely, so immaculate
Like the moon in a perfect sky
A blessed vision
Graced by the Sweet Comforter
To connect me with you
A new zeal awakes in my heart
You have come again
To receive my love

Anita Bacha

Illustration/ Picture Source/Internet

WRITE TO ME THE WORDS

Write to me the words

Write to me the words of love

 That you don’t dare to tell me

 Write to me the words

 Write to me the words of love

That you blow in my hair

 At night when you sleep near me

Write to me the words

 Write to me the words of love

 That you draw on the sand

And the jealous wave clears with her lips

 Write to me the words

 Write to me the words of the melody that you hum

 And the wind carries in a waltz of leaves

Write to me the words

 Write to me the words of love

 In a book without page

  With the ink of eternity

Anita Bacha©

Illustration/Painting/Artist/Francis Apied

words

 

MY POETRY 

My poetry is my inseparable lover

At night I snuggle and slumber with her

A velvety couch of imagery is our dream

Of mystic lands beings and forms unseen

In the morning my eyes open to her beauty

In her silky tresses I thread myself furtively

Her kisses are words of ecstasy

Burning my skin as evanescent paper arduously

As she carves with the pen of immortality

She turns to ashes my poet’s frisk and folly

Turning my heart to lyrics of past life and mystery

Together we plough in the pasture of eternity 

http://www.poetryofanitabacha.com