I will not count the seconds
I will not check the clock
I will listen only to the sound of
my own inhale and exhale and
the tapping of keys
watch my breath stir the strands
of my hair
as it falls below my chin
over this keyboard
my fingers
typing this note
to myself, this moment
a gift I give
to me
© Neetu Malik
You say life is not a poem
or a story—
I ask, “What is it then?”
“Real life”, you say.
Of course, you know best.
You spend your days
averaging
life’s losses, its gains,
calculating
how much time is left,
working out
logistics while you lie in bed.
Real life gives you pain,
brings a scowl to your face—
you add and subtract,
make no mistakes,
and I,
I just watch
the shadows twitch and yawn
on that wall
across the window
through which the moon
winks at me, sly-faced—
“I’ll be fine”, I say.
© Neetu Malik
I thought I could catch leaves
as they flurried down trees
where the summer sun
had painted them green just yesterday
when they were laden with
liquid imagination, suspended
from moist branches drenched
in dew
but seasons change
frost must replace droplets of dew
and I must let the leaves go
as they will
to follow their course
to be turned in the winter soil
of soft sorrow as they mourn
the passing of color and wait
in quietude for
a new beginning.
© Neetu Malik2 0 Read more
A Slice of Orange is delighted to welcome poet, Neetu to our rotation of authors.
Neetu’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived. She has contributed to The Australia Times Poetry Magazine, October Hill Magazine, Prachya Review, among others. Her poems have appeared in The Poetic Bond Anthology V and VI published by Willowdown Books, UK, NY Literary Magazine’s Tears Anthology and Poetic Imagination Anthology (Canada).
Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA and will be publishing a poem on the 26th of each month here on A Slice of Orange. Her column will be titled Poet’s Day.
Enjoy!
In the shapeless hours
of an endless night
the old clock
stops ticking
I hear it chime once
a labored groan, only half-shrill
I do not need to look
at its brass pendulum
to know it is still
all I know this time
unlike all other times is
its motion cannot
be restored.
© Neetu Malik
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