mist fills the night—
there are no ghosts, just my self
and me in mellow light
I pause only to listen
to rustling in the trees, where
secrets like my own
might be guarded mystery
it’s not for me to know what
theirs might be,
but a comfort to feel
a kindred familiarity
© Neetu Malik
Aliens
Wind-blown seeds
land in unknown soil
in hopes that they will grow
into trees
strong and dense with leaves
heavy with fruit
in fertile ground
where rivers do not
run dry
they do not yet know
what winds and snows
await them
in seasons to come
how frost might freeze
tender sprouts.
© Neetu Malik
be happy she says, her soft arms hold me as I lean into them seeking reassurance a promise to protect am I so old, I wonder to need that which I gave so freely, assuming I was the stronger when she was frail am I so lucky, I ask looking at the starry skies as if the milky way might hold the answer but then I stop look into her eyes and know the love of a daughter
© Neetu Malik
The sign is posted on the porch I've walked many times this way before through seasons warm and cold but no one appears at the door. An abandoned house that says Welcome must have been somebody's abode— leaves me guessing who might have lived in a happy home in this town where few might wander unless they've lost their way, no highways feed into these streets, just old Chevy trucks parked by stacks of hay. A wind chime blows with wind's moody strokes each time I stroll by, but the windows seem so tightly sealed, no visitors knock to say hi. It must have been a place of joy for some kind-hearted folks who lived and left the signpost still hanging on the porch.
© Neetu Malik
here we stand
not one Nation under God
fragmented under
a heaving flag
weighted down
by broken parts
shredded by knives
with rusted edges
blunted, yet sharp
in grievances
old cracks and ignorance
faulted lines below
the glossy glaze
held together
are now frayed
here we are
back in time
rolling in dismal strife
wondering how we got to this
at a loss for a healing fix
as in all things we have learned
there’s seldom a road to permanence
each generation carves its path
this one’s up to us, America.
© Neetu Malik
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