Saga of The Weaver Bird & The Acacia Tree
The landscape -ascending azimuth, the azure sky lifts
The encircling curtains, of blue veil of vertigo,
Like a green floral skirt, fine open grass spreads in tribute, below,
In between stands the flat-topped Acacia tree
At an impasse with a giant cumulous cloud,
Bends and takes a bow.
In his benevolent splendour, like Moses on Mount Sinai,
Acquitted for withstanding the Biblical Deluge,
He stood like a stoic monk limbs outstretched,
Inviting in this otherwise arid, scrubby, dryland.
Globular heads on elongated spikes, soft fuzzy of golden appearance,
In the desert heat, he protrudes like one big tear of God’s compassion,
A pleasant land, but if one’s humor is mournful-
Wind swept with lonely dunes deserted ponds& barren moors.
Sullen wind awakes, rescued by the first rays of morning sun
Shrine to nature’s impetuosity, submitting to earthly blasphemy,
Storms, Droughts, floods, forgiven by spring’s consecration,
Vagaries of your various moods & his seasons.
Sun hauls to his full size, as the flowers reflect his exuberance
Explode into a golden yellow haze of fluffy inflorescence,
Murmurous with bees, playing the lute daring a tune to melody,
All are invited to the banquet, at the heart of the celestial fire tree,
Your flames reach earth, showered on the ground at your feet,
Like a vibrant yellow yoga-mat.
Your shapes and shades change, wooed by the simmering heat
Frail birds, dainty bees, streaming beasts
Flock for the Shiatsu in the noon heat
Wouldn’t call it love at first sight
Maybe destined here -drawn to take the bite
.
At places your limbs stand knotted,
Where honey-pots brew & tiny nests snuggle,
Drugged on morning dew birds sing your glory
Mesmerized-lose themselves, bleed on your thorns sinisterly.
In the distant mirage, seen as a lingering crucifix on the horizon,
All creatures flock, trampling distances,
Following what star, Wander here for an ablution?
Yet he stands there rich- muscle, sinew, Fangs &claws- a bargain of reserved restrain
A shibboleth to answers more divine, embroiled in sharp thorns
Birds of all plumage pay you their homage,
But none like the weaver bird that deigns to hang her nest,
Like bare laundry in the courtyard, wrung out of yesterday’s sweat & tears,
No wonder there is too much of callous valor &insinuating diapers strewn out in this world.
A builder, a pilgrim, nature’s architect pre-eminent,
[...] Read more
poem by Seema joglekar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
