Poems by Lily Swarn

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Poems by Lily Swarn
 
 
 
LUSCIOUS SCHIZOPHRENIA
 
Delusions of love floating on ocean foam
Frothing ferocity of fragmented minds
Fantasy soaring with the cumulus clouds
You come visiting me daily in my imagination
Pouring leaden fluids in my heart
Is it schizophrenia, you think ?
This distorted panorama of puissant thoughts
Galvanizing gory murk into my battered brain
Miraculously metamorphosed into mayhem
A basket of luscious lovelorn laments today
Dung heaps of paranoid screeches tomorrow
Banshees scaring my wits out the next
Wispy balloons of fragrance wafting
Into my incensed boudoir repeatedly
Churning out the entrails of my feeble heart
It must be hallucinating holocausts these days
Or else methinks the mind has taken leave of its senses !
 
© 2017. Lily Swarn, All rights reserved
 
 
 
All that matters
 
The clanking of bells as the temple doors swerve open
Swaying rhythmically outside the sanctum sanctorum
A holy man with generations of Sanskrit slokas in the collective consciousness of his blood stream
Ventures out in his thin cotton dhoti
His sacred thread and saffron and white Tilak marking his position for all who pass through
The Darshan over the beseecher at These holy doors walks away to work
Not far away the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer
Pigeons flutter and fly off in a huff
Only to perch in the alcoves on the temple roof
It’s time for Fajar and the devout stretch out of bed braving the cold blast
The prayer mat unrolls as the lady of the house covers her head and raises her hands to ask for the same things that the one in the temple did
The welfare of her husband and family !
The church spire shines in the rosy sun of dawn
Pulsating hymns from across the valley
The priest makes the sign of the cross
Looking towards the sky
Resplendent in his white robes
Reciting his prayers under his breath
The birds make a bee line towards the church bell making it whisper divinity
Across the road the granthi in the Gurdwara opens the holy book after bowing to it
As the divine strains of the Gurbani waft across the Sarovar of water
The pigeons rush towards the dome of the gurdwara
It’s only you and I that recognise
The apparel and garb of religion
Birds love them all
The caps, the turbans the sacred symbols.
Hold no meaning for them
They are free from such prisons of faith
They only know love and that is all that matters.
 
copyright Lily Swarn 12.1.2017

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