David Clode

I ate a water melon slice,

sank right into my teeth and scented my mouth summer,

down dripped the sweetness of a lazy afternoon under bougainvillea boughs watching ants marching to and fro

and cicada nights lit with kerosene lamps where somewhere plays a radio.

--

--

Credit-Luc Tribolet on Unsplash

Above Burrard bridge,
a land of puffy clouds emerge as the rain stops and
crows drop mussels from the skies
on the concrete,

under it,
the Granville island barnacles sing in icy waters snugly holding
the bottoms of boats
— I stand at sunset beach and watch,

a crow on a winter tree,
a white dog waiting for me and
a moment quickly passing.

© Priscilla Prerna Rai 2022. All Rights Reserved.

This poem is about a mindful moment I stood with my dog watching the Burrard bridge and the little boats near Granville island across from the English Bay. It had stopped raining, the world was quiet except for the crows and I stood there alone but not lonely — at peace.

--

--

Photo by Une fille en vadrouille on Unsplash

In my soft dreams of you,
I reach out to touch your almost forgotten fragrance.
Elusive and hanging by a starlight thread
beautiful and out of reach.

If I grasp you,
I know you will take me down old hazy roads
where passion fruits wildly spilt open,
bursting sweet,yellow,juicy in the sun,
the beloved scent blending with
quiet peach roses that grow peacefully
behind the whitewashed wooden backdoor,
of many a childhood escapade.

When I was a child,
I thought your sepals were real velvet,
here, I see you blooming
but you don’t smell quite the same,
maybe you are from another time,
another place.

--

--

Photo by 2y.kang on Unsplash

The color of crayons and fragrant china pencils,
the murmur of school time sounds
-grade three.
The kind teacher I liked so much,
‘Misha magazine’ with an apple hedgehog recipe.
Fables and snow from far off lands,
‘Matryoshka’ dolls and Russian red cheeks.
Library time was a dreamers’ place,
silver fish and moth eaten
-heavenly.

Open blue skies
like springtime cornflowers,
freshness in the air that was life.
Pigtails and friendships and best friends forever,
young, untouched, innocently unwise.

Grey school stones warmed up by the sun,
Crunchy fresh mountains and trees,
a sweet lisping classmate, sharing her crayons,
giving to the world so generously.

Through open windows the sunlight gently falling,
warming little hands at work.
On pencils they nibbled,
on notebooks busy scribbled,
a drawing, a lesson,
a sweet memory.

My best grade three memories at Loreto Convent Darjeeling.

--

--

Priscilla Prerna Rai

Priscilla Prerna Rai

Writing is my hope and therapy I Storytelling and journaling I Poetry & Prose I Himalayan