Hiraeth Series Poems 28-30 from Kushal Poddar

Hiraeth Series 28-30

28

One street light still lit,
the dusty clock face ticks
eight o'clock in the morning.

One fly prays amidst
my bread crumbs as if 
it is the epiphany, crack of ray
in this gloomy and cluttered day,

and on my table 
beside the cup and the plate,
beside the drained coffee and
the deconstructed loaf
sits a now formatted laptop.

I wonder if some cache memories
remain etched in the eternity.
Yet.

29

Clouds roll the clpds of early light 
Everything, I feel, a bit clotted.

Even the breathing.
I ponder over the medical terms
for this ailment.

This is between
the drafts of my self-help book 
'Gain Humour, Ease Into Dying'.

Wind reveals some new shades of red
on the branches.
This tree, so typically tropical,
wears red for the new birth
and red for the death. 

30

The wires running by the Highway
slices the loaves of clouds.
Light is better today 
When I drive I prefer silence.

Hush, roadkill.
Do not talk backseat.
Turn off the music.

And yet why does my childhood
sit behind the wheel?
Honk. Honk.

Who are you in a red shirt
sweeping autumn?
I drive past you, and you wave
as if passing is one wave,
one of many tiny triangles.
Not one marks the shore.

Tired light drives the planet.

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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