A Haiku Treasury by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books

In this beautifully illustrated book of poetry, 77 members of the international writers’ group “Poets with Voices Strong” turn their hands to the intricacies of haiku. 5 of mine are here too. Thank you Brian Wrixon.

via A Haiku Treasury by Poets with Voices Strong: Poetry | Blurb Books.

In Our Own Words Anthology

In Our Own Words by Poets with Voices Strong and Friends: Poetry | Blurb Books.

My poem ‘Nests’ is on page 105. Do read the free preview of the entire anthology and buy if possible. A unique work by Brian Wrixon and Poets with voices strong group where each poem is in what the poet considers as his or her signature style. My heart felt thanks to Brian Wrixon for this book and his passion and commitment to poetry.

Wake up~

The bells toll
but these are of bicycles
Jostling and pushing each other
in their hurry to reach where ever.
Small tea-shops, odd assortment
of ties, lungi, vest and shoes
gossip centering around the news.

Bread and cheese ones, in swanky mansions
– the television juggling their views.
Money controlling facial gestures
Get – a smile, take – a frown
Changing mental wallpapers
now simplified
The gory killing on the screen
neither shocks nor registers.
and no after effects.

cold blooded murder
yet not of the person they think it was
Murder of faith as men turn into mercenaries
Misled by hunger- induced hallucinatory
images of being missionaries
Murder of the lone human race
Why kill? Why want something
in exchange of a death?

Humble origins of homo sapiens
maybe we still carry
some blue-green algae in our bloody veins
Our fishes, our trees, our tribe
my land, my state, my country
Mission forgotten
to carry evolution forward
to safely hand over earth
to the unborn warriors
untaught in the chakravyuh of politics.

Exaggerating trivial issues
to the gory point
of a fellow being’s ultimate sacrifice
dividing lives into countries, faiths
amidst noise and hollow victories.

Hear pleas
crafted with the essence of loss
of crushed, sacrificed, innocent buds.
This was the promised land
They too wanted to throw stones
into the pond
to take a rain walk
to dream in the moon shine
But they could not
For their life lines were cut with hateful blades
even though earth had enough
for all.

Generation of blood art
Let us wipe out this unholy graffiti
from human walls
It is not too late.
©Reena Prasad 7th Feb 2012
Published in Brian Wrixon’s Anthology “The poetry of war and peace”


I remember a huge tree with anthills at its foot
on which the brown nests, kidney shaped
with tube- like extensions, swayed
The sun poking its bright fingers into my scrunched eyes
as I pedaled the last stretch home
my mind on them.
I lingered there after school
watching the cackling  birds
chase each other and dangle from
these precious nests wishing I had one
but not sure why I wanted it
Then one day I spotted a large, empty one on the grass
happiness was one hand on the handle bar,
the other fiercely hugging it to my school shirt
not knowing the female had rejected it
for not suiting her aesthetic sensibility
and the eager male had ripped it down
to build a better one for her
but for me it was perfection like none other.
Nailed between my father’s belt and the black umbrella
in the modest, little bedroom with peeling paint,
it stayed for a few weeks ,
losing its charm gradually
till it became a rotten smell and I came home one day
to find it gone.

©Reena Prasad 31st oct 2012 Published In Brian Wrixon’s anthology, In our own words

The unborn

 The baby moves, impatient

 to see the birds, the open fields

 about which its mother sings


 A small, wrinkled bundle

 budding tiny arms and feet

 that will one day, run down the hill

 racing against the breeze 


 But little one, when you finally come

 I want you to feel wanted

 to be born into arms,

 willing to cherish your dreams

 The joy of your birth, a shared celebration

 the blood, the tears, a complete rain


 Wait, for you might yet get it all

 if one day the sun turns around

 shining its light upon your eager shape

 letting you escape to find your place


 Yet I fear for you, little one

 for the armies of the baseborn

 proliferate rapidly

 as we both wait for your release.

©Reena Prasad  6th Sept. 2012

published in Brian Wrixon’s book “A poet’s view of being” on 16th oct 2012

Light of the world

Does the sun go home
sweeping his golden robes
over the darkening navy blue ?
His warmth stays behind to comfort
the little feathered ones waiting in nests
for their suns to come home
Black-winged silhouettes in the orange dusk
too succumb to primitive homecoming instincts
when the darkness looms like a large demon
abruptly blotting out the lively cacophony of day.

Only a few brave crickets incessantly chirp
amidst green hedges, secure in their holes
What they say only the sleepless care
The rest listen to circadian rhythms
as the streets turn into alleys grim
where vague shadows of inner dread eerily loom
A pale queen too has settled into her niche
sprinkling a tired world with healing dust

Leaving it to lick its wounds in the lap of night
The sun goes around yet another bend
and rises with undiminished splendour
to light up yet another million lives
in some other worlds
still floundering in the dark
For he who has never seen a night
can never sleep.
©Reena Prasad
Published in the anthology “Heavens above poetry below”  2013

Solar storm

(Written on 8th march ,2012)
Peering into the unending sea
searching for a sign
clouds have scattered in their hunt
for finer hills to climb
The sun stares back,
not saying what he really feels
but I do know that he is throwing
flaming flares at me
cannot look at his golden scars
nor ignore the fire he harbours within
He sails across the lazy blue
leaving turbulent, orange beams
as if puffing on a Cuban cigar
and letting off some steam
His nonchalance pains me much
he shouldn’t saunter with that stoic sway
but maybe he doesn’t know about
the solar storm he is throwing our way
©Reena Prasad
Published in the anthology “Heavens above poetry below”

Under the mango tree

Under the mango tree

A lone mango tree stands
remembering a village old
Brown legs, frayed pockets , shining marbles
Beedi smoke of old men
Anklet chimes ,girlish chatter and
motherly concerns sweetening the breeze.
Life moved with the ease of time
dropping enough green mangoes
for pickles and little girls to eat with salt
savouring every drop, sweet and sour.

Somewhere in this bountiful land
adorned with nature’s green crown
Mothers turned into  Kaikeyis
neglecting little  Rams
hoping to transmogrify into modern queens
School masters shortened the lessons
omitting the moral part of stories
Soon the reek of distorted knowledge spread far
– to grab, to hoard for one’s gain.

There started the sickening saga
Childhood fast forwarded into youth,
into men selling daughters
Neither innocence nor  old age tremors
could deter them
Money was declared the leader
however soiled with gory sins
Entrepreneurs shed the last moral feathers
donning avaricious masks
Bulldozing honesty ,
trampling  over life with mafia boots
Reducing human values,
raising quotation stakes
God men with I-pods in armpits
hooked confused souls with immoral nets.

Bigger are the houses,yet hearts shrunk into  hard pebbles
Locks  galore often with lost keys
Paddy fields drowned under teak wood mansions
Muddy village ways ,now pot-holed death traps
The sprawling village horizontally  compressed into
oxygen depleted  sky-scrapers
The barren mango tree has sheds its last leaves
on forgotten graves rotting among its brethren roots.

©Reena Prasad PUBLISHED IN WORDS ON THE WINDS OF CHANGE( Brian Wrixon) Anthology.

A different winter

A different winter

Moving uphill, a wan sun trips over frozen avalanches
melting their fury into rivulets
warming the grazing sheep on the hillside

Bonfire nights spark tender moments
Old haunts revisited in the company of older friends
Smells of warmth baking in shared kitchens

Fledging bonds stir alive, dignity nourishes older ones
Leisurely late-night chats, giggles under warm covers
passing warmth from wrinkled cheeks to chubby ones

Keeping the cold gale at bay is yet another hopeful day
The ice may not melt any sooner, no reason to postpone living
Snow is merely a blanket covering the floral mats of spring

©Reena Prasad
Published in Brian Wrixon’s Winter Poetry anthology. LINK HERE


Pic by Bahman Farzad 


Wipe them please
with water, soap and vinegar
They make fun of me
though I am just back from heaven here.
We have walked through a garden
shared a rainbow and a sunset,
your shadows seep into my empty echoes
transfiguring nightmares into dreams
I have hidden all the oft-used fences,
stamping fiercely on doubting seeds
wanting to embed sodden images
on pages of surreal sun-beams.
Yet when I look into your nebulous eyes,
mirrors clear as the cloudless sky
tell me you no longer care.

©Reena Prasad
Published in Brian Wrixon’s Anthology ” On the wings of love”