It is a Sunday

Screen Shot 2016-08-28 at 10.34.06 AM
Pic Credits : Dr Santosh Bakaya



It is a Sunday
There is grain on the street
Perhaps a pigeon will come

There are swings in the park
The school is closed
Perhaps a child will come to play

There are bougainvilleas in bloom
There is a breeze that hums
perhaps a butterfly may float here

Here is a street and a park
grain and flowers
swings and holidays
yet something is missing

The man who fed the pigeons
was shot here yesterday

Perhaps love will still come
one day

(C)Reena Prasad
Pic credit : Santosh Bakaya

Please visit
for reading more participant posts for The BeZine’s online,
virtual 100,000 Poets for Change event.



Struggling to hold on to life
is a sapling, stamped upon by life, by neglect,
by the relentless flow of time
over its tender fingers

It bends over in pain
It squirms in agony
pushed and buried under stones
yet at the touch of a drop of rain
it springs back to life

 forgetting the past
forgetting the nightmares
forgetting itself, its fragility
in the joy of being still alive

©Reena Prasad



 In the stillness of a moonless night
 a thought takes off in search of a fragrance
 flitting noiselessly from the shadow of a tree
 to the bench that once was bathed with love
 No moon unveils itself to show it the way
 to the valley where it had once slept
 among some flowers of hope..
 It wanders up the night sky,
 resting briefly on a floating cloud
 too fragile to bear its mournful weight
 As the night moves towards a silvery dawn
 the orphan returns home
 to the sleepless cove
 from where it often flies
 in search of a lost scent.
© Reena

Drop of life

 The ghostly figures wait
 A skeleton canopy
The birds have left long ago
The stream is a sandy bed
where a discarded snake skin gleams
a reminder that life has slithered on
leaving imprints in the dust
Trees stands bemused caught in a maelstrom
of swirling hot air currents
leaves have fallen off without any storm
A brown carpet hides a raging thirst
Pleading branches shorn of any splendour
try to reach out to a passing cloud
that wanders lost in the barren sky
-a lone traveller with a thirst of its own
it carries the pictures of the barren earth
to the mountains where the rain god sleeps
forgetting to water his potless trees
wake him up, ‘o’ cloud
for there waits a seed
in the throes of heat
for a drop of water
to welcome life.

Chasing a dream-1

Chasing a dream

The wind chases a crumpled leaf

down the winding, never-ending street

While I wrestle with my truant dreams

running behind to cajole them back

The wind, only an impassive messenger

sent to test the swirling, chimerical depths.

The horrified moon watches the terraneous  carnival

from the shadows of her celestial pedestal,

As the crepuscular vestiges begin pointing

towards the frightened selenic  beauty,

the smiling pipe-dream fails me again

transforming  swiftly into a jeering  incubus…


Flailing arms fight to avoid its fuming onslaught,

The satin -kissed fabric twists under the writhing bodies

tightening into a nylon noose that slithers

onto a throbbing jugular vein.

Scorning a sleeping death ,

a desperate instinct drags me away

just as the dreamy universe sinks into a squelching quagmire


And I run a thousand eternities

leaving behind my torn wings

Only to meet my ravished reflection

in the thawing lake of hope

wearing my broken wings

Raindrops and a salty potion shake hands in glee.

As the waves recede back into the dreamless blue

I grasp at the slipping sand between my toes….