
life spills . . .
forming red rivulets in sand
in the vast desert
man’s fury against man
reasons I do not understand
why or how this came to be
who knows the rationality
in the circle of history
with unending repeats
I see blood . . . I see man
a glinting rifle
in his hand . . .
for a broken piece of land
© Neetu Malik

spring has come
and gone
summer breeze nudges
dense foliage to dance
as before, splendor will
last for a while
this fertile forest
will thrive
change when it’s time
we will grow old
like the trees
our span shorter than most
what have we done
with the seed we once were–
what have we become?
© Neetu Malik

they said to remember crawdads
asked me to listen for their song
when my heart was heavy
and my sorrow dark
but I was young, too young
and memories clung to
bark and thistle left behind
now it’s time I know
to retrace my steps
into that forest
slowly, cautiously, though
eyes closed, feeling only
with my hands the way
I’ve walked before
my senses know better
than my eyes
travelled roads
I reach the backwater
past the labyrinthine path
pain and anguish in my heart
and hear at dusk
the crawdads’ song.
© Neetu Malik


Neetu Malik’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived. She has contributed to The Australia Times Poetry Magazine, October Hill Magazine, Prachya Review, among others. Her poems have appeared in The Poetic Bond Anthology V and VI published by Willowdown Books, UK, NY Literary Magazine’s Tears Anthology and Poetic Imagination Anthology (Canada).
Her poem, “Soaring Flames”, was awarded First-Place by the NY Literary Magazine (2017). She has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2019 for her poem “Sacred Figs” published by Kallisto Gaia Press in their Ocotillo Review in May, 2018. She had a monthly column, Poet’s Day, here on A Slice of Orange.
Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA.
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the wolves are quiet tonight
deep silence
before that burst
of lightning
strikes again
illuminates
a desperately darkened
horizon that
holds its breath
like the wolves,
I know
it is better to keep
the howls
for nights when
thunder does not compete
© Neetu Malik
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