Hope, like the horizon
glimmers in the distance
my eyes grow weary
as I watch it burn
then cool in the twilight
each day until
darkness sweeps
over the edges and I can see
no more
only to repeat when I wake
from sleep
once again, clinging to
fine rays as they
emerge in luminous shades
above sleepy slopes
assuring me
there is no end
to Hope.
© Neetu Malik
-
my room
a sanctuary
at the end of the day -
It must have been
a stormy night
when love flew out the window
of my vacant roomlike a feather
from a molting bird.
-
she gathers dreams that were
shattered in the last storm
fragments burnt and charred
when lightning struck, turned
an armful of hopes to ash—
she laces them into a willow hoop -
wetting my feet
in the old pondI pause to remember
-
how many steps
to the edge of the world
she wants to know
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Yes. I often find hope the only thing that keeps me alive. I also find poetry embodies it. If you ask me to explain what I mean by those two statements, I’d find it hard to answer you; but my pulse continues and for that I am grateful. Maybe hope contains more power than it is credited with.
Yes, Katrina, I think hope is almost indestructible even when it seems elusive. Thank you. I know that’s how you, and I, continue to do what we do.