Winter’s Coming
November draws me
into bleak arms
I wonder where the leaves
have gone—
though I know, yet I walk in
nameless hope
of miracle
in this ghastly fog
so dense, so deep that
I am lost
stepping on crumbled
autumn stalks
I remember your face
with wisdom drawn,
how it still shone
after its light was robbed
but now there’s just me,
the part that’s left of your artery
the purple sunset a reminder
of approaching dark,
who I am and how
mortal we are.
© Neetu Malik
Some of Neetu’s Books
-
she reaches out
touches fog
she had hoped
for the sun -
Walk me through
your caveshow me the petroglyphs
the stories
you have laboriously pecked on the walls
with your hammer stone,
carved in the light of a lantern
where shadows cast gloom. -
I am but dust
a grain of sand
blowing whichever way
the wind blows
in the universe -
You were the guest at my table picking on the corners of the table cloth, fingers nervously folding and unfolding mutilated pride.
-
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.
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