I lingered along the sandy runway
Hearing the winds blowing about;
A tender voice from far, faraway,
“Hurry, or we’ll be late,” calls out.

I cannot tear myself from it all.
“Wait,” I say, “Let me be a while
For the seagulls call, the waves call
And the call of the deep blue wild.

Let me tarry a little longer;
A few minutes to see the foam,
A second to hear the roar,
And a few more to hear a song.”

The gentle heave and release of mists
Inform me the good earth is alive;
In million clustered breathing twists,
It somersaults into a cresting dive.

Waves spray me with mineral salts
As winds tug my hair into a coiffure;
Perfumed is my soul with ocean scents
As liquids drape my body in rapture.

Graceful ballerinas in swirls and twists
Stir up a frenzy of emerald and teal
Like flamenco dancers in lace skirts,
Tattoo a mesmerizing beat with zeal.

Quickening my pace I throw a glance
Over my shoulder and see a pattern:
Footsteps follow from a long distance
In a steady trail willing me to return.

The symmetrical prints resembling mine
Have me amused until seafoam rain
Curls over my toes, pulling them in,
Turning the soaked sands virgin again.

Life has turned into a gypsy,
Setting up the occasional tent,
But gather we do so much whimsy,
Forgetting only change is permanent.

Leave, I know I must make haste
Into another world that waits.
There is so much to see and to taste
In distant lands and strange plates.


The Chair

The chair, just like that
On a tract of no man’s land
An hour goes by and I in my car
Notice, it went nowhere,
It was just there,

The chair, the Chair:
A patriarch’s position,
A monarch’s validation,
A politician’s preoccupation,
A company’s reputation.

The chair, the Chair:
A doctor’s office,
A court’s edifice,
A principal’s notice,
A shrink’s hypnosis.

The chair, the Chair
A poet’s block,
A philosopher’s rock,
A mentor’s talk,
A teacher’s prop.

The chair, the Chair:
A devil’s scepter,
A murderer’s terror,
A maniac’s horror,
A prisoner’s torture.

Quite simply, the chair
With a back rest, and a square
Four legs, and arms in a pair,
Steal sleep, and furrow brows,
Stoke ambitions and stifle throats
Feast on souls and beckon moths.

Then there is that
One day confronting all
When life courts chaos
Drumming up a list of acts
Wayward and winsome,
Wanton and worthy some,
A final verdict that’s to come.

The chair,
Too inviting, I guess
Too tempting to resist
From a tract of no man’s land
Two hours later and I in my car
Notice, to be found


Suchitra G. Das did her M.A. in English Literature and Language Communications, and M.Phil. in Latin American Literature. She currently lives in California with her family. She is a writer, an entrepreneur, and an artist. She has published articles, essays, short stories and poems. Her most recent publications are: The Bangle Seller in Rock Pebbles Literary Journal Winter 2015, Three Poems in The Dhauli Review Fall 2015, Cherry Blossoms and Time in Utkarsa March 2015, Winter Eve in Utkarsa December 2014, and a short story, One More Taj Mahal, in OSA Souvenir July 2014.

Featured Image: “Off Conanicut, Newport” by William Trost Richards.

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2 Responses

  1. Benjamen Grinberg

    in essence time is but a whim
    that goes and comes within one’s mind

    just as the waves of oceans soar
    and rise and fall
    with faith divine


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