A Familiar Stranger.

Sweta Ojha

Long queues amidst the hustle-bustle,

Impatient and tensed, folks struggle.

The escalator,when there’s time in hand.

Stairs to dodge the crowd in a minute’s span.

Victorious ,they share a similar spark.

At 9:45, their journey starts.

Vibrant colors,complements her smile.

Faded blue justifies him fine.

Her invasions into the music land,

His trials for a place to stand.

Messed up hair,she tussles to tie,

Neatly done, he fails to mesmerize.

To the tapping of her feet,

His secretive adoration yearn to speak.

Her anxious eyes, await to reach,

And how he wishes for the moment to freeze.

When it’s time for her to depart,

Unnoticed, he stands apart.

A timed interval,and his journey ends.

No looking back, no feelings to rent.

The destination reminds of work,

A cursed life and hard luck.

To the daily metro ride, follows a wait.

A wait,

To meet the familiar stranger, yet again.

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Private Life

ReBirth: The Pursuit of Porsha

In the Darkness of beginning night,
The confusion of what should be,
I gave him my little black heart,
Then I gave him my little jewel; perfection like one from Tiffanys!

When alone now, I can hear his voice
When alone I can feel his touch
His perfume comes out of my throat
His decorum now my personal musts

You are the smell of the foliage in early morning
You are the scent of JackFrost in the night
You are the taste of fresh blood from my fingertips
The salty warmth that is proper offering to his might

I could go carousel out in the wilderness
I could walk barefoot into a field
I could run melee up on the hill
I could fall face down, disbelief that it’s real

But it’s moot when the warmth crawls my bones
All forgotten when I find clearing past the brush
I lay…

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Gold in a River



In the realm where Fall
neither begins nor ends
a needy poet found
gold in a river,
amazing treasure
elves hadn’t even bothered to hide.

Singing streams still remember
the wordless prayer
he thankfully wrote on the wind
whispering through the trees,
and for all I know
in the forest of many wonders

he struck it rich.


Forêt de Rambouillet (France) © 2015 – F.G.M.

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for Nobel Prize for Literature Laureate Bob Dylan

Scribbled Verse

Why does the sun dry up so many scattered tears

Slipping down the coarse cheek of a million hushed fears
Where no one is scalded though the searing fog clears
While prayers are mutely spoken even as the end nears

We shatter and scrape on demented knees
Blindly begging for mercy as it silently flees
Searching listlessly for salvation drowned in the breeze
That spits at the soft rose suffocated by a wheeze

I know now what I need never have known
Of hope that was trampled before it had flown
Into a wasted sky filled with hate that could drown
The giggling of the crowd and the crying of the clown

A hope so fragile its wings were of brittle glass
Ripping the veneer off the sewers of class
Twisting the fabric of the weighed and costed mass
Who numbly waited hoping that it too may pass


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