This Hour and What Is Alive

Walking from one room to another—
Almost crying in each one,

Opening and closing the doors,
Leaving memories adrift in the stale air,

Days pass and I wait,
Drinking the last dregs of watery coffee,

Inside the shabby, threadbare hovel
With cracked floors, the lumpy undulations,

With holes as big as my fist puncturing every wall,
Exposing my life to the brawl and bitterness outside,

Below the reed matting of the roof,
Sagging—almost touching my head,

In front of the single-burner gas stove,
Broken cups, ceramic plates, a knife, a fork, a spoon,

In front of water stored in a plastic bucket—
A thin film of moss floating above,

In front of a table, a chair, and a wooden stool
With cracks visible from every angle—

The blotches of coffee stains gawking,
The repairs made with wire and string, mocking—

In front of the oil painting of a girl,
Gifted by my long-lost lover,

Her arms are folded, a long-lashed
Lingering grief hangs from her face.

With an ironic half-smile turning up
The corners of my mouth,

I want to lean in and
Kiss her cold lips.

Bibek Adhikari

Poetry by Bibek
Read 181 times
Written on 2017-08-22 at 12:35

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Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Vivid. Skilled.

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Excellent in form and content, superb imagery.

Kathy Lockhart
Your words are magic as they have the ability to transport me not only right into the scene, but fill me with the emotions, sounds, scents, tastes, of everything around and in the character. I become the character. I live through this one who moves at the will of your thoughts. Excellent!

All those dreadful images provide rhe mood, until it all does not matter at the sight of the beloved. A very good write.