My day, like any other day

World poetry day
is perhaps my day, many
verses, most of them
told ordinarily, they
fell on the leaves;
patient words
eager to be heard,
did they enchant the world,
I’d always wondered;
but who am I to think
of that, when all I could
do, in darkness or in light
was write, and only write,
shades of unseen hues
in black and white,
who am I to judge any
of them, good, bad, they
were my thoughts, my poems;
stories of angst, worries
ecstasies, pouring from
my heart, daisies, daffodils,
poppies came, went, and came
like an addictive game
adorning an unnoticed garden;
on this day, like any other day,
when all those written lines,
no longer mine, some fragrant,
some decorating branches,
of a large tree that sheltered nests,
invited the bees, and, nourished,
went wandering with wings,
chirping, dancing, flying,
falling, rising, reaching out in places,
I see the traces in rigid bondage,
a tragic sight of a curious page,
but strange that
I have to read
them over and over again
to set them free. 

© supratik 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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I like the flow of this, and the subtle rhyming; its wants to be recited – I’ll try it on the missus. And I hadn’t realised it was World Poetry Day. Anyway, a lovely poem.



I’ve always though – a poem should be up for recitation and this one definitely is; and I tend to miss world day’s, but as you say – poetry is for any day



Another brilliant write from your talented pen, I’m not sure if we have ‘favourites’ on here anymore but if we did this one would go into mine.sue.

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