#zeeCollection

51 posts
  • zeee_zephyrs 25w

    A CANVAS FROM LIFE TILL DEATH

    With only seventeen sunflowers in my garden
    still I sit here writing about life
    but my pen seems repellent
    towards those sullen pages
    and moves to an old, blank canvas,
    starts with a vacuous stroke
    to give a monochromatic shade of green
    and narrate tales of these flowers.

    Four sunflowers were blooming in a beeline but
    as the fifth one bloomed a stroke of black(fear) was added
    'cause during its realm, a soft, nascent hand
    slipped off her parents' fingers,
    in the turmoil of the streets
    but she was blessed with good luck
    and this time holded the hands tightly
    along with the fear of being left alone.

    The fourteenth sunflower seemed sanguine
    a stroke of yellow(hope) was added and green was fading
    but when was life prosaic and without some piquant?
    when this slender figure, rose upto a great height
    on tawny hills, above clouds for trekking
    what if my legs would have slipped,
    followed by an earthward plummet
    I swear, this time I felt close to you, to death.

    The graph of this journey is affluent with ups and downs,
    petrichors were always pleasant,
    until they turned into storms, but
    'I am not afraid of storms,
    for I am learning how to sail my ship'
    and the canvas of these seventeen sunflowers
    is exuberant with variegate shades except grey
    and with remnants of each downfall.

    Maybe when the stroke of grey(old age) will be added
    along with strokes of red for love,
    yellow for happiness
    and blue for responsibility,
    what if these three get mixed
    and lead to black, to death?
    the graph will cease
    and canvas will be complete.
    ©zeee_zephyrs
    _______

    The line 'I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship' is taken from the novel 'Little Women' by Louisa May Alcott.

    #smk_avaap_ch ( Prompt no. 1)

    Hope this makes sense.
    #zeeCollection @writersnetwork
    Bg editing by me.
    WN♡
    Thanks for EC��

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  • zeee_zephyrs 26w

    Thank you so much @mirakee for the honour.
    I'm very much grateful❤❤��
    My first POD also my 100th post!! yayy!!
    3.06.2021

    #writers #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    WN♡

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    How Many Lives He Lives

    He talks to inanimate things
    maybe he lives in them.
    What the golden strings and white beds
    say above,
    he sings in his poesies.
    He paints his poetry
    from the shades of firmament
    and compares the love of two failed lovers
    to the horizon,
    where both seemed together
    but were never meant to be.

    He lives as silence
    in dark, dreary corners
    then dying in tumultuous chaos
    and next day,
    he narrates the tales he heard
    of dust capped childhood toys
    and of obscured cries of the housewife
    but they went unheard
    as everyone was busy contributing
    to the chaos
    louder than those sweetly harsh rhymes.

    He is alive in his own phrases,
    his words modulate the readers mind
    that sometimes it rains out of dolour,
    that smile is just a mask,
    that the Sun sets to weep
    under the shadow,
    as another day it failed to find its love
    and that someone became a selenophile
    'cause too much light blinded them
    and moon became the only hope
    in their dark world.

    So for every life the writer lived
    he must have died too
    then,
    how many times he died
    before dying as a writer
    to be a writer?

    /you have to die in them, to create a living poetry/
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 26w

    #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    #mdc
    @writersnetwork


    I'm not sure about the last para :(

    @writersbay thank you for the repost❤

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    Some days I am as Simple as Labyrinth

    Some days I'm the red hibiscus
    which blooms
    with the first rays of the Sun
    and on other
    I'm the same hibiscus
    but faded and shrivel.

    Some days, intentionally,
    I forget my etiquettes
    and sit with one leg over other
    bending my back,
    keeping the doors closed for the aunt
    with a big or rather sharp nose.

    Some days I'm the ebullient firmament
    whose every shade can fit
    into a perfect picture
    but sometimes
    I prefer to be a soft zephyr
    and turn into furious storms.

    Some days I am so silent
    that my presence
    can't be felt
    in the afternoon giggles
    but occupies maximum space
    In stygian corners.

    And maybe some day
    I may wish to be
    someone's childhood
    whose presence can't be felt
    but absence can make
    melancholy to pass by.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 27w

    #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    #heritage #wod #pod
    @writersnetwork thanks a lot for the repost wn❤❤
    #WNrepost_Z (28.5.21)

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    The Heritage Which Knows No Boundary

    When it comes to Indian heritage
    Taj Mahal or Ajanta Caves is always
    on tip of the tongue
    next maybe the two epics
    but there's more to this subcontinent.
    We have a rich culture, everyone knows
    but only few can go beyond prestigious monuments
    and fewer beyond folk dances.
    Something whose limit is till infinity,
    where culture takes a new form
    with every next kilometre,
    is what makes it a rich diversity.
    May it be Bharatanatyam,
    or Manipuri
    or lavani, bihu, ghoomar
    these aren't just hand movements
    but are stories of our culture
    embellished with a colourful attire.
    From the line drawings of Mithila art
    to Puri's Jagannath Temple
    from the dancing girl of Mohenjodaro to Tanjore Art
    the number of tourists are evident
    for their stories
    or half story and half mystery,
    becoming famous worldwide.
    From namaskara
    to swastik
    and to keeping guests equivalent to God
    is what our traditions teach.
    Saree,
    common to most religions,
    adheres to the religious etiquette
    and is the harbinger
    of one of the oldest traditions.
    So, this is a heritage
    with plethora of shades
    which conflate various cultures,
    where bucolic streets
    bring us closer to our traditions,
    whose tales are beautiful with mysteries,
    which violate scientific laws
    and creates its own definition
    why?
    'cause it's India my dear
    whose freedom and heritage
    can't be defined within the boundaries of words.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 27w

    NOW PETRICHOR FEELS UNPLEASANT

    Herbs and shrubs
    seem more viridescent
    as if hit by ecstasy,
    greenery enliven
    in the sombre meadows
    as the weather wears
    the fragnance of petrichor.

    I always wonder,
    what evokes this aroma
    and I desire to store them
    in my perfume bottles.
    I try to enclose them in poesies
    with the scent of metaphors
    and from down the memory lane
    I collect my childhood petrichor stories
    and enunciate it to them.

    But it seems,
    they aren't good listeners
    and etiquette isn't in their behaviour.
    Because Petrichor
    is followed by stygian clouds,
    which even conceal the horizon,
    aureate sky descends to grey
    and seems hopeless.
    Winds rush,
    for an unknown destination
    and my poetries are flown away
    leaving behind harsh tales
    and dried ink.

    So next time,
    when the firmament is in strokes of grey
    I would rather write
    an ode to autumn or to spring
    'cause now,
    petrichor feels unpleasant.
    ©zeee_zephyrs


    @writersnetwork thanks for EC❤
    #imagery #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    PC- me

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  • zeee_zephyrs 28w

    The sky is laden with clouds,
    an another cloudburst
    and I once again wish for a rainbow
    but the weather seems heavier
    than the wish.
    I loved drizzles
    until they turned into storms
    and these ghoulish, incessant clouds
    from an anonymous origin
    stays longer than the Sun
    and seems perennial.
    Months passed in these four falls
    the outer world is condensed
    in the window panel
    with a few sunsets seen.
    The umbrella doesn't seems enough,
    so I bring myself back to the casement.

    Some lost lives
    and many lost hearts
    but my eyes adhere
    to the senile tree
    whose ochre leaves departed
    while battling with the winds
    but it stood erect
    for the ones it still holds.
    It's a new day,
    a new hope
    but the same weather
    and the same wish.
    Maybe the rainbow forms
    on the other side
    where the Sun rise.
    ©zeee_zephyrs
    ___________________________

    Pc- me��

    @kin_jo @inked_selenophile @fromwitchpen @thelazymitochondrion ��
    #zeeCollection #zeee_fav

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  • zeee_zephyrs 33w

    Making our way across city chaos
    From rushed life to tranquil paths,
    when population density seems to decrease
    and serenity gets bestrewed in the winds,
    my coarse skin feels the felicity
    in the brisk weather of the suburbs.
    'And what about the fields and crops?
    How mud houses look?'
    My friend screams in between
    As I narrate further,
    Where erosion fails to make an existence
    and the rice fields wave a hello
    as they get drifted by the gentle winds,
    Farmers hold a curve of smile
    and melancholy seems to lost its way,
    I call it, the abode of ecstasy.
    From gravel roads
    we enter the narrow alleys.
    The bucolic houses are in the shades of yellow ochre
    and roofs are of brown,
    as we have the view
    of the most idyllic corners.
    'How is the view there?
    How does the morning feels?'
    My friend interrupts,
    And I continue with a sigh,
    the rays penetrate through the mist
    the sky descends to aureate,
    I feel the embrace of zephyr
    as I stand in the veranda.
    The mist clears,
    and the mountains make an impressive existence,
    hit by nostalgia,
    I remember my wish of climbing them
    for a panoramic view,
    My friend giggles.
    But deep within, I still hold the desire.
    A bell rang
    a peddler arrived from the other side
    I bought myself an ice cream
    and towards the fields, I went
    joining hands in front of the divine temple
    then through haystack and cowshed
    a scarecrow I met,
    with a better smile then it
    I reached verdant meadows
    beside a pond,
    I saw women in traditional costumes
    holding terracotta pots, heading home.
    I laid down on the mother earth
    gazed the amorphous clouds, finding patterns.
    'And where is this place located?'
    'In my heart.' I silently whispered.
    ©zeee_zephyrs


    Thanks from the depth of my heart to all those who left here beautiful and lovely comments. Tysm❤
    #picturec #zeeCollection #zeee_fav #writersbay #pod
    @writersbay @writersnetwork

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    Through the Village Alleys

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  • zeee_zephyrs 27w

    T H E E TE R N A L L O V E

    The Sun forms eternal strings
    of embers on blue beds,
    birds' silhouettes are visible
    over red, luminous clouds
    and on the bank of river Yamuna,
    over cliff top,
    sits a soft, blissful physique.
    Her hands move slowly through her bangs
    and feet dance over water splashes
    and her satin blue dress
    seems flowing with the breeze.

    Once Yamuna asked her-
    'Who makes you wait till the entire course
    of sunrise and sunset is over?'
    Her lips turned crescent
    with a tinge of shyness
    and replies with her eyes closed-

    'He stands in the shades of stygian clouds
    and as the chromatic rainbow,
    holds a dignified peacock feather over his head.
    His lips moving through the flute holes,
    seems magnificent
    and the dulcet melodies of his instrument
    as pious as river Ganga,
    breathe life into sullen winds,
    his lotus eyes
    always holds a wicked look.
    His yellow attire, brighter than the Sun's rays,
    carries a vehement divine aura.
    Whose euphonic tunes
    push us to oblivion and making us dance
    till millennium,
    is the one beside whom,
    I feel the epiphany of love.
    It's been long since I have seen him
    since I have heard him
    but this serene sunsets
    and the soft tunes of zephyr
    makes me feel his presence by my side.'
    ©zeee_zephyrs

    PC- Rightful owner
    #face #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    @writersnetwork

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  • zeee_zephyrs 34w

    #memories #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    wn thanks for editor's choice ♡

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    I Lost it to a Forgotten Place

    I walked down the memory lane
    of halcyon days
    'cause I thought it existed there
    but I lost it to dreams
    which I couldn't recall.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to effloresence of dahlias
    and I dare not touch them
    'cause they are no rose,
    my touch may make them bloom on spikes.
    They are the dahlias
    which danced in every season.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to my pillow houses
    and I dare not seek them there
    'cause my coarse hands would demolish them
    calling them amorphous.
    They are the well built houses
    which stood even after pillow fights.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to fascinating fairytales
    and I dare not listen them again
    'cause they will lose their significance
    with my sense of logics.
    They are alive in the lucent eyes
    and myriad smiles of fantasies.

    Childhood,
    I lost it to mellifluous poesies
    and I dare not read them again
    'cause I don't know,
    if I read it in annoyance or in blithe.
    One will espy the foolishness
    and other the chaste innocence.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 34w

    Women, especially housewifes are often treated as domestic objects.

    #ode #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    wn thanks for editor's choice

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    Not Domestic, Maybe

    ~From the One Who Wrote the Ode~

    From this corner to that quarter,
    in yards long saree,
    Before the advent of the Sun
    and hours after dusk,
    the black and white checked apron
    your uniform for the whole day
    and knifes and pans
    your unadmired tools.
    Breathing betwixt tempering
    which we can't handle for seconds,
    cooking to everyone's desire
    this with no garlic, that with more red chilli
    and no one questioning your favourites.
    Cooking, washing, cleaning
    Washing, cleaning, cooking
    Cleaning, cooking, washing
    the only routine
    with grandmother's taunts
    NO
    mother-in-law's taunts.
    We have holidays
    to increase your work load,
    From ordering for a glass of water
    to stepping onto the mopped floor
    just increasing the burden
    and treating you as a mediocre
    but you keep us on top in your dulcet orisons.



    ~From the One to Whom the Ode is Written~

    Housewives
    you talk about,
    who have buried their desires
    beneath their red sindoor
    and you bury her
    in the boundaries of syllables.
    These days as a housewife, bloomed in her garden
    the day her father thought of her marriage
    and not for her further studies.
    She,
    not the housewife,
    the mother of the housewife
    who was blindfolded by patriarchy,
    couldn't dare to go against her husband.
    She,
    now the housewife,
    who was deprived of the right to think for herself
    now bury her desires beneath her saree.
    And you
    who have seen me as a housewife
    my life in a house,
    my journey from house to home
    and not the struggles before that,
    sit writing odes.
    And would you dare
    to read them aloud
    to me and to a HOUSEWIFE ?

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 34w

    #oxymoron #zeeCollection
    @writersnetwork thanks for like and editor's choice❤

    #randomthoughts

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    I Trust You the Most

    Some six years or so
    or six and a half
    to be more precise,
    I met a stranger
    with two handles
    and two square-shaped transparent eyes,
    the specialist told
    it's called 'spectacles'
    to support my blurred vision.
    /you were strangely familiar/

    Days passed,
    I eventually grew trust on you
    I saw what you showed,
    becoming the most honest to me
    but
    I don't want you
    to be so pellucid
    to let me see whatever come on the scene
    be opaque to those harsh realities
    be opaque to lives which asundered
    be opaque to innocent victims of misfortune
    'cause I am too emotional.
    /be opaquely pellucid/

    I let you play with my bangs
    Behind my ears
    I let you make my eyes look dull
    I let you hurt my lashes
    'cause I trust you,
    being impuissant,
    still holding the world for me.
    /you are amortly alive/

    You gave
    a view of world,
    a view of phases of lives,
    a view of realities.
    You gave a view of honesty,
    it still abides.

    And now
    here I am,
    personifying you
    with a bunch of oxymorons.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 35w

    Hello��
    Will read you all soon♡

    #imemyselfc #writersbay #bagpack #zeeCollection #zeee_fav

    @poeticgirl cause you love skies.

    Here, sky signifies her home which is lost and she tries to find and reach there.

    maybe this makes sense :'(

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    In Search of her Lost Sky

    She holds a demure smile,
    a curve which often stays,
    and faints
    when the moon smiles.

    The aureate firmament,
    her most favoured abode
    which she desires to reach
    on the barque of zephyrs
    but bid adieu
    on the lap of hurricane.

    Betwixt the chaos of the city,
    she seeks tranquillity
    under the feeble rays of the Sun
    which is enshrouded
    by heavy, grey clouds.

    When the sky is painted
    in intricate strokes of pink,
    with amorphous clouds bestrewed,
    lasting ephermally,
    she stares at the horizon
    and the skylines,
    lamenting on her unaccomplished destination.

    The azure sky turns moonlit,
    the sleepless night feels eternal
    and the moon is concealed in clouds,
    she wishes
    from the fallen stars,
    to make all of them fall
    and collect them,
    to festoon her lost sky.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 36w

    B E A U T Y

    The sky surrounds in midnight blue blanket,
    Embellished with scars, the moon hangs gloomy
    And the morning rays sing orange sonnets,
    Glitters on scars, flaming fire, holds beauty.

    Took birth in the womb of black, gooey mud
    and dances with zephyr in a soft style.
    Other succoured the poor without a but
    gifting joys with beauty in wrinkled smile.

    The so called poet's eyes are beautiful
    whose pearl tears are lost in darkness of night
    Amass them in morning and use as fuel
    for rhymes, a beauty poem he then writes.

    Displaying the scars, burning with beauty
    Love is her, whose wrinkles are dignity
    ©zeee_zephyrs
    _____________________

    First time tried sonnet ��
    #beauty #zeeCollection #zeee_fav
    @writersnetwork

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    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 36w

    A World Without Books

    A world without books
    reminds me of my school trip
    to a nearby cave
    where we were shown cave paintings
    that took me back to the ancient epoch
    of our ancestors
    with no paper or ink
    but artwork,
    when stones were the pen
    and rock caves the paper
    with no letters or alphabets
    but symbols and pictorials.
    I read in my history book
    about the bronze age,
    the era of
    clay tablets and papyrus
    on which the characters were imprinted
    with sharp stylus.
    Parchments,
    do you know
    were made from animal membranes
    and manuscripts were written on palm leaves.

    Oh wait!
    Do you remember gurukuls
    of the vedic age,
    when the teacher and the disciples
    lived under the same roof
    and had a sacred relation.
    At those times
    books existed in memories
    and texts and vedas
    were learnt word by word through listening.

    So, a world without books
    is of rock paintings,
    of conveying through illustrations,
    of painting the emotions
    and learning through oral recitation.

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 36w

    homi habilis- early homo sapiens
    mammoth and wisnets- early animals

    #opposite #zeeCollection
    @writersnetwork @mirakee
    Thanks WN for like and editor's choice❤

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    ANCIENT LIVELIHOOD

    Emerged in the rainforests of Africa
    known as homi habilis,
    in the island encircled by oceans.
    Hunting, gathering and fishing
    were the only groove,
    natural caves and rock shelters
    saved from turbulent weather
    and tools and weapons of stones
    saved from mammoth and wisnets.
    flint stones created sparks
    when banged, fire,
    the biggest discovery and the best weapon.
    Cave paintings narrated our tales,
    North star, the only compass,
    copper, the first discovered metal
    contributed in weapons. Thus,
    this was the era of discoveries.
    __

    MODERN LIVELIHOOD

    Centuries elapsed,
    humans evolved, the world evolved,
    we set foot on the Moon
    and Edison failed 1000 times
    to invent the light bulb,
    Paper, which records
    our emotions, experiences and stories,
    the optimum way of preservation.
    Alexander Graham bell,
    advanced communication with his telephone.
    Aeroplanes and helicopters,
    made us fly with aves, above clouds.
    The internet, occupying our maximum time
    the answer to most questions
    and linked people across the world. Thus,
    this was the era of inventions.

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 37w

    Blood Falls is an outflow of an iron oxide-tainted plume of saltwater, flowing from the tongue of Taylor Glacier onto the ice-covered surface of West Lake Bonney in the Taylor Valley of the McMurdo Dry Valleys in Victoria Land, East Antarctica.

    Unlike most Antarctic glaciers, the Taylor glacier is not frozen to the bedrock, probably because of the presence of salts concentrated by the crystallization of the ancient seawater imprisoned below it.
    source- wikipedia

    I personally love this❤ #zeee_fav
    #if #conceptc #zeeCollection #writersbay
    WN thanks for like and editor's choice❤

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    B L O O D F A L L S

    If liquid cascading from a cliff
    giving the colour blue
    it is called 'waterfalls'
    but I am named 'Blood falls'
    'cause I am red?
    water isn't blue.

    They say,
    I am rich in iron oxide
    so it appears red
    but they don't know
    the agonies which were concealed within
    were bleeding.

    A once alive poet
    died
    beneath the ice crystals
    with a heart
    full of cicatrix.

    They say,
    I am not frozen till the bedrock
    true, but not because of salts,
    the ice layers were impotent
    to froze all his sorrows.

    The so called 'Taylor Glacier' got a cut
    and everything is outflowing.
    According to science,
    I bear iron oxides and brine, not emotions
    but was science ever capable to detect it?

    Away from the worldly chaos
    in Antarctica,
    my red liquid
    was burbling in these silent icebergs
    and Science named me 'Blood falls'

    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 37w

    #journey #zeeCollection #writersnetwork #zeee_fav

    Whether it is success or failure, it is never constant, they will stay with you now but not always.
    We cannot define success but failures are another step towards it.
    WN❤

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    Another fly of Success

    .
    Sound of temple bells
    greet the dawn,
    the Sun embraces the azure sky
    with its golden rays
    and the sparrow wakes
    for an another fly,
    over lakes, bridges, grasslands
    and corn fields
    succeeding to descry some twigs
    Sailing on ocean of breeze
    with horizon being its
    unaccomplished harbour
    returns to her nest.

    Next day,
    the same scenarios
    but adverse winds,
    catastrophes,
    the nest is no more
    the twigs are scattered
    some flew with the winds
    the sparrow sits
    in the balcony
    failed to safeguard the nest
    gazing its broken home
    lamenting at the loss
    but its just a comma
    'cause an another fly of success
    is yet to happen.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 37w

    #clothing #wod #zeeCollection @writersnetwork
    WN❤ thanks for editor's choice!

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    From Your School Uniform

    .
    To the four year old boy-

    I remember my first day
    and yours too
    when I was tucked
    over the soft, delicate skin
    of the sobbing child, who restrained
    from going to school.
    Oh! it hurts,
    the pin, which hung the handkerchief in the shirt.
    And wishing mumma goodbye, you were off to school.
    --
    To the thirteen year old boy-

    Ouch! my threads,
    Almost at the edge of death
    by those bag straps, too heavy.
    The Maths teacher,
    who gave a pat on your back
    for a proper uniform but
    I remember the day when
    you failed to think of the handkerchief
    and secretly, silently used me.
    I also had great sympathy for you, the day
    when your cried at your friend's transfer.
    --
    To the seventeen year old boy-

    Ah! I was sandwiched
    between the grass and you
    while playing football, you fell off
    and you got scolded by mother
    for making me soiled.
    Ooh no! today's the last day of the school
    and probably the end line of our journey.
    I loved other students illustrations by pen,
    the memory imprints were made on me.
    You left school crying
    carrying the memories of the most joyous journey
    and some photos
    clicked by the one
    who on the quiet, brought a phone.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 39w

    I remember those days
    when I fancied the rain,
    when I would convince my mother
    to let me flow with the winds
    and dance under the rain
    but was always forbidded for I would catch cold.

    I remember those mornings
    when I would trust the blue sky
    and left the umbrella at home
    but faced the opposite
    and would carry the umbrella next day
    but it never rained.

    I remember that smell
    of the first petrichor
    alarming the arrival of monsoon
    enjoying the gratifying weather
    I would sit at the balcony
    waiting for the first drops.

    I am again in the same balcony
    betwixt the rimjhim of sirimiri
    feeling the drops on my hand.
    Later, deriving pleasure of the after rain sunlight
    watching little kids jumping on puddles
    feeling nostalgic of the bygones.
    ©zeee_zephyrs


    P.S.- I was not going to write this but tomorrow is my English exam and was reading the poem 'The Voice of the Rain' by Walt Whitman from my textbook and this came out :)
    #rains #wod #zeeCollection
    WN thanks for like and editor's choice❤

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    I Remember those Rains

  • zeee_zephyrs 42w

    #zeee_ka_feb #zeeCollection

    Meaning-

    Crocus, daffodils, violets and primroses- all in bunch of seven so
    crocus+daffodils= 7+7=14
    and
    sixth violet is special so
    14+6 =20
    Date- 20 Month- February
    20th February- My Birthday❤

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    February Garden

    .
    With crocus, daffodils,
    Violets and primroses
    Embellished on its four weeks
    In the bunch of seven
    And spring being the gardener.
    The sixth violet
    Is a little special,
    Always standing aglow and fresh
    Handled with extra care.
    With me on my way
    To finish the seventeenth round
    and each having a different zephyr
    Making another round
    to be commenced.
    ©zeee_zephyrs