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  • zeee_zephyrs 13w

    .

    Koi h??

  • zeee_zephyrs 18w

    I often turn my path
    to those streets
    which are forever blooming
    with the scents you left
    and where I see myself
    smiling wide
    beside YOU.
    A smile bloomed
    as my life felt your presence,
    A friendship bloomed
    between those loud giggles
    And memories bloomed
    of those silly fights
    and eventually
    a magnificent garden
    came into existence
    from your presence.
    My ink and words
    were never enough
    and will never be enough
    to describe her existence.
    Her blooming
    made to bloom
    a beautiful garden for me.

    So someday
    I wish
    to again cross your street
    and you finding me
    with a bouquet
    of forever blooming 24 flowers,
    plucked from a forever existing garden,
    one for each hour,
    wishing you Happy Birthday.
    ©zeee_zephyrs


    @anshika_winks

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    Happy Birthday

    So someday
    I wish
    to again cross your street
    and you finding me
    with a bouquet
    of forever blooming 24 flowers,
    plucked from a forever existing garden,
    one for each hour,
    wishing you Happy Birthday.
    ©zeee_zephyrs









    Anshika
    -a forever blooming flower

  • zeee_zephyrs 20w

    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 21w

    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 21w

    #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 22w

    Some days I am a half written poem,
    which doesn't know its end

    and on some days I am a wilted grass,
    waiting for the showers of hope

    but on most days I am that rose
    who stands beautiful above thorns.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 22w

    I don't know!!

    #katuata 5-7-5
    WN♡

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    Once his love, now muse
    and they still ask how he writes
    so beautifully.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

  • zeee_zephyrs 22w

    #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 22w

    ALLITERATION - ZEPHYR

    As the aureate strings seem to ooze out from behind the mountain caps and not so frosty but feeble zephyrs move calmly through my finger gaps, I roll my hair into a bun and from my toolkit collect some words, make a garland of alliterations matching with the whispers of the zephyr and conceal it in my diary.

    PERSONIFICATION - SKY

    When the azure and amort firmament behind white beds turns red then blue and then moonlit, personification is in my toolkit for these, to personify them with the human nature of love, calmness and shining with scars.

    RHYMES - AVES

    There is a tall tree beside my house, the home of morning melodies, whose leaves dance to the chirping of birds. For me, they are my abode of blithe which bestrew sweetest euphony. I had secretly once woven rhymes under moonlight and now it's the time to enunciate it to the young birds and appreciate them for their first flight and to wish them luck for the horizon.

    FREE VERSE - FALLEN LEAVES

    The autumn season has arrived and the meadows look flaxen. The impuissant ochre leaves, which intended to make a free fall, now flow on the barque of zephyrs. I espy on that one leaf, who has yet not reach its destination. I sit down writing free verses for that free leaf who bid adieu to its home for its destiny.

    HYPERBOLE - THUNDERS

    Petrichor, as I said, now feels unpleasant because it often brings thunders with it. This aroma has again hit so, this time I would dip my poesies in heavy hyperboles and won't let windstorms leave them half broken as my heart.

    On weekends, I will take complete break on Saturdays and on Sundays I would inhume all my dolour to write sonnets to the artist whose hands govern the colours over his fingertips and create a scenery for each day.
    ©zeee_zephyrs

    @writersnetwork
    #tools #zeee_fav
    PC- me

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  • zeee_zephyrs 22w

    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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