Times Have Gone and So Have The Tides

Times have gone and so have the tides,

The rivers  dried and new streams then flowed.

The trees have grown old, then probably perished,

And the new ones we see now have all grown.

Yet the fatherly sky over our heads remain,

The motherly soil beneath our feet is the same.

We have always been and are still human,

Different identifications under one name.

As is happiness simple to a child,

So was this knowledge to me.

But times have gone and so have the tides,

Things are no longer  as I used to see.

Perhaps here’s the time to grow up  now,

And add one more to all that have grown.

Indeed the rivers have now all dried,

And ever since blood has flowed. 

Copyright by Delilah Das

The Ghost of Me

I see a ghost trailing by.

Its wings are black,

Its face is white.

With eyes that carry a destructing light,

It takes off mightily into the night.

And I see its bones peeking out from its clothes.

It’s beautiful, the magic in its eyes.

It’s free at last from a world of ice.

It’s free to go anywhere it likes.

And under the night, behind that tree,

A silvery lake reflects the gleam,

Of a ghost that flies for it is free,

Mighty, magical, the ghost of me.

Copyright by Delilah Das

The Marigolds

At dawn this bright I was aware,

As I walked down a garden fair,

Watching those vivid marigolds,

Dazzling and intense in their moulds.

And went I up at the garden path,

I preferred the damp earth to my cottage’s lath,

Buoyant birds swarmed my path way,

As they weaved their oracles of the day.

And ensued the morning bustle over again,

In me, I felt my anxiety drain,

Drenched was I in peace and love,

As if heaven had landed from up above.

Above me was Earth’s exquisite mate,

The mirror that reflected the day’s fate,

Startling grey and glossy blue,

Smeared the space’s shadowy view.

And tangled in their joy the marigolds were,

As I walked down a garden fair.

Copyright by Delilah Das

Where Does the Blue-Green Bird Go?

On a scarlet evening,

When the bloody sun cries,

Where does it go,

The blue-green bird that flies

All morning since dawn?

At the end of day,

When the darkness visits your grave,

Where does it go,

The blue-green bird so rave

All morning since dawn?

When the night wind blows

And brings you a wreath of leaves,

Where does it go,

The blue-green bird that weaves

A nest, a life

All morning since dawn?

Copyright by Delilah Das