Poems by- Saleha Chowdhury

Artificial Organ

A worn-out heart
Refuses to beat anymore.
Hundred billion times
It scored.

One is growing
In a plastic container
The magician’s
Answer to the prayer.

The new heart
Beats.
But does not know
How and when to
Weep.

In Silence

In silence
The nature meditates.

In silence
We look within
To find a lone Milky Way.

In silence
We hear the whispering
Grass tremble.

In silence
The sea of Tranquility
Gets a calmer surface.

In silence
The moon reflects
An unbroken picture
Pure as crystal
Happily paints

In silence
We look up to the sky
And know
He lives in silence.

A handful Of Goldfish

The moon is far away
The stars are farthest.
We toss them and turn them
Over my writing desk.

I play with murmuring rapturous sea
The cool breeze plays with my face.
I imagine a society
`Where none intrudes’
A mountain lake with all its delightful grace.

The fish in the stream
Have golden scales
One is just under my feet
Saying `how about sailing’?
I kiss its fins
`Lets sail’ I say.
And I cast my net
I got
An unfathomable mind.

A handful of goldfish
In my net
They play again under my feet.

Moment of Creation

Singing in silence
On a bike
Slowly moves through
Grass and trees
Through light and shades
I feel a summery night.

The moving two wheels stop
I lean on it
Look up at the blue sky
Appears a sky moon therapy
Wind zips through the trees.

Sky and silence
They grow in me
A moment’s miracle
Slowly I open my fist
There it is !
One of my poetry.

Global warming

Do not call us outsider
We belong here
In every tree
In leafy road and its
Every mystery.
We know the daisy
In the fields.
The butcher the grocer
The milk man’s sing
Peter from next door
Kathy, Susie
And more.
The sky knows us
Even the moon
Sometimes we feel
Moon’s a balloon.
We vote we choose
Though the Labour is not our God
But we think so.

Long ago we had home
Now the Diaspora
Scatter in your soil
We call our own..

The delta got disease
The geography is angry
And we the mice in the field
Feel safe in our destiny.

Do not have any grudge on us
The queens transport is our
53 bus.
We the third worlds sack of potatoes,
Actually we do not
Polute the universe.