I feel you
In the breeze that blows
I feel thee, caressing me
Tender and gentle
The thing about death
so I believed.
When you have seen it
taking remorselessly –
my mother at just fifty-two
a friend who barely crossed thirty-two
you were ninety when you died, yet I cried.
Lessons from my grandma
who spoke little
You said, “A woman’s voice must not be heard.”
“To be strong you do not have to be loud.”
is what you said
to me too
speckled wings, deep blue; white tips
in the blink of an eye, flies
10 word story
You did not even say, ‘Goodbye,’ to me before leaving.
Smitha Vishwanath likes to call herself an accidental writer. Having worked for 20 years in banking she began writing through her blog in 2016. Her poetry has been published by SpillWords Press, Rebelle Society, Silverbirch Press, Borderless Journal among others. Her first book of poetry – Roads – A Journey with Verses was published in 2019.
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