Manatita is an esteemed author living in London, UK. He writes spiritual books, flash fiction and esoteric poetry, his favourite genre.
Inspired by Bill Holland's 'Artistry with Words.'
Hoping for A Carousel of Sweet Promises
The ambience is draped in a tapestry of darkness.
Scattered crows embrace a mind frightened by
Overcast shadows, echoing fears of another ‘lockdown.’
My heart weeps, looking at a misty tomorrow,
While the pain of another separation from loved
Ones, plays havoc with the colours of my optimism.
An avalanche of gremlins and ghosts, control the
Energy from my radio, T.V, and within the cobwebs
Of Zuckerberg’s well spurned meshes of spiders.
Layers upon layers envelop me; I’m cloaked in a
Melancholy of foreboding --a blanket of loneliness, making
It difficult to see the moon and twinkling stars at twilight.
My soul is anything but uplifting, as I sink in a pool
Of useless thoughts, a bleak winter no comfort to my
Despair, as Matt Hancock cast doubts on my family re-union.
It is only seven days to the future --that bright star of
Bethlehem of Judea. Magi’s are exalting the name of
The one called Christ! Yet my mood is still anxious, as
A corona nemesis, inches ever closer to my neighbourhood.
I long to do the things that evoke Love; beauty –to shake
Hands, to hug, to kiss; to indulge in a bit of ping-pong intricacy.
Instead, I keep wearing the filtered N94 mask, as my emotions
Shed tears and I keep hearing the cliché of hands, face … space.
Anguish carves itself in a head asking questions,
As my soul becomes solemn with sorrow. I’m in a
Place of hopelessness, cold within as the chill that hits
Me; my hope’s a candle that wanes and flickers in the breeze.
I walk out with a take-away, from my once neighbourly café,
As fellow humans avoid me, not before the black-white electronic
Dots scan my details, to ensure I’m available, for contact tracing.
I walk past a homeless woman, sitting in the cold, boxed-up
And blanketed against nature’s anger, a black drizzle tugging
At her heart of beauty. I hand her the coffee and Bakewell
Tart I’d promised her, as I head for the supermarket one last time.
Rosana, all masked up at 82, forces her way to the front of a
Queue at Morrison’s, clutching her three-wheeled frame. Her
Collie follows her, wagging its tail, her only solace as she looks
Up to the firmament, her Heart filled with the seeds of prayer.
Life goes on though, and while a Tsunami of challenging waves
Resonate from all directions, she even manages to exit with Ferrero
Rocher, a gift for her gran-daughter, in this new world of turbulence.
She heads home, knowing that the smile of love from her daughter
Would greet her, even as she listens to the nightly news, hoping for a
Cessation of storms; of brighter tomorrows, a new radiance walking
On dawns, and a Carousel of sweet promises for Christmas and Beyond.
- Lantern Carrier. 16th December, 2020
Wisdom from the Master
"Hope knows no fear
Hope dares to blossom
Even inside the abysmal abyss.
Hope secretly feeds
And strengthens Promise." - Sri Chinmoy