Bob DCosta's poems

 Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 3, Number 2. November 2020. ISSN: 2581-7094

Diary of a Captive

                                                     --- Bob DCosta

Dear Phu-ying

The darkness of the nights here are as bright as marigolds,

I can see through the grey concrete walls the Hibiscus plant in the wilderness 

Their necks snapped, their roots unwatered. 

Dead Dream is not an anthem of the captives. 

 

The pain in my collar bone you caress and ease, 

the pain when the diabolical blow of the demented guard landed

on my shoulder.

Now I use my left hand in penning my thoughts

And the words free my pain to the evening flight of flamingoes in a dream.

Through the smile in your quiet eyes and the streaks of the blue roses in your auburn hair 

Glimmers my hope 

Brings peace to my soul

And shortens my captivity here.

Dead Dream is not an anthem of the captives.

 

The cockroaches crawl on the muddy floor of my room five-by-five,

But they are dew-drops of hidden fears fleeting away,

I recall tapping my finger on your forehead

When a five-year old was snared by high temperature at five in the morning. 

“Marigold Marigold” your deliriumed mind had cried out.

And Marigolds did I steal from the florist

And lay them beside your smile and gentle black eyes. 

And here it is the voice of your favourite flower which shortens my captivity.

Dead Dream is not an anthem of the captives.


Distant Stars

                                               --- Bob DCosta 

They won’t know how we battled in our own ways, 

buffeting against different waves of two different seas,

two shipwrecked sailors surrounded with a flotsam of flowers

tasting the brine of the common language of our existence 

unknown to each other 

that kept us going.

 

Now we both can say it’s written on the mountain

A line that never existed till now.

 

Your handkerchief whispered the fragrance of the musk flower 

as you gently rubbed it on the wooden life of the table  

where the lines of my life were being written.

 

We should have bartered your handkerchief with my lines

for that is the only way we can know ourselves more.

 

The dad you found in me, and I, the daughter in you.

 

 

Sleep My Child

                                               --- Bob DCosta

Sleep my child of the flowers

inside the fur of my song.

 

Dad has a simple story laced without a strain.

 

He will wipe the tears the stars in your mind weep

when they converse with you

under the shade of your looking glass.

 

And though you sleep with lonesome sighs your footsteps whisper of,

and rest your heart in the gentle sighs of a quiet sea

he knows your sad melody

the one you hide deep, deep inside.

 

His gentle hand will rub off the creases of your day so hard and rough.

He will tell you why the wind blows

with uncertainty at times.

 

And he will help you count the flash of glorious silver

coming through the dark trees of depression.

He will soothe your dreams and caress your hair

so that, so that you may sleep a gentle sleep

nestled in the brow of your pillow of flowers.

 

Sleep my child of the flowers

inside the fur of my song.