Sidlak#3
Sidlak: A five line poem composed of 3-5-7-9 syllables and the last line (without restrictions on syllables) indicates a colour that sums up the authors’ feelings and the spirit of the poem.
The moon’s welts
reflect a beaten
broken world of hapless sins
Yet there’s hope- hints of white glint amidst
the grey globe of today
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan
An art brush drips inside of me
Throbbing, kicking wildly
Lettering a tragicomedy-
Brazen strokes vibrant of
ecstasy, sorrow and madness
bleeding in –
Red Green Blue
throw themselves
against the receptive canvas
I live loudly
My single redeeming attribute
I hold nothing back-
When you ask to witness
the spells of a fiery sketch
Don’t be bewildered
if I confess –
All my paintings
breathe
inside of me
Copyright © Roshni Ramanan
Acrostic
Violet wisdom, a robe of regality
Indigo eyes blaze, iridescent
Blue melancholy mangled to mush
Green touch makes barren fertile
Yellow laughter, a solicited ringtone
Orange aura, an emblem of sunbeams
Red will and vigour, a Rainbow unicorn hither.
In my ascent to gigantic benchmarks, I stepped on many toes.
I adorned and abandoned masks like a transformable being.
I picked values from the spinning wheel of time, my finger pointing at the moral that was made for that day.
I stifled the punching pillow that was my snuffling conscience to the point where there was no more cushion left in it to protest.
Somewhere, near the end, I woke up, wondering who the hell I was. Why not seek answers from the mirror?
I vainly strutted to the metal-glass amalgam and the looking glass gave me answers to questions I hadn’t dared ask.
A red face taunted me. A red that had once indicated passion, screamed resentment and fury.
My sadness was striped across blue sagged shoulders. That explained why I felt so blue.
I felt sick to my stomach. I gaped at the green belly, overflowing with the sins of greed and envy. What else had I digested?
My yellow hands were spotted with cowardice. No wonder people always said that I got my hands dirty.
My legs were shrouded in sad shades of grey. Sigh. I am, indeed, on my last legs.
Then, my attention was averted to another body part: my heart had begun oozing out black darts. I was both the aimer and the target in this game of mourning.
I moved my quivering lips, turned cold, cold white, to mouth a question into the mirror,
“Was it worth it in the end?”
The colourful answer stared back leaving me colourless.
