Treasure Island

Palas Kumar Ray



One poem a day
is not a big thing
which I demand from myself.
Measuring depth
of my ability to write
and measuring density
of my emotional make up
expecting this much I thought
won't be much irrational but
when four yellow buses
carrying two hundred students
do not return
to stops in time
how can a father by heart sit writing
even something rational?

When worries occupy mind
hearing a lorry up side down
fallen in narrow highway
obstructing their safe return
from a picnic
what new poem can be thought
while waiting impatiently?
Who could imagine
at 8.30 this pleasant morning
of 8.30 of this unpleasant evening?
The scheduled 6.00 pm
is already left far behind
enveloped in worries.

Butterfly girls in colorful dresses
and boys with loud laughter
is already,
already a pleasant past.
calls after calls,
return calls
calls comforting,
calls asking to stay cool
calls back confirming
of staying cool,
calls saying 'oh, boring'
calls saying 'oh, father,
this is disgusting
please, do something
to take us back to home'
coming lastly
makes every father ready
to move now
for a rescue mission.
May be it becomes
10.30 or 11.00
or past midnight
when all fathers will be returning
in bikes or cars
or in any kind of
hired vehicles
bringing back each
of the butterfly to home
when a poem will itself be written.

© Palas Kumar Ray.All rights reserved.

Submitted: Monday, March 31, 2014
Edited: Saturday, June 07, 2014

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Topic(s): father daughter

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