The Composer Of Verse Poem by Jayshree Misra Tripathi

And now, as the night hawk sounds our signal to begin,

I breathe in the dusk from the comfort of the easy chair

Still warm, but those who came before me are now strangers

To the needs of my soul, the low peent call beckons, be aware.

And now, it is MY time to seek words in concise measures

To bait my eccentric fancies, perhaps nudge my Muse

From her stubborn stupor, fill blank pages with literary treasures,

To be acclaimed by global academia, proclaimed by the media, all hail, sudden fame.

And now, as all the nocturnal sounds vie for first place with my tinnitus

My fingers tremble as I type, poets have sung preludes, so how may I even begin?

Once feted scholar turned housewife by circumstances, not choice,

The decades have swept by, yet I remain yoked to family, their needs, complaints.

And now, afterthoughts, shards of wistfulness not despair,

My last memories, as Dawn breaks, I must sleep, dare to dream,

She eludes me, so I lie awake, listen to the lark, creating masterpieces in the air,

De novo! Ephemeral epigraph, my quill has now shattered in two!
The strength in my fingers, not the hopes in my breast.
***
When Women Awaken
2014