My Divinity

My Divinity long poem

Photo by Moyan_Brenn

My violet pastel pencil
came to a rest
after sketching the
outline of the natural pond
fringed with bamboo, palms,
and exotic tropical foliage
reflected
in the mirrored waters.
Standing before
the easel I couldn’t
get my eyes off
the arched footed bridge,
on my left, but
I was still wondering,
what was amiss?
I always loved
the invasion of life
pulsating in my paintings.
I had as yet
to sketch
on the left of the canvas-
leaving it partially blank-
before I filled it
with colours.
Somehow,
my heart always waited
for an unknown heartbeat
to come to complete
my frame of colours.
I uncapped my flask
to sip my hot black coffee-
it brewed
a hope for a magnetic attraction.
I sat on the hard rock
and gazed around
while enjoying
its lingering bitterness
on my taste buds.
Strangely,
no inspiration-
the hand still void
of movement.
I shut my eyes
with the head drooping.
Minutes passed and
I heard a sound
of light footsteps
on the wooden bridge.
I knew my intuition had
been fulfilled-
the perfect,
much awaited heartbeat
had arrived there
to be framed
in its exclusive blank space.
I lifted my eyelids
careening my eyes,
it couldn’t be true,
certainly mother
couldn’t be here
at this hour and
in such a far away place.
I picked up
the dependable binoculars,
it surely was Mother,
resting her elbows
over the ledge of the bridge,
but she was young, beautiful, glowing
as I had seen her
in my childhood.
She turned towards me,
smiled and waved.
I left my binoculars
to run towards her,
her hand stopped me.
I froze until she gestured me
to paint.
Feverishly I painted
creation in its multi-coloured hues,
with blood gushing speed,
until my painting was complete,
leaving me breathless.
I took a step back to assess
my masterpiece-
not to be sold,
but to be hung in the lounge
for admiring eyes.
I looked towards the
pristine bridge,
mother was beckoning me.
With hastened step
I stood before my divinity,
a tear in her eye,
spelled love and yearning.
I clasped her in my arms,
then give her the tightest hug,
to realise
I had enfolded only myself.

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Balveen Cheema

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Balveen Cheema has been teaching English for 25 years. It is at the ripe age of 60 that she started penning her thoughts into poetry. Being brought up and educated by her grandparents in a cosmopolitan environs of Pune and visiting her parents in rural Punjab during her vacations, she shuttled between the modern and rural backgrounds . A strong streak of romanticism with nature and rustic pleasures is evident in many of her poems. At present she is residing in Chandigarh and still enjoying her first love, poetry!
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Saurin Desai
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your last line gives such a strong and beautiful completion to your poem, wonderful

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