This is the road that leads to my father’s home It is old and dusty with bullock-carts creaking, Carrying the heavy weight of the freshly cut sugar-cane To the mills nearby for our sugar laden tables, Piled in our court-yards are the freshly made cane balls Tingling on our taste-buds with its melting ginger tang.
This is the road that zig-zags to my father’s dear home Cyclists are few carrying fodder for the cattle, Trudging on the pathway with bundles on their heads Farmers are spotted and responsibilities enumbered, Carefree children running all asunder The rural joys have much for us to remember.
This is the road lined with dancing mustard fields Halt it will at my father’s flowering doorstep, My mother will be sitting in the verandah patiently Peering her eyes in wait for her daughter to return, Thirsty is her heart for her daughter’s true love Nestle will I in the warmth of her arms.
This is the only road that I always do treasure Woven is it with memories to pleasure, Every pebble and sand grain is drenched In the sweat of my father’s very long sacrifice, My mother’s footsteps are embedded in time Leading me home with my finger she held.
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!
Hoisting the bisexuality on a figurine, I crawl back to anxiety. The primitive instinct was taking over the stitches on a snake. What do you want from a moon for the drooling mouth of a seashell? Braiding the breasts against
All braced to face the day, The diurnal engine ignited, Gently revving up, Barging into the quietude Of the colony, With a daily prayer escaping His mumbling lips, As he steered mildly Into the road, To see a car pulled
We are all in a race, the race for being first, From childhood we have been told you have to come first or your life will be as meaningless as dust. People are struggling to be appreciated and be known,
Travelling through these barren lands, Thoughts unprecedented flickered in my mind. And here I was standing near the diversion, Wondering which road do I travel by? Lying in front of me were two distant roads, One grassy and frequently travelled