These three poems by Bobbi Sinha-Morey explore the poet’s darker ruminations about life while considering how each reverberate within her…
by: Bobbi Sinha-Morey
A Golden Rose In the bare light of my window I watch the clouds move like slow-expelled thoughts below the unimpeded sun and I think of my coffee gone dead on the table, nearly everyone I knew except for a handful of friends no longer in my life, and I look back on the years it took for me and my husband to get here, a blessed sanctuary of home, and press my ear to the resonant hush of today, far away from families we let go, having exited that part of our lives – the dervish past when our families tried to tear our lives apart, rob us. In my mind's eye we were the victims who barely survived as if staying alive had been our mission; how we wanted to stub out the dusk, erase the sun. Nights we'd spent haunted by their insidious plans, the bedsheets cold, yet waking up in our sweat, and we'd stitch our words together, a faint change in the skin of our hearts. We'd chosen not to be broken having held on so tightly, and now here we are in a beautiful home we made for ourselves, a river glittering like broken glass not too far away. Living in the solace of our home where no one can touch us we've found an unexpected gift: a hot trinket of a golden rose to hold close to our lips.
A Leaf From Heaven In the shadowy quarantine of the day rises the smell of medicinal bloom and a shining lamp of iodine by my side, a cup of weak tea; and like fluttering birds caught in a great wind my thoughts were untamed, my life having been pierced by a new covid variant, and a darkness I couldn't name; a candle I kept imagining swimming down to nothingness put out by its own wet gusts of flame, me drugged with its own deadly perfume. In a palm-sized mirror I see my saddened, hollowed eyes as if death had come too soon and I'd never gotten the chance to breathe, having lived out my life this far in such a very historical month, the nights now moonless, a dark wind whispering that other lives will be unlaced. When I am awake no more, a leaf from heaven graces my cheek.
Fabric of Solitude In my fabric of solitude its been four months of ice and I'm lost on familiar roads since it's been years that I've never driven alone; stars in dead reflection off slick wet stones and my spirit has gone silent, so lily still. My future spills for me no more windy gems; late afternoon I've nothing left, and mornings the hours go by before I ever rise. The door to my heart begins to close, the sun hidden by the pale sky I so seldom see; and my heart had once grown so fat, well-fed with love, its plumpness I know will never come again. Now it will only be me, the blur of seasons rushing by in my dreams, my single nourishment the inspirational channel on TV. I've grown used to the invisible god above who's forgotten about me.
Bobbi Sinha–Morey‘s poetry has appeared in a wide variety of places such as Plainsongs, Pirene’s Fountain, The Wayfarer, Helix Magazine, Miller’s Pond, The Tau, Vita Brevis, Cascadia Rising Review, Old Red Kimono, and Woods Reader. Her books of poetry are available at Amazon and her work has been nominated for The Best of the Net Anthology in 2015, 2018, 2020, and 2021 as well as having been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2020. Read more of her work at her website: http://bobbisinhamorey.