Runa Srivastava
Runa Srivastava is a seasoned poet. She has a Wordsworthian quality in her writing expressed in simple and lucid language! She expresses a feeling of oneness and communion with nature for every leaf and fern that speaks back to her, as her own! She gives weight to the idea that everything is animate and connected, a continuum! Her poetry weaves beautiful and soothing images of nature invoking the senses of sight, smell, touch and sound! Her personal poems evocatively express agonies, memories and longing that immediately strike a chord with the reader!
- Conversations with nature
It began when I was but a child,
My heart attuned to the wild.
I believed in all things breathing,
In roots that held the earth from seething.
Beneath my feet, the soil would sing,
A hum of life in everything.
With reverence deep, my love I shared,
For every leaf and stone, I cared.
Into the forest, I’d quietly tread,
Where moss was soft and sunlight spread.
Among the trees, my spirit grew,
My whispers mingling with the dew.
Dear forest, tell me where you hide
The secrets etched in bark and tide.
Your shadows stretch, your branches lean,
You cradle dreams I’ve never seen.
The wind replied, a gentle breeze,
Rustling songs through ancient trees.
The sunlight danced to brush my skin,
A warm embrace from deep within.
Child, you speak, and we hear true,
For every word returns to you.
We are alive, we breathe, we feel
Your heart has broken the human seal.
So, one by one, the whispers grew,
Each fern and flower spoke anew.
And in the heart of the woodland deep,
My spirit found its truest keep.
- Echoes of Home
In the darkness of my mind,
A decrepit house stands still.
No shutters guard the windows,
No door to open, no light to spill.
The walls are patchy, shadows peering through
Once, this was home, where love once grew.
A mother and a father,
Their children—boy and girl,
Laughter echoed down the stairs,
As summers spun, and winters swirled.
Thick cream lace curtains at the windows,
Gently fluttering with the breeze’s lows.
When school days ended, and they came home,
Mother was always there, never alone.
Father, a doctor, well-loved in the town,
A gentle soul, with a warm renown.
Life was a bed of roses, then,
The world was golden, free of end.
But time passed, the children left,
The house grew quieter, hearts bereft.
The visits became fewer, far between,
As lives were lived, in places unseen.
The parents, unwilling to leave the past,
Stayed rooted, waiting, holding fast.
Years flew by, the parents’ time ran out,
Their spirits lifted, beyond all doubt.
The daughter returned, her heart filled with grief,
To remember the days, and seek relief.
The house, now broken, stood still in time,
A memory etched, a silent rhyme.
Around its frame, she laid a wreath,
Of hibiscus blooms, in silent grief.
Each visit stirs a pang of sadness deep,
The house, like empty eyes, begins to weep.
It longs for voices, a story to tell,
But only silence remains—an endless shell.
I am the girl, the daughter returned,
My brother, the boy, whose memory’s burned.
In this house of shadows, we both still roam,
Seeking the echoes of a place once home.
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