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Poetry Month: APRIL


Spring is angry,

It does not care about your poems,

It says it won’t be delivering bees or flowers for inspiration,

It cries for its dead and unnaturally wilted,

And the monoxide you’ve been feeding it.

This April,

Spring is closed for visitors,

There’s a huge sign hanging from its fragile petals, “until further notice”.

And when your words will start to leak of emptiness ,

Without the chrysanthemums and the swelling streams,

You will realize that your poems in April were courtesy of the bloom and color,

As you sit by the window on the 23rd day,

Chin resting easy on your palm,

Waiting for a knock,

Like an April fool.


April this year,

has a sense of finality -

a smell of disinfectants and disease,

a sound of thousand reticent crows

disturbed from their sleep

in the middle of the night,

by a lumberjack in a green hazmat suit.

April has a mask,

has a past,

is a person this year.

April whispers lullabies in the death bed -

nothing is painful anymore,

nothing is here anymore.

The clock is stuck at two,

men and women howl

from their miserable, shackled lives

in small and big houses

made of footsteps that brought them here.

The cemetery has bones and souls,

the fire is tired of burning.

The urns have ashes,

the rivers do not stop churning.

April parades on the river bank,

eager, thirsty, mournful -

an eight-legged person on a mission.


April was supposed to be

Wind and wind chimes, flowers and sunsets,

Walking a dear one down the aisle

With love and hope, joy and kisses.

It was supposed to be

His soft lips and my trembling heart,

Us stealing a little part

Of something that’s not ours to keep.

It was supposed to be about

Exploring the shores of our trust,

Seeing a new wonder with the closest ones,

But here we are instead

Cleaning corners and clearing cobwebs,

Sweeping, wiping, cooking, breathing

Being tender to parts we’ve neglected most,

And this too is a lesson in trust

May be not the one we expected,

But the one we need to learn before all is lost.


May this May be indelible.

May June make us imbibe our scarred senses.

May July help us know we need to die inside.

May August teach us there are no renewals, only resurrections.

May September be when our beings spring alien flowers.

May October make us know closed doors do open.

May November help us know there is still warmth to be found.

May December be when we find that even new sanctuaries can be home.

But first, may we survive the solitude of April.


A waterfall spouts from my eyes

Pours poetry in my casket

Roses refuse to wilt even in my grave

Instead, I

Learn to bloom towards the sun with them.


Oh April, what have you?//

To what do I owe April to?

The restlessness I can't shrug off.

The silence ready to eat me up.

The feeling of forever being stuck.

and a million thoughts running amuck.

No, I will stop you right there,

let's rewind the tape, write April a memoir.

April, Aperire, Aphrilis or Aphrodite

origin of the name has a few maybe

't is the month signifying sweet pea and daisy

symbolising love, pleasure, innocence, purity.

April marks Shakespeares' birth, and his demise too

a genius otherwise, maybe stole a plot or two

but I will remember him for his poetic virtue

for he taught us to listen to many, talk to a few.

Hitler reminds me of agony, I will give him a pass.

Rather indulge in Strange fits of passion by William Wordsworth,

the poet who gave Romantic Age in English Literature, its birth

April he entered the world, also when he slept under this earth.

Remember Noah, man behind Merriam-Webster, copyrighted April 1828.

Reformed spellings by removing the redundant, playing with the vowels

while bred for bread, frend for friend, masheen for machine took a pinch of denial

center, color, plow, draft, among many others, sing their songs of survival.

I will also remember April of the year 2020, call it a relic.

When we wore masks, banged our plates, burnt our candles

stayed home, alone if need be, but fought the battle

the month of collective hope, the month of revival.

Did you enjoy going down the memory lane?

Let's end the poem with a verse from April Song by Sara Teasdale.

Willow, in your April gown

Delicate and gleaming,

Do you mind in years gone by

All my dreaming?


this april isn't like others

i'm home after ages

so is a monsoon

that's arrived before summer

night after night

i open my windows

to the rumbling thunder from east

it sounds more musical

than a symphony

the lightening begins to crack the sky

the frogs come out from the hiding

against the pattering rain

they croak and call for love

i listen to the crickets

and insects whose name

i've forgotten with the city-life

what's not lost is

my love

for the brisk wind

for the sweet faint smell of mud and grass

i take it all in,

looking at the grey - blue sky

waiting for the flash of lights

drifting into memories of

a carefree childhood

this april is a dreamscape.


When the April ends

All I want to do is

Fill my heart with 

Softness of Gulmohar



davenport kim
davenport kim

A poem brings many meaningful emotions. flappy bird

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