The poetry of Preeti Shah

Seasons of a Stroke

The last orange sun, through a stained glass of Autumn’s leaves, bleeds into a mind.
A cathedral of snowfall blankets Father, silenced and unmoved by Winter’s whispered prayers.
Now sings the chorus of spring, of nurturing worms rejoicing, in the barren grass where he lay.
The first hymn of the earth, the late memory, unforgotten, on the pew of summer, a white dewed rose.

 

 

 

Legacy: A Shadowless Flame

Dad passes away.
Our home recycles into an ashtray.
We all become fire at the end of a cigarette.
Then smoke.
Then existential clouds.
Then pour.
Then pour. And pour. And pour.

I overpour.
House plants drown like I do,
rotten to their roots,
with little swears
you can see in their brown arms, curling
to show me a finger.

Dad passes away.
A candle suddenly blesses me
for burning it.
I still await light-years to receive
gratitude from stars
for my song of screams.
My screams like wax,
pouring, feeding, waning.
A moon for a mouth.

There is some light left in me.
You need to strike me with a flint
to spark a tinder of hope.
It may make you feel uncomfortable.
I’ll stay quiet,
naked as a wick,
knowing I was born only to burn out.

Dad passes away.
But leaves me the story of a shadowless flame.
The magic felt by the first men
and women,
who realized fear and comfort
could come from the same thing.
This shadowless flame, invisible to my eye,
still kindling and crackling with warmth.
A legacy is another name for a ghost.


Preeti Shah works in the healthcare field and volunteers to assist the underserved. Her work has appeared in Dash Literary Journal, The Fictional Café, The American Aesthetic, and elsewhere. She received her B.A. in Fine Arts specializing in Music from Rider University and enjoys songwriting. She resides in Queens, NY.

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