Today I feel like I’m inside a well
that no one’s looked down in ten years.
And around and just outside the well,
it’s Market Day

The voices and the sounds, they reach me,
blurring into each other and not discernible.
It’s not noise, it isn’t sense either
but it is painful nostalgia, of what life used to sound like,

Of a time and place
when it could be heard,
heard and understood
Of just such a lifetime

There are bees in the sky and a butterfly or two
Stirred by the ruckus that’s Market Day
Even if they seem to be dancing
To the voices, and they are

I see a coin soar arc through the circle above
chink wall, brick, spplasssh water
Market Day at the wishing well
But no one looks to see where the coin fell

5 thoughts on “Market Day”
  1. The voices, the sounds,
    And the coins that jingle.
    Mix and mingle
    Like there were no bounds.

    One fine day, the sounds became noises
    Muting the flies and even the bee
    That’s when they said- It’s time to flee
    And that was the last of the Market Day.

    He then dove into another hell
    Wishing for the noise to end
    And now he sits flicking a coin
    Calling it his very own private well.

    True, the world out there
    Walks on and on
    In their private hells of well
    It’s an unseen Market Day.

    Step out the well now or
    Flick me in to another hell.
    I am the coin that used to be
    But now, just a piece of metal to thee.

  2. 1. awesome poem
    i loved it!!!!!!! -Avani
    2. Avani, my daughter, age 14, read it while I was reading your post in my reader – I also agree with her – beautiful imagery! -Arati

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