Author Archives: Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

About Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca was born in Bombay to Prof. Nissim Ezekiel and Daisy Ezekiel. She attended Queen Mary’s School, St. Xavier’s College, Bombay University and Oxford Brookes University and has Masters’ Degrees in English, American Literature and Education. Her career spanned over four decades in Indian colleges, American International Schools and Canada, teaching English, French and Spanish. She’s a published poet, and has her poetry page at Kavita also writes short fiction. Her work is strongly influenced by her father’s work. (the late Nissim Ezekiel was an eminent poet, well-known in India and overseas.


Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Today I want to write a Psalm
Not strict about the content or form

David cried out to the Lord
And praised Him for he was his God
He experienced much happiness and suffered much pain
Praising God sure kept him sane

This world of ours is full of sorrow
So much uncertainty about the morrow

Join me in dance and song
In unity embrace, and let’s be strong
Praying and on waiting for better days
Meanwhile to Hope our glasses raise.

Copyright Kavita 2020

Street Scene

By Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Darkness is falling, the day has gone to rest 
The big birds have flown back to their nests
The moon emerges with its silver edge
I look out with hands folded on the window ledge
The finches have done with all their hopping
Apparently, they have finished most of their shopping
Like tired shoppers coming out of a mall
Wanting to get home before the pall
Canada geese fly south with a cackle
I'm sure the journey must be just such a hassle
Trees are bowed in silent prayer
They've washed their faces and combed their hair
I imagine they are getting ready for bed
Their branches are curled and no longer spread
The bus rolls by with a sigh and a hiss
It's the last bus you won't want to miss
Dogs still on occasion walk the street
Smiling at other dogs they happen to meet
The lone rabbit who looks like an ornament
Sits oddly against the blue of the firmament
The church has not moved since we moved in
With the cross above it to absolve us of sin
Cars are parked randomly on the kerb
Vacationing quietly, no intent to disturb
I've drawn the curtains and put out the lights
Will write some poems until midnight
'God's in His heaven all's well with the world'*
And I am so grateful for all the lessons I've learned
I've heard that tomorrow we're getting snow
It will be a different street with a different glow.
God's in His Heaven all's well with the world* is a line from Pippa's Song by Robert Browning.


Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
 Poems choose their poets
Passion chooses its lovers
Palettes choose their artists
Darkness chooses the light
Stars choose their heavens
Stripes chose the Zebra
Tusks chose the Elephant
Antlers chose the stag
The roar chose the Lion
The hiss chose the Snake
Fall chooses its colors, or does He ordain that?
Winter color is mostly white
With some shades of grey
Families, race, ethnicity and skin color are chosen for us.
 Life is given to each one
The gift of a ticket-less journey
Be the ride bumpy or smooth
The path is not strewn with roses
Silver spoons feed random mouths
The choice of destination to be wisely planned.
The hour of death is not of our choosing 
Copyright Kavita 2020


Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
    He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
    he refreshes my soul.

Psalm 23
The New international Version

Still me and let the silent waters flow
Still me when I’m too much on the go
Still me when my heart beats fast
Still me when haunted by the past
Still me when I run about
Still me when my life screams out
Still me still me every day
Still me when I kneel and pray
Still me so I can feel Your peace
To fly in formation like the Canada Geese.

Copyright Kavita 2019


Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca
14 For this is what the Lord, the God of Israel, says: ‘The jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run dry until the day the Lord sends rain on the land.’”
I Kings 17:7-16 Elijah and the woman at Zarephath) New international Version
20 They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over. 21 The number of those who ate was about five thousand men, besides women and children.
Matthew 14:13-21 (The feeding of the five thousand) New international Version
I believe in miracles
Big and small, and mostly ordinary,
Extraordinary in their essence
When they happen, as they do daily.
In hindsight, recognizing them
As miracles only later
There’s a knock at my door almost every day
I open it to a seeming abstraction.
“Here I am,” says the thing,
“I know you were not expecting me,
You will learn my name in time, trust me first
May I come in?”
The lost phone number of a friend
That turns up unexpectedly in 2020
Hidden under grandfather’s book
Written in 1948,
Miraculous, you say!
The friend request on Facebook of a colleague
From twenty years ago or more
When you took your sick children to the health center
You prayed she would be the nurse on duty
The miracle of her smile, still permanently radiant,
Her healing touch to the child, was a miracle
And her words of the way she remembered me
Were a miracle to savor.
The doctor at the Mission Hospital
Delivering the baby with prayer and hands of silk
The baby that didn’t want to emerge
His patience and skill, the miracle.
The smooth running of a car
You thought would never work again
The miracle of the hands that fixed it
The favor of God to be able to pay for the repairs
Is a miracle to us, we cannot keep accounts, we tried,
God does the accounting, it’s a miracle that things add up.
‘I’m sorry you don’t have grandchildren,’
An old friend said on the phone
And suddenly Amelia arrives,
In God’s good timing, not hers, or ours
The miracle of Birth.
I took Scripture in school
Studied all the miracles of Jesus, and the Lord of Israel
Too young to understand, but not to believe, and have faith,
In Miracles, my lamp is still burning, my basket and cup are overflowing.
There’s always the miracle of food and leftovers
In our home, some we eat, and some we share with others
I’m speaking of the miracle of growth from seed to table,
The blessing of fish once a week, the miracle of the ocean for fish to swim in,
The golden oil for frying, and the blessing
To be able to buy another when that jar is over.
The miracle of the mischievous student in the classroom
Who wrote in a Christmas greeting card,
’What would I have done without you?’
He didn’t know I could have done without him (loved him to death though!)
And on and on, like the jar of oil that did not run dry
And the fish and loaves that kept on multiplying.
Each day is a miracle and
Nature in all its splendor is a miracle,
The sky at dawn, the mid-day sun, the new and full moon
Eclipses both solar and lunar,
The miracle of night to lay your head on a pillow,
Once I slept on a mattress on the ground, in grandma’s house
The miracle of the softness of sleep with loved ones
And not to be alone then, or now.
The miracle of words
Where do they come from?
When I pray, I know that those words
The ones that sometimes magically appear on the page
Are miracles
Not from my pen,
A poem is a miracle,
I believe in miracles.
Copyright Kavita 2019