Aubade

Early morning light filters in
through the window's glass,
revealing dancing dust particles.
It's one of those
abstract beautiful things
that just elude your grasp.

But the woman by the window cannot grasp
the beauty of sunlight that filters in;
she is too shocked to notice things
like early morning scenes visible through glass
windows; it's one of 'those'
mornings; her heart has been shattered to particles.

Her heart has been shattered to particles
too sharply painful for her mind to grasp,
gather and repair logically. Those
paroxysms of angry grief have started raging in
her mind. His betrayal is transparent as glass:
he has gone with all his things.

He has gone with all his things:
there remain no particles
of his memory to break like a glass.
If one damned thing would come in her grasp
it would be destroyed to ashes and chucked in
the bin of her memory: it would break all those

spells he cast on her, those
spells that bewitched her to abandon all things
and fling herself across the globe to join him in
a faraway land with no approval of others, no particles
of a souvenir of love to grasp
safely in her hand, to nurse like delicate glass.

Her innocence was  transparent as glass
when he, one of those
dirty handsome men, set out to grasp
on tightly to her, a beautiful 'thing'
to keep, with not a single particle
of love in his heart. He has left her to wake up in

a lonely land, to grasp reality cold as glass;
his particle-seed had inflicted major damage: 'unwanted things',
twins to be born to her in of those dreary December mornings.

The Thursday Think Tank # 76 - Soul's Whisper

My soul need not whisper,
for it Knows that i Know.

I know it is
the only constant
in ever changing reality.
the only reality
in every changing illusion.

It is a fragment of the whole
and the whole itself.

It is ancient as time
yet eternally reborn.

It is the loudest silence.

It is all there is, was and will be.

Big Bang Theory

The esoteric secret
of the birth of this universe
lies half buried in
expanding space,
exploding supernovae
or equipped labs.

It waits to be unearthed
during that vital moment
when man and woman
melt into ecstatic union.

There is an explosion of space
in a bubble of time, and
sperm and ovum,
matter and energy,
good and evil
clash, then form
delicate relationships.

One can easily betray the other.
But what holds them together?

The chain reaction that set off
aeons ago, way before
the dawn of the first day
continues in the womb of a woman,
like a bright idea explored thoroughly,
with its labyrinths of possibilities.

God didn't stop at Big Bang.

The Thursday Think Tank # 74 - Winter

As
sunlight
slants weaker
and dark hours grow
long,
winter's
icy curse
freezes lazy
bones
into
dangerous
inaction: sleep
lulls
people
to prisons
of blankets and
beds

For how Long will i Rest?

Before the fire is dowsed, 

before time runs out, 

before it takes 

all my might to muster 

that in me which 

writes a poem,

I must seek 

divine inspiration 

like a lover who can search

the ends of the earth 

for his beloved.

For how long will i rest?

The last dying leaves.

decaying brown, strip branches bare;

the trees look forlorn.

The Thursday Think Tank # 72 - Writer's Block

By the iron law of nature
all voids shall be filled.

By the iron law of nature
no crisis lasts long.

So, when writer's block will strike
I shall not fear, for

there is no dearth of ideas;
they always come in times when
they are needed most.

Garbha

Garbha- Garba (ગરબા in Gujarati) is an Indian form of dance that originated in the Gujarat region. Garba is performed in a circle as a symbol of the Hindu view of time. The rings of dancers revolve in cycles, as time in Hinduism is cyclical. As the cycle of time revolves, from birth, to life, to death and again to rebirth, the only thing that is constant is the Goddess, that one unmoving symbol in the midst of all of this unending and infinite movement. The dance symbolizes that God, represented in feminine form in this case, is the only thing that remains unchanging in a constantly changing universe (jagat).
 In this poem I've tried to describe the ecstasy that comes with doing garbha


Go around in a dancing circle
And celebrate the joy of living, the
Rhythm of divine energy that
Bursts and crackles through every atom
Hovering in your body. Then transcend your joy
And melt into the metaphysical.

Mother incarnate

This is a poem that has come out rather late. I intended to write this during navaratri. Navaratri is a festival in India in which we celebrate the feminine aspect of god for nine nights. 

Mother incarnate,

we bow to your power

with all humility;

for what would be 

life without the auspiciousness

of your divine breath?

Life is cradled in your womb

and nourished by your breast.

What a healthy beautiful world

you've brought us
and sustained

But our beauty 

is a mere shadow 

of your beauty.

The giver is 

always richer than 

the taker.

Mother incarnate, 

we bow to your power. 

Where did i Lose that Word?

Why does it elude my memory?

Like a thief it robs that magic:

the special ingredient 

that flavours expression.

Blindly, i grope my
subconscious;
where did i
lose that
word? 

The Thursday Think Tank # 69 - Haunted Houses

The 

house is 

haunted by 

a living ghost

who is certainly 

solid, eats, breathes and moves.

Though she's luckily alive

she lives not in this moment: her 

mind hovers half-dead in bygone past,

going dusty like an abandoned house.

The Thursday Think Tank #67 - Rain

The clouds are still grey and dark,
and all is bathed by monsoon gloom.
Though life is thriving and greenery stark
an air of bored impatience looms.

All is bathed by monsoon gloom;
Rain was once a welcome visitor.
But an air of bored impatience looms:
Nature has had enough of her!

Rain was once a welcome visitor.
Now her musty presence is liked by none:
Nature has had enough of her!
All what she wants is a bit of Sun.

I'll Emerge Victorious

Oh Death!
When you come
i'll raise my face to you;
i'll not cower like a coward.

You will take delight in
engulfing me into
your deep dark void,
and time will
conspire with you;
she'll fill the vacuum.

Your needle-feathered wings
will puncture my body,
and like a leech
you will suck my soul.

But some of it will escape;
a river of my soul
will flow like
ink onto paper.

And my thoughts will remain
a dark red stain in Memory.

So i'll defy you, Death,
and i'll emerge victorious.

Shadorma

Why are we
bound by ideals
of freedom?
Freedom in
fetters is greater freedom
than freedom itself.

The Thursday Think Tank #66 - Glass Houses

My karma* is my glass house
and my actions are the stones.

*Karma- the consequences of actions is one meaning, duty is another.

The Thursday Think Tank #65 - Windows

The cramped classroom
can barely accommodate
forty-seven students.
It is smothering stuffy,
but of course it has windows!
Their grills look like the bars of a jail.

In the confines of jail,
in the cramped classroom,
we grudgingly open the windows
of tolerance. We have to accommodate
every unreasonably stuffy
teacher with 'respect', like good students.

Like good students
we adapt to jail.
We don't complain about stuffy
air or the shoe-box like classroom;
it can at least accommodate
forty seven. It also has windows.

At least it has windows!
Grateful are we students
to the sarkari* circus for accommodating
windows in the grand jail
drama. They're needed or else the classroom
will become deadly stuffy.

Our minds have become stuffy
and unimaginative. The windows
let in minimal knowledge but the classroom's
walls need to be broken down. We, students,
should break free from jail in jail.
We should not just 'accommodate'

We should not just accommodate
formidable knowledge in the stuffy
confines of the mind. In jail,
knowledge is useless. The window
lets in facts but what goes in should go out. We students
know all about ventilation: it's lacking in the classroom.

In jail, we just accommodate
stuffy classroom facts.
Students can only look longingly out of windows.

*Sarkari- of the government in Hindi.

Unlearning

A quake will destroy 

the blessings of harsh penance.

A quake will uproot

lessons of painful learning.

Knowledge acquired 

will become useless rubble.

Unlearning will be 

the only way of learning more:

rebirth always follows death. 

Worldly duties

whisk me away 

from penance.

The Thursday Think Tank #63 - Something Stinks

Her body stinks
like the smell of rotten
eggs and human dung.
She removes the muck
that chokes every sewer
in the big bad city.

In the bowels of the city
she braves the stink
and opens the sewer.
It's a sick rotten
job she has to do; the muck
has to be tackled. She dreads the dung.

People leave their dung
for her to clean. It chokes the city
sewers with noxious muck ,
making it a gaseous stink
bomb. Everything is rotten
in this dark dangerous sewer.

They can only create a sewer
to control the flow of dung
spoilt water, and all the rotten
products of excesses found in the city.
The overpowering stink
comes from a month of piled up muck.

She has been cursed to live in muck
and condemned to clean the sewer.
She can't afford soap- she stinks.
One day the heaps of slimy dung
will claim her- a victim of the city.
It has already declared her rotten.

As she lives her fate, she feels rotten.
She has been drowned into muck
by the privileged evil of the city.
They can only make a sewer;
they can't clean their own dung.
It is them who really stink.

But the city leaves her to stink
alone; she cleans the sewers of rotten
people who're too good to clear mucky dung.

Nightmares

My nightmares make me
deaf and mute,
mocking my fears of
living unheard.

They make my throat
a tight useless lump,
trapping me in vacuum;
no sound comes or goes.

I cry, i writhe. I moan
beating my chest.
Yet no one hears
my pleas for help.

But i yell, i yell
and i yell.

My First Tanka

The T.V's buttons- gone.
What she sees instead are big
blank spaces that're
the eyes of a mean ghost. Scared,
she hides under a blanket.

The Thursday Think Tank #61 - She

Her jingling anklets
chafe her delicate feet.

Her clinking glass bangles
draw blood when broken.

Her priceless gold earrings
drag down her earlobes.

Her veil, protective from nazr*,
curtails vision, confining her agoraphobic.

Her sindoor**, the crown of matrimony,
pushes her into dull domesticity.

Her husband, the protector
doesn't hesitate to slap her.

She is Shakti***-
that's her greatest weakness.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some terms need to be explained. They are-
*nazr- evil eyes of lusty men.
**sindoor- a smear of vermilion worn along the parting of her hair, indicating that she is married.
***Shakti- has many meanings. They are-
1)Personification of the divine female, sadly repressed in my poem.
2)Strength.
3)Agent of change, which she can be.
4) Cosmic energy

Bindi

Between the eyebrows
is the crown of divinity.
No matter how small that
dot or smear, it has immense
importance in a Hindu's life.

Poetic
mood dampened
by incessant rain; the
cloudy musty gloom weighs down my
spirit.

My First Cinquain

Flavours
explode in my
tongue- sweet spicy
sour, as i savour a yummy
phuchka.*

*Phuchka-  is a popular street snack in India. It is a round, hollow puri**, fried crisp and filled with a mixture of water, tamarind, chili, chaat masala, potato, onion and chickpeas. It is small enough to fit completely in one's mouth.


**Puri- It is a fried Indian bread made out of wheat flour. 

My Thoughts are Not my Own

My thoughts are not my own.
They come from the millions
of collected thoughts that were
flowing through the ether,
entering receptive brains
and exiting unexplored.

Thoughts need to be explored!
Maybe that's why they wait
patiently, take chances with
the whims of the living
and roam in relentless search
of a resourceful mind.

They find me in the hope
that i'll give them a voice,
but as i write i kill off a
few unsuitable ones,
without regret, knowing that
they'll find their way.

The Thursday Think Tank #59 - Grass

You have the key
to a magical world.
Just go
and find it.

It exists between
each blade of grass:
a perfect microcosm
of a perfect system.

The soil sustains grass-
the grass sustains grazers-
grazers sustain insects and germs;
and they sustain the soil.

Insects and germs:
creatures often despised
by ignorant fools
is why this world is perfect.

All that is
dead and useless
finds its relevance
here; nothing is wasted.

Hair

A fantasy 

of long lustrous

layered locks is 

what makes me look

longingly at the mirror.

Hair grazing my shoulders,

    brushing against my breasts,

     caressing my hips with its silkiness:
a distant dream. Now it barely scrapes

      my neck, tickles it with coarse choppiness

         and taunts my efforts with stubborn shortness.

       I do all what granny advises: i oil my hair, comb it

    hundred times, scrape my fingernails and massage it 

        lovingly. Yet it remains frustratingly short. I wring my 

       hands at the mirror. When will heads turn as i walk 

      along? And when will men bump into each other 

   at my approach? Mommy may say i am 

  obsessed but is it wrong to desire 

  beauty? We can endlessly

 argue about this.

The Thursday Think Tank #58 - Nighttime

The full moon 

never looked lovelier;

'His' face was

shining through it.

Dangerous Pleasure

In a dark cave 

of location unmentionable,

pleasure is found. 

The cave is smelly 

like rotten thoughts 

and rotten actions.

Its floor is slippery

like dangerous pleasure
from dangerous actions

And its walls are sticky 

like the consequences 

of those actions. 

The cave can

trap anyone who 

goes too far. 

The Thursday Think Tank #57 - Loneliness

The world that
exists in your mind
doesn't exist in mine.
So we are lonely people,
you and I.

Even when we share
our innermost thoughts,
reveal naked our souls,
there is a barrier
that separates us;
you are you
and I am I.

Perhaps we can understand
each other's thoughts fully;
we can't live them.

Bubbles become
one with the ether,
with each other
only when they burst.

We Talk

We talk to fill
an abyss:
an expansive desert,
a bottomless ocean
of emptiness
with overflowing emptiness.
It occupies infinite space
yet overflows when filled.
What an insatiable emptiness!

The battle cry
pierced the sky;
the sky was an orange red
in the dusk, like the bloodshed
that would haunt
soldiers in nightmares, taunt
them of their baseness,
of their human weakness,
for greed of land
that would stain the sand
with blood, and bleach it
with bones; each
corpse a painful sight,
a reminder of a fight
in vain,
each bloodstain
exemplified what it cost,
of little gained and so much lost.

The Thursday Think Tank # 55 - Inanimate Objects

You, the living
are too engrossed in
seeking the answer
to why you live.

You overlook us,
even though we are
as ancient as
Time itself.

We have given you life
and we live
through your life,
yet we are perceived lifeless.

We have heard
every said syllable
and we have seen
every giant and germ.

If only you had known of us!
We, the witnesses of Time would
have told you of every wonderful
moment in the history of our cosmos.

The Thursday Think Tank #54 - The Beach/Ocean

We were

standing at 

the sea shore,

just the four of us,

unbroken, unsullied 

by the gaze of gaunt eyes,
 mouth taut with feigned sorrow,

 and that face: evil etched in lines.

The sea 

was a reminder

that this togetherness

was just a fleeting moment,

like the rise and fall of a tide.

                 

Currently at Crossroads.

Currently 

at 

crossroads.

Untitled

Scared girl stumbles
into social circuit.
Drifting aimlessly,
aiming driftlessly,
she blusters her way
across the crowd,
desperately
seeking a saviour
from her loneliness.

The crowd confuses her,
overwhelms her;
they seem to
make closed circles
and break closed circles
only to make them again.
They seem to
break circles and
make circles
before she can
find a circle
where she could have
become just a point
in a chain of links.

So where should this scared
girl find refuge
in the crowd
from the crowd?

Waves

                                                                           Waves

                come crashing

                             on the sea shore,

                                             cleaning bare feet off

                                                        accumulated sand- grainy

                                                               and gritty. But feet keep gathering

                                                       grainy gritty sand and waves keep

                                                  crashing down the shore just to clean them.

Chocolate Chor

*Note: Chor means 'thief' in Hindi.
* I call my dad "bape"

Ah! The moment is just right-
no one is in sight.
So i tip-toe to the fridge
and seek those
concealed chocolates.

They're in
the vegetable tray
where i may
have not bothered
to look.

Poor parents!
I'm not all that easy
to deceive or discourage.
When there is greed,
there is also a will
to search relentlessly.

But just before i can
delight in devouring them
all alone
Bape behind me says-
"Be sure to share them
with me and your sister."

The Latticed Partition

I'm standing
in the lobby
and he is
slinking behind
the latticed partition
that separates us.

Though unreadable,
his gaze
pierces me
across a solid barrier.

Does he
want to talk?
I do.

But for
the latticed partition
standing strong
we could have
perhaps
gotten along.

The Thursday Think Tank - #47 Toes

Note- Zari is a type of thread made of fine gold or silver wire used in traditional Indian and Pakistani garments. This thread is woven into fabrics, primarily made of silk to create intricate patterns.

The photograph 

sits on a shelf, 

a silent reminder

of the little girl 

i once was.

The hem of my 

red zari bordered skirt

half conceals and half reveals 

two tapering feet with tiny toes,

encased in silver anklets.

Did my jingling anklets 

ever fill silences?

And when was 

the last time i wore

a zari bordered skirt?

The picture captures

a time bygone-

a femininity now 

transformed over the years 

of confusing childhood.

An Attempt At Alliteration

Street scoundrel slinks stealthily 

along an alley

to pick purses poking from pockets.

Someone stop him!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just a Thought

I wonder what happens

 to the world that was.

Does it exist somewhere,

 on another plane,

buried deep beneath

layers and layers and layers 

of time,

waiting

to be dug into,

its treasures excavated

for the world to marvel at?

The Thursday Think Tank - #46 Monsters

Menacing monsters never come
Out of shadows. They wisely wait for
Naive beings to take a daring
Step into their dreary world of darkness.
Then they take special delight in sucking out
Every ounce of goodness and
Replacing it with all the evil that exists.

Mysterious Mirror

Mysterious mirror of myriad metaphors,

tell the truth of what you are. 

You've played with people

and their fickle perceptions,

deluded them into seeing 

only beauty that exists in dreams.

You've deceived and dragged many

 into the deepest dregs of despair,

making them see ghastly images 

of ugliness not there. 

No one knows of what you are;

they see only themselves,

whether beautiful or ugly

in your elusive ever-changing face

But you can't elude the enlightened;

they know the truth that there exists 

neither beauty nor ugliness-
just shadowy perceptions. 

Dedicated to my Mentor

My 101st poem is dedicated to my mentor- Venkat Kaka. Kaka means Uncle in many Indian languages. He's the person who suggested that i should make a blog. And here i am, 101 posts old, all because of him.

Very few people are lucky
Enough to get a
Nice, no wonderful mentor like you. You
Know how to make me
Aspire to find
The best in myself.

Kind have you been to guide
A mostly confused
Kid; and tell you what:
A lot of kids aren't that lucky.

Please do not 

burst my bubble;

i'm happy there.

My first calligram

My
           pen
                              posed

                                                                                                      over

                                                                                                             paper 

                                                                                                         i 

                                                                                           wonder

                                                                                 what

                                                                                 to

                                                                                write.

      .

                                   

The Thursday Think Tank #45 - Secrets

This is the second time i'm going to give an introduction to a poem i've written. It is about a hideous habit of mine. I'll understand if you are  repulsed upon reading this, but this prompt encourages me to share it with you. Negative comments are welcome.

My guilt ridden secret
keeps me company,
popping in my mouth
when i'm hungry,
tired, bored,
sleepy, sad
or just angry.

It pops in
my mouth
only
when i'm alone
or with close family.

It's my thumb
and i am
a FIFTEEN year old
thumbsucker.

In the Deep Darkness of Night

Outside:
the door creaks,
wind howls,
leaves rustle swooshing,
thunder rumbles,
panes rattle
and rain pitter- patters.

Inside:
the fan chugs,
tap leaks -
drip.tip.drip.tip.drip;
dad snores,
sister and mother breathe deep rhythmic;
and i lie,
muscles clenched, heart
beating drumming pounding
erratically in my chest,
cold sweat lining my brow.

Somehow in the deep darkness of night,
in silence of sleep,
all soft sounds seem scarily amplified.

A Poet's Ennui

I'm exhausted, depleted,

tired, uninspired

and as empty as 

a large void. 

But You Still Have a Choice

Let the earth 

hug you tight.

Don't swim, 

don't fly.

You'd rather be safe

than drown

or crash down 

upon unforgiving ground.

Don't crawl, don't walk,

don't skip, don't jump;

don't meet resistance.

Stay safe.

Let her strangle you

in her overbearing embrace,

while being rooted to 

where you are.

Let your chest grow tight,

tight till you can't breathe

and choke to your death.

But you still have a choice.

The Thursday Think Tank - #42 Love

She came to me 

after nine months of mamma's

of pregnant anticipation,

red face screwed up

in a surprised bawl.

She looked so cute with

  an adorable crooked nose,

velveteen buttocks,

fragile fingers 

and curled up toes.

When i saw her first

on that 

magical May morning,

i knew that it was

sisterly love at first sight. 

The night comes
and i am
lulled into layered labyrinths
of twisted dreams.

My lungs 

scream in protest;

i swim on. 

The Thursday Think Tank - #41 Uniforms & Service

The tricky part

of being 

under a uniform 

is being 

myself 

while being 

like 

everybody else. 

Ragweed

Poisonous hatred
for other forms of life
oozes suicidally
from a ragweed crop.

The Wisdom of the Japanese Ladybird Beetle

The urgency of life

is welling up inside her

but in her wisdom

she'd rather wait

another year

for another summer

than lay an egg

on an occupied leaf.

She knows that

she'd be condemning

her offsprings

to a fate of

starvation and competition

with other children

of other females

over the nutrition

of a single leaf.

So she chooses to

forgo the chance

and save her eggs

for the coming winter,

when food would be scarce

and hard to find;

the nutrition would

help her survive.

The next year

another summer

and another chance

to occupy a leaf.

So she makes

a quick move

and lays her eggs,

protecting them against

other females like her.

The purpose of her life accomplished

she curls up into winter sleep;

upside down and legs bunched close

she shrivels up on a dead leaf.

Lemmings

Leaping off cliffs is an 

Exodus of foolish creatures that

Multiplied too many and gnawed

Most of their pastures barren. They're plunging

Into the treacherous waters of the 

Norwegian sea, blindly hoping that it'll

Get them to newer, greener lands.

Some are lucky but they'll repeat the mistake.

The Wonders of Life

Somewhere in the

deepest depths

of the oceans 

and inside the

hottest volcanoes:

infinitesimally

tiny creatures thrive;

and they've been 

thriving 

since aeons before

our ancestors 

first set foot

upon the earth. 

The Thursday Think Tank - #39 Ghosts

Maybe ghosts hovered
in the air
unseen, untouched and unheard
till the tsunami struck Japan;
it was the work of angry ghosts.

The Thursday Think Tank - #38 Quotes & Quotations

"Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral."

             ` Kahlil Gibran

Change,
Just sweep me
away from home.
Take me somewhere;
take me anywhere.
But just sweep me
away from home.

Oh! Change!
Whether winds
or tides,
I long for you
to come to me
and shake me
out of these
four walls,
that have trapped me
with their cunning
assurances of safety
against imagined dangers.

They've blinded me with their
 monochromatic dullness.
They've made me deaf
by insulating me
against the natural cacophony
though harsh,
now music to me.
They've made me numb
and deprived me
of the sensuous beauty
of nature all around me.
They've quelled the
song in me.
Confined am I
and entrenched in ennui.

So change ,

Just sweep me 

away from home.

Take me somewhere;

take me anywhere.

But just sweep me 

away from home. 

Sweat

Sweat: a badge of achievement
forming beads on my forehead,
tickling the hair on my brow,
trickling down my back
and drenching my shirt
after a hard jog
in an attempt to lose weight.

An intentional coincidence: shirk

rhymes well with work.

The Thursday Think Tank - #37 lemons

A tall cool glass of lemonade
is always welcome
after a hard day in school.

Invisible Something

Something is moulding
my words
into twisty little things
as i write.

I don't like
that invisible something
shaping my words
into twistly little things.

I just want
to write
as it comes
to me

But this
invisible something
would just not
let go of me.

So how do i
get rid
of this invisible something
telling me how to write?

I had got it
then
But i've lost it
now.

The pigeon: sitting serenely 

on the window will, waiting for

her egg to hatch.

Teach and cheat,
like
evil and live,
are unfortunate anagrams.

The Thursday Think Tank - #35 Shadows

Someone's snickering,

Hiding himself and laughing 

At all those foolish,

Desperate people who want to step

Out into light of prominence,

While a lot happens in shadows.

An Observation

An interesting observation:

both poets and musicians

play with sound. 

The Thursday Think Tank - #34 I Do Bequeath..

My dear child,

I would like to

bequeath to you

 fiery passion

that i never gave wings

as a child,

in the hope that

you would give it

the wings to fly

and soar high

in the sky.

Do what

you want

out of the

passion

i want to

give you.

But just

give it wings

and don't

let it die

within you.

A house feels
swamped when
a guest refusing
to adjust arrives.

When guests
refusing to adjust arrive,
they often bring
their homes with themselves;
and what you made
your home is what
you grudgingly replace
with what they call home.

Why don't they
make themselves
at home with
your home,
just as you
make yourself
at home
with them?

When for those days
they can make
a home with you
and be happy,
just as you want to
make a home
with them
and be happy.

And when you do
make a home
with each other
you will be happy.

Rumour

Believe me:
there is nothing
more damaging
than a rumour
floating around.

Thinking of Muses

Nursing a muse
is like............
nursing a child
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She was born
in me,
like a living, breathing person;
and when she grew,
she stomped out
of the palace
i had laid
out for her,
brick by brick.

Little kiddo

Little kiddo
sitting in the loo,
unaware that
i'm listening to
her secret soliloquy too.

Kites

Note: Uttarayan is an Indian festival which is marked by a change in the sun's position such that it shifts towards the northern hemisphere (rather: the earth tilts back)

The Uttarayan sky,
dotted with myriad kites
is a new beginning,
a promise that
winter will fast recede
into the magic of spring.

Here on earth,
people rejoice as
their colourful kites
flutter high in the sky;
the wind had been
kind to them.

But i am
one of those many;
their kites
stubbornly plummet
to the ground
as they try to fly it.

Thursday Think Tank; Random deviations; Sketch XI

 Isn't safety 

a simple assurance

of being loved?

Poets United Prompt- Observation (Something about poets)

The very essence
in you and me
is also the essence
in all what we see.

Otherwise, why would a poet
look for similarity
between a window
and (what's abstract),( like), opportunity?

Maybe writers and poets
use metaphors and similies  because
everything is a reflection of everything else
in a way that's not visible
to the naked eye.