Thursday, 30 March 2017


Google Image

sometimes it is like a creaky door
heavy and morose  
things inside sound like a carpenter’s workshop
i wait with a blank face, silently
and that is when i want to grow into a forest;
all leaves, trees, barks, pebbles and rich soil,
rough textures and raw smells;
that’s when i realize,
the root of life is far;
cities have overgrown
and i am slowly diminishing
into mechanical sounds…

Visit Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for more poems....

Friday, 24 March 2017


Google images

mirror m-i-r-r-o-r me
and things that are behind me
like the eyes on back

i m-i-r-r-o-r the mirror
and it is an endless order
of finding again and again

my eyes are mirrors, tiny and deep,
before you speak, look into them,
find your words again and again,
if they still linger on your tongue
give them to me, i’ll keep them,
my treasure chest is made of mirrors  

let’s mirror them,
like m-i-r-r-o-r-i-n-g the mirror
and make it an endless order
of true syllables of existence

Visit Poets United for more poems on Mirror

Wednesday, 22 March 2017

...returning to rivers...

Some days I shut myself up
Windows and doors closed
And pour a river song to my ears, uncut

We are like pollen and gale
We tumble a lot and gather piles
Of dead and tender leaves of life, infinite

 Some days I shut myself up
Drink in rivers of thoughts
And soak upside down, inside out

Sieves out dead leaves and thorns
Gathers tender leaves and golden stones
And that needs rivers to dip and rise

Next morning when the sun rises, I will forget
If love was the bird that knocked at the window
I will forget to contemplate so
I have got a river inside me
Now for days I will be rich as a tree
Deep as an ocean and will regret nothing

Friday, 10 March 2017

A stupendous World

Google image

i am at a loss of words,
when i see the world
it’s majestic and cold---
mostly, yes, but it’s splendour
stupendous, it’s misdemeanour---
inequality everywhere

redwoods rising high
citrus and maples so elfin
before them, but they too shine;
ocean so vast and ponds so petite;
i do never remember we graded them on that
they are all fine as the way they befit

here when i walk on streets,
bosses sit on cushioned seats,
the workers in rags…
on the floor and nibbles left overs;
loud and showy are heard
shy and modest are ignored;
you need to be in the limelight
or you are an immigrant,
sick, refugee, needy or a victim
you need not put your opinion
you will not be heard

to give a place, to give a chance
takes your chances away or may jeopardise your existence

we are but a group of animals,
a bunch of social animals,
cultured and advanced!

we are a bit different
from animals in the forests;
they are cowards,
only hunger forces them;
we have multitudes of reasons
we attack at all odd times! 

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

Adorn my being

Google Image

There is an unfathomable emptiness in us, no matter how much we are blessed.

Last time when we went up the hill, it was raining. Bare feet when touches mud and water, sends up something that is whimsical. Sometimes things are better when left half told. When we cannot find what is missing, the green grass and the woody, wet and muddy scents fill the gap. The wild sound of that stream cools us down immensely.

We haven’t gone for the dusty summer path yet. It is so hot here but out there the earth still holds that damp dreams tight; let’s go and keep our ears close to those pebbles over which the stream ran wildly.

Spider weaves web
Dew drops settle on it, gently
Gossamer stories

Visit dVerse for rejuvenating forest bath!

Monday, 6 March 2017

...the young bride...

fresh morning gleamed on the crystal bottle;
its brownish tint painted sparkling abstract on the walls;
 soft, excited chill and warm sweat, her hands reached
hesitantly, she reached out to the bottle,
she felt it,  a warm excited chill ran through her;
a whiff of yesterday, whiff of last night, scent of her love,
her first perfume bottle, his perfume, perfumed moments,
etched for a life time!

Wednesday, 1 March 2017

Gift of Remembrance

Google image

Nestling under the young rain tree
Doodled walls of a room breathed free;
Inside it chrysalises hung
Bearing words and colors of silence;  
Before leaving that room, I rummaged
Among boxes of letters, cards and feathers,
Colored threads and brushes and colors,
Scribbled diaries, flutes and dreams;
Squeezing each other inside the cupboards
They stared at me, being and not being and
Togetherness are choices of time;
Trees and flowers peeping through windows
Smiled as a breeze
gently sweeping dried leaves and dust.

There was a room and
I left it years ago, with no choice,
Mind fidgeted through choices and
I plucked my heart from among them
Carried it with me as a treasure box and
I no longer keep souvenirs
For being and not being and
Togetherness are choices of time…

Visit dVerse for poems on Memento!

Tuesday, 28 February 2017

golden shower

moon-snuggled night
drizzle and music
you joked and I wished
to see the beauty,
 the reward of my life
come sun and first in the morning,
in morning’s golden shower
i want to see in your eyes,
naughty handsome eyes,
the pure giggle, happiness!

Visit dVerse to giggle and to read and write quadrille!

Monday, 27 February 2017

a mere totoise rider

i am a tortoise rider
slow and invisible, a miniature figure
 under bushes and shrubs
passing through the time---
as the caterpillars---
rising from petrichor
to star constellations,
perception   s  p  r  e  a  d  s---
as the caterpillars,
i could now see the bugs, worms,
the grains of sand, pebbles
butterflies, flowers and birds as   r  e  a  l;
i hear a distant whale,
elephants and cranes;
here amidst the shades of green
i realize, I am just a caterpillar serene,
stars stencilled
on the maggot body, traces of my origin manifested,
hibernating on macrocosmic dreams,
sound of silence resonating through existence,
i am tortoise rider
slow and invisible, a miniature figure
 under bushes and shrubs,
an eternal traveller…

For all my childhood friends...... 

“Begin challenging your own assumptions. Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in awhile, or the light won’t come in.” – Alan Alda.  Visit Prompt Nights for more.


Thursday, 23 February 2017

it’s the way the wind blows here

He pushed his foot through
 loose sand of the dirt road, low,
the tar-road a bit high and where potholes grow;
the pack of cigarette he forgot at the timber mill
pushed and pulled his thoughts until,
a party announcement rickshaw
pulled along the road, danced through gutters,
muted the crows and dogs for a while;
“darling your sister is a menace, she gossips,”
images of his wife floated loud
as the rickshaw danced along the road.
He kicked the cat slightly,
it brushed along his leg swiftly,
the fish-curry mixed left overs,
the food he puts before it daily,
that probably stays fresh in its mind,
it brushed and he kicked.
At times he remembered his mother,
the scent of paddy fields and cow sheds.
Rows of small houses, local shops, and timber mills,
they stand high and low,
they stand over yesteryears' paddy fields;
 local party’s committee offices fly flags over the fertile soil.
 He walked through the dirt road.
The cat ran away as the dogs barked,
 they ran after the rickshaw
raising dust and tempo,
he headed for his tea at home,
tea along with his wife’s gossips,
probably her nth time blabbering.
 At night when he comes back from toddy shop,
he is a man estranged,
estranged from his own clan,
glued to his nuclear family, he kicks at tumblers,
he kicks at his frustrations,
his wife screams, she screams out her empty thoughts.
The night sky, neither smiles nor shines,
stars and moon shies away to clouds;
the kacha and pakka roads,
they wind along the outskirts with not much to think;
it’s the way the wind blows here,
with hollow fury and dusty scent
and nowhere to climb,
it settles down with dust.