Thursday, September 30, 2010

doomed if I do, doomed if I don't

an adornment now- 
I sit on the side-table 
rueing my wick less days
I want the dark nights
with only me as a light

the blue you see
is a smudge on me
my yellow base
wants to catch fire
silently watching the wires

if you can't use me
why don't you break me
I would prefer to be buried
in earthy soil, 
water soothing my fire

"get a wick and let me get on with it"

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

colours lay bare my soul

I scribble on you
with pencil colours
blue is normal
orange heaves for me
red laughs at my passion
green just watches
the imminent moodiness
lines, and the ripples
create an illusion
of double rainbow
which engulf me
my fingers violate the violets
shrinking or otherwise
isn't that purple so deep
as to cause an yellowish tinge
on your pages-
you are a witness to all the hues
all the shades, that is I.

"my diary, with you I share all secrets, 
no colour tampers with my spirit"

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

the middle makes it

spurting juice 
I catch it in my mouth
an apple
reminds me of you-
the days we shared


I talk into it
gibberish, incoherent
my mobile phone
gives me an earful
like the way you did


it wobbles
like an old man
this chair
I have had for years-
a landmark

I brush it
a tapestry forms on it
that wall
a witness to my joys
smudges speak of sorrows


I massage it
with gentle strokes
olive oil
on your skin
smooth as mine


From AppleHouse Poetry Workshop

... of 5 lines where the middle line acts as a pivot, i.e. it can be read in conjunction with the first two lines, or it can be read as the line that leads into the final two.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

a gift for you

I see it in flea market
wrap it in an old newspaper-
a snuff box-
denoting my snuffed out feelings,
send you whimsical note-
letting you know of tarnished hope

Why don't you try something in 160 characters? Space included!
Update: I corrected it to flea but I think flee too worked well. What do you think?

powders of stones

Layer by layer, he chiselled the surface, hardened over time. Now time had no meaning, but for his work. Destruction, construction, it was not for him to decide. On his feet lay the debris, powdered monument, was it? Nothing made sense any more, only the task, burdened with overcast ripples of thumbed ocean.

only a chipped thought
flies away to the cerulian sky
sacred invasion

His skin had that sheen, although weathered. He was the monument, and its love, which none remembered. If memories had a tapestry, he would win hands down. But memories, for him,  were traps of fire, a quagmire, with no immediate escape.

swat flying creatures
they can't take you far away
you will die anyway

I close the chapter, with a snap, find my fingers breaking the spine. Horrified I observe the pages falling apart, just like the miniscule powders of stones, flying around him. Not bothered, he hammers the ground now. When the earth shakes, he laughs out loud, a sound I had forgotten. I like the crying earth, the bursting sky, awaiting for water to engulf me.

oceans are so hungry-
always swallow those stones
whole city underneath

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Haibun: seedy deeds

A breathe I felt on my neck. A storm within my ear. It roared and slipped into nothing. I chased it to the moon. An invisible shadow. An antithesis of wasteland. I couldn't see it. But feel it, I did. What of it? The purple sky merged into orange and buttons of diamonds danced with glee.

Where had I come? And from where? From the inside of a book, I flew into it, that creature, which can't be scene. A friend, a foe? Flashes of light bursts all over the place. An acrid smell tastes so salty. My tongue burns it out. I turn towards that shadow, just barely visible. A giant bee stings me. I cry out. Chanting curses, I kill it with my voice. And find a golden winged fairy dead at my feet. Weighty issues to tackle now, I burn at the stakes.

seed pearls fall over
ground paves it into you
sky watches with detach


I don't know if I succeeded in writing a Haibun. But I am glad I tried, thanks to Big Tent Poetry.


in the remnants
I seek the aroma-
no, not yours.

into the skewed sky
it has wafted-
clouds are the witness.

I must get to it,
catch it, bottle it-
and throw it into a cavern

floorboards watch me,
each creak loud,
while I collect vacuum. 

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

baton of time

I wear my newly stitched wings,
pluck time from the sky
I nudge it towards you
you make a face as if it stinks

my shoulders itch so much
I change my gait
one of my wings slips off

the time I gave you
is melting so fast
my strength recedes along with it

when you see that
you solidify it again
ripen it and pass it back to me

my wings flutter
I fly away to my destiny
the sun might burn me
but it will also give me light

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

ode to un-punctuated verses

commas, apostrophes or full stops
I might like those in prose
but in your poetry or even mine
I seldom seek those

why grudge it then
if it gives me limitless choices
language always grows
despite dissenting voices

why let your heckles rise
and end up in a rant
there is always an option
why let ants in your pants?

if silence can be heard, 
why not un-punctuated verse
ever heard of poetic license
which certainly is no curse!


Why don't you write something for exceptions to the rule from We Write Poems?

Monday, September 20, 2010

my monkey reads you well

your hands in your pocket
that lopsided smile
your balled handkerchief in right pocket
coat all wrinkled
and jeans so dirty

my monkey reads you well

your feet so dirty
sweat stains on your shirt
your suitcase open
in the centre of the room
a banana on top of it

my monkey reads you well

on that bed
under the covers
sloppily you fall asleep
I scatter the pillows
my deed done so well

my monkey reads me well

it pushes me into the bathroom
under flowing water I wash it
it hands me a towel,
I wipe it clean
taking in back where it belongs

my monkey reads me well

it was I who knifed him
if we had left the room
and gone on our way
but for my monkey who wanted to stay

"and why not, it was his monkey too"

Sunday, September 19, 2010

something fishy

marinated fish
goes into that flat frying pan
oh, splattered bliss

bliss leaks from sides
releasing smells into my brain
making mouth water

but fish seek coke
I am following it from about fish, chips, nothing much else. Go check that out too!

Why not write a poem or a story in exactly 160 characters each Sunday? Spaces included! Head for Monkey Man for Sunday 160!

PS: No, I wasn't cooking the fish. It is all imagination.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

about fish, chips and nothing else much

a whispers in its ear
trapped in that net
it tries to wriggle free
siblings lie low giving in to fate
awaiting impending death

tang of salty water
still on its lips
the world of water receded so fast
into the air
onto the ground
that net pounds

jump, jump
a whisper in its ear
with all the might it breaks free
again into that bottomless see
joie de vivre never afar
siblings too follow the lead

our fisherman is left high and dry
his dreams of chips and fish fry
have gone all awry

Thursday, September 16, 2010

timeless flies search for fries

In the dock lies a half-eaten banana
thrown by that little child in an embellished skirt
a swarm of flies land on the debris
making it their temporary home
from afar the flies seem to chant prayers
maybe seeking answers for their early demise
I had assumed they had no backbone,
the evidence belies me, 
you can see the time trickling away to their tunes

what I see is a blank wall splattered with ketchup
from another half-eaten burger,
this time a grown up being the culprit.

"now the flies ask, where are the fries?"

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

warming up the worms

if my dreams get real bizarre
I will get up, pick the jar
into it the dreams would go
churned into bits of guts
I would take the jar into the woods
bury it deep in the soil
let worms encircle it

worms of volatile dreams inside
earthy worms on the outside
a beauteous sight for the twisted me
I fix a demure smile
pretend to slip on the tiles
my jar smashes on the floor
nightmares escape everywhere

it won't offend me at all, 
if you leave bits of glasses right there
as I love to watch footsteps of blood
The first line is taken from the lyrics of you tube clip (fireflies – owl city)

Monday, September 13, 2010

a child's play

that yellow ball
orbits in air
drops perfectly in the ditch
a child dithers to catch it
his hands stick into mud
ghosts of dead children
haunt his neighborhood

nowhere island

the morning's moisture misted on his beard
while I watched from the sidewalks
the lake reflected the mountains
and I could see only him
his glasses perched on his head
he was immersed in silence
golden light of the sun
poured over him
showering him with warmth
I wished to catch it from him like a cold
when I came into his vision
he paused from his silence
his eyes took a catastrophic look
he slipped down his glasses
purposefully disappeared into the deep lanes

"no stranger to our gauzy history,
nor to our torrid chemistry, 
where can he escape from the paring memories?"

Saturday, September 11, 2010

I watch while the mountains crumble

a piece of flotsam in the passing
why am I seeing it from afar
my hair plastered to my skull
salt sticks into me
that abrasive feeling does not leave
when did my feet get webbed
when did I sprout wings
the ocean sleeps in front of me
sky is running away
that flotsam is a piece of a mountain
the world is unusually calm
while I accept the gift of peace

"I wanted to be the last redwood, now I pirouette with the jinx"

Thursday, September 09, 2010

crooked window

nay, I did not say that
not anything anyone need know
how did the whispers get heard
why did the wind spin a tale
plucking from the silky depths

you stand behind that window
your reflection looms large
I stare angrily at that
muttering under my breath
when did you steal my veil

soon your face will get blue,
turning you into an apostrophe
the frames will engulf you
I will keep counting the branches
while you cut out the slashes

"you a faceless entity, hiding behind the city"

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

commas in the pauses

this isn't really about me
this isn't really about you
this isn't not even about the two
what is this about, you might ask
I say, this is amalgamation
of I know not what

yes, you heard that right
I never asked you to feast here
or to ogle at the pauses
or the commas as some might say

I am not going to charm you
you keep away from the graphs
I never dangled the space
I presumed it to be robust
to hold under its own steam
your pigheadedness broke into it

"when the wings fall apart, you will exist not"

Sunday, September 05, 2010


you see me as someone serious
who is always buried in books
writes poetry at drop of a hat
I wait every night
buried in shadows
a mask


Why not write a poem or a story in exactly 160 characters each Sunday? Spaces included! Head for Monkey Man for Sunday 160!

Saturday, September 04, 2010

ode to shoes

Starting with this, I will write an ode to anything or everything I can think of. Of course I won't be able to get anywhere near Pablo Neruda's odes but I can try, can't I?

my red canvas shoes
white borders
red laces
white laces
which to choose
perfect fit
contrasts with white outfit
matches the red dresses
to the hilt
loves my toes
toes love it too
ankles like its warmth
rubber soles
kiss the roads
spiritually reverent
each day is a breakthrough
for those shoes
my red canvas shoes

"they touch the elements, revelations don't come amiss"


Update@ 09/05/2010, 10:43 AM: Added a photo!


Thursday, September 02, 2010

pavement musings

on that newly laid pavement
an unset tile tilted-
I found myself on ground
almost nose to nose with the cobbler

scent of used leather, shoe glue
touched my horizon
I saw lights filtering from tattered tarp
all other lights vanished

I took stock of my surroundings
my shoe broken now,
I offered it to him soundlessly
as he repaired it, he said,

"now you can walk to the end of the world"

Wednesday, September 01, 2010

pitching forward

I have taken a wordle from one that briarcat made from her own poems. Those words are different than what I normally use and I like that.

I can hear the hummingbirds
while I toss the salad
I expect the girls to arrive at any time
seasons have gone
predictable we weren't ever
what kind of celebrations I expect now
when I bolted out last time we met
yet I would like to make amends
to pitch forward like a rocket
I try to save the smoking sizzlers
wishing to break something
my glasses sit foolishly on my nose
wounds don't show on the surface

"in mathematics, two negatives do make a positive"