egg on

gravity. a spat or a splat
eggs us on.
shells, half broken
tell a tale-
uncomfortable in that skin,
gravity grounds everything.

'I feel such a palpable relief'

hibernation

I want to hibernate for eternity
but your banter stops me
I fumble in the ground
and glance towards the sky
and write a letter 
copying from the etched teardrops

I see my girl pal, cycling away afar
and run towards her
we both pedal away our moods
she her adrenalin,
I, my hibernation plan!

loads

corner inspects my departure,
shift in an aperture
my shadow wraps a scarf
I shiver in the cold
I watch a boy pick a nickle
Only then I start counting galaxies

puerile ennui

no one understands love
maybe they do, the ennui of
"before I die" compels that need
propelling to fall in that white light

I want the storms to strike me
as to be numb in my lonely coat
in my head I paint pictures of distant hills
before I walk back on the sidewalks

"In that glass box, why have you kept me displayed?"

escalating

photo credits: reymundo

I escalate to the top
almost touching the sky
the eerie blue light
hurl me into mystical place

my palm touch palpable vacuum
in those steps,
I spin like a top
in the holed ground

endlessly waiting for your smile
in the deep green eyes
when it finally shows
I become a beautiful chrysalis
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

cloaked mask

it happened again. yet again.
penny dropped
i did not see it

i had left that ending hanging
even though it jiggled to the extreme end
i ignored the title early on

trying to plant seeds
you pulled those out like weeds
you hid me from the earth

i thought it was to protect me
i did not see that my invisibility
gave you that escape

i was only wrapped in the quality of that cloak

while you danced gleefully in the safety of several

"build a cenotaph for me, and be more joyous"


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


For a few weeks now I struggle to write. I am unable to pen longer verses, even short ones are not coming. I am not even making rounds to read your poetry. That is another downside. Hope I get back to writing soon. When muse dies, I feel half dead. Any poet/writer can relate to that state.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Confetti of time

photographer Rosie Hardy

a phantom of myself
blowing away cobwebs of time
I ponder in  midst of confetti
scattered by unknown forces
I'm not getting any younger

I am lost in 14-inch TV