Sunday, 28 June 2015


Midsummer Night's Melancholy by Michael Sowa

Dark shades loom
By shadow
Faces turn unfamiliar
Dark vortex
Emptying the self
Doubts and ache
Eyes watch, waits
For familiar lights

Wednesday, 24 June 2015

Rain, rain just rain...

Photo courtesy Vijitha VinayKrishnan

Yesterday, night tossed with me in strayed lines
Of grey, black and flashing silver screams
Without reason or any purplish wound of worries
And rain tossed with wind high and low, rushing
Like many thoughts that keep on building
Like termite mounds crippling everything, nibbling
On identities, dreams and the veil of doubt spreading

This morning we made a trip up the hill
In the beating rain to see the waterfall
That took birth with monsoon dreams, which till
Then was musing in cloudy fantasies up the hill

And then, the time crept into those rich green leaves
And those washed out spiky grass and tree trunks with moss
And got lost, there little streams were flowing endless
As rain danced upon them mellowing into the wild beats

And then, last night’s grey rain vanished
And so was the ME in me cleansed
And got lost with the time that eloped
To all that was wild and true and vivid
And delusions of past and future washed

And now the rain flowing like blood in the veins sings euphoric melodies

Wednesday, 17 June 2015


Mangoes, yellow and orange like the summer sun
My baskets are full to the brim and I share with love
With breakfast and dinner we serve mangoes
The sharp knife slicing its thick sunny brightness
Brings a juicy rain, outside too it is raining and
When I go out splashing rain-made puddles
I think of mangoes, their seeds abandoned all over
Used, relished and thrown, but I know that later
I will see sprouts, and later shady trees and then
Numerous baskets full of mangoes, sunny and juicy
Mangoes, like my heart, revive through the seasons
And never dries out, they are sunny and rainy
They are orange and juicy and never carries thorns

Mangoes, yellow and orange like the summer sun
My baskets are full to the brim and I share with love

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Wednesday, 10 June 2015


Mushrooms grown wild, kept tightly packed;
I bought some, its drizzling outside,
monsoon’s first wash, and you, still waiting for ticket.
At home we prepared sandwiches, black peppered,
salted white, mushrooms of faded shades and thoughts
grayish, where only my cup full of coffee and your’s
waiting, and you are still waiting for ticket;
holidays joyful, tickets so dear, my dreary days,
monsoon washed dusty roads, leaves and pebbles;
I painted lonely moon, dry brush strokes
 We had light dinner, and waiting for your call …

Monday, 18 May 2015

Silence fills in like air

Silence fills in like air
to every corner of chaos in here.
They talk in loud colors
and walk on high heels;
air, water, land, all under trade.
The window cries out for air
but it is silence that fills in like air
to every corner of chaos in here.

Silence like a stray crow in search,
like a black dot among the doves
of high buildings, silence, like a crow
in search of trees with green leaves,
connects my inner woods with a distant,
distant, distant land of green trees all over
where my feet could touch sand, the grains
that fill the gaps between my fingers,
the touch that connects my existence,
like an umbilical cord, with my inner
woods, where I see gods in trees, sun,
moon, rivers, sea, tigers, eagles, peacocks,
elephants and even rocks, where I curl in peace.

Silence fills in like air
to every corner of chaos in here,
where loud colors of inventions scream
and my woods are silent like distant dreams.

Thursday, 26 March 2015

Finding beauty....

Courtesy Google

The flowing river, calm and deep
with all its secrets drowned deep,
silent, and my eyes behold beauty there;
and when seasons change, when mountains
roar out all its vengeance
she tears away her blanket
and dances her tune, pours out her tears,
laughs out loud, and she finds her inner beauty;
I was awestruck, but longed to tune in with her tune
to find meanings for meanings
and not for gains
I am learning to tune in with her tune
to be true to the inner soul
to know even the tiniest flower opening
to walk over the wet grass and feel them tickling

the depth inside mocks out at the outer world
but a little butterfly called happiness
flying inside smiles on all flowers outside;
the fiesta of life is so simple, to smile
so deep, to take shelter
so mysterious, to quench the thirst

to tune in with the tune, to keep calm and to pour out,
to be alive, and so brightens up the aura, the love;  
beauty is entangled with rooted grass of truth
and flying spirit of soul…

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Wednesday, 18 February 2015

Future or just a few chores

We all just spend our lives
Trying to overcome our births
Trying to get along with Death
And then untie ourselves from Earth

                                                         TED Fellow Ben Burke

I had this photo with me
But can’t remember the key
There is a lot to remember to survive
Like all the passwords, tracks and then the ME

I sometimes forget the ME in the move
It’s hard to find a path, and turns, to move
From one place to another
It’s from A building to B and C, tangled groove

I forgot the day I last touched the land and the air
The air we used to feel when winds roar
The land that nurtured grass and trees
Here I move around in glass tubes with oxygen cylinder

There are gardens, made-up gardens
But I had this photo with me of some memories
Where I sat in a courtyard with friends and my pet
We talked, laughed; the clock was not set for chores

I had this photo with me of trees, of sand and kite
Where I could pick something other than me
Something other than human, alive
Here, wherever I peep, glasses show me forever
But not the ME, it shows a luggage that carries
Things that assist, the inhalations and the exhalations
The pumping, the digestion, the evacuations
I had a photo with me of some memories
Faded, outdated, memories

Visit dVerse for more... where we write inspired by Ben Burke's  poem from future.

Monday, 9 February 2015

Wicked songs and dances

The van mocked an opera house
Where the songs of a pack of wolves synchronized
With the convulsions of a deer tore open
Flesh , flesh, flesh, blood smeared, what poetry in it?

Curves mellow with love
Eyes of a deer, long and black, dances
As tender as a flower bursting open trembling
When sun-kissed with warm golden rays
Demons, dementia ate their poetry, now weird maniacs

Eve’s garden should no longer bore deer
A tigress with stripes and claws should steal the show