Wednesday, 28 March 2018

tongue, tastes and afterthoughts/smiles

ever tasted thoughts
to know them---copiously,
to dress them into words,
garnish and present for others

it’s  paraphrasing…
taste mitigates

the waves, depths, flow,
stillness and the void spaces;
tongue rolls in emptiness
to catch the nuances…

it’s like painting…
but it comes out abstract


‘dumbfound’… is that what you feel exactly,
when somebody talks overwhelmingly;
especially when half lies protrude shamelessly;
well, to rodomontade stylishly
is an art to be praised  profoundly
and you must giggle merrily…


 in between your dumb-ness and dumbfounded-ness
comes many monsoons and summers…
and you slowly wash prejudices and judgements
to carry springs within…

Visit Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for more poems from Tuesday Platform!

Thursday, 15 February 2018

Abstract kites in the solid sky

thoughts are kites
tied to my being here---
 numerous, abstract,
making whirls;
and in words,
i do try catching them
before they disappear
and i catch them in bits
like scattered sunshine
among the shadows
of kites
tied to my being here;

in shadows and sunshine,
in learning and unlearning
i try to catch words;
 they make the sky
where the kites fly---
endless sky, solid sky

False Paradise

mopping out all lingering chaos…
the obsessive compulsive syndrome of cleaning…

inside the kitchen mom was into new online recipes
and papa immersed in his gadget with
the TV brewing out scams and scandals and politics
and in-between climate change discussions…like
the chewing gum in my funny little brother’s mouth---
chewed, popped, hided under tongue, pulled out,
stuck between thumbs and put back to mouth, disgustingly…

mopping out all lingering chaos…
the obsessive compulsive syndrome of cleaning…

outside the window there are hundreds of windows
and one little tree at the end of the lane that
talked in whisper to endlessly running loud traffic
and pigeons perked up high on cables running wayward  
above those bakery men talking politics with the pharmacists
and the ladies at the bus stop complaining of adulteration,
of the milk and the sugar and the fruits; slow poisoning of kids

mopping out all lingering chaos…
the obsessive compulsive syndrome of cleaning…
but there is a room full of dreams at the end of the day,
the cocoon of a little heart to fall asleep for a while,
a forest of serenity, a false paradise to hold on...

Visit dVerse for poems inspired by Catrin Welz Stein's art works!

Sunday, 7 January 2018


George Seeley (1907)

peak of a monsoon flowed turbulent
                          fingers gripped on emptiness
                         legs pushing forward
                         a body of existence

penumbral being waking in turbulence
seeking vision
play of shadows and lights
in drifting waters

                               impeccably indecipherable gaze
                               may be a globule of light waits
                              the quenching sight  of a voyager

the cypher of being and non-being
circling the globule

body of existence  
bedlam in drifting waters      

Saturday, 6 January 2018

Interrupted silence, flowing on different hues…

An incomplete painting...

sun mellowed to a light orange blush…
Kitchen sink brims loud
with day’s unwashed dishes…
shadows started melting along//
with the skimming darkness…
but moon wasn’t that shy as i was…
she entered completely revealing me//
and the day lingering here and there…
it’s not that muse and moods eat you//
leaving hollows; i cleaned the lingering day…
moon, she entered my canvas for me
to reach her with the fingertip;
time and thoughts are volatile, graceful//
and astonishingly constant…

Tried to show omitted words and opted silence with ellipses and small pauses for  hesitating thoughts with caesura...hope it worked...

Monday, 18 December 2017


Google Image

 giggling ears with caterpillar words
and the heart flutters---butterflies;
a swarm of words, wasps,
and the ears writhe
and you collapse---apocalypse
witches and angels,
whims and fancies of words;
words, they are at the tip of our magic wand;
words, they are at the tip of our tongue waiting to plunge!

Monday, 4 December 2017

unfinished, unheard stories...

Reginald Southey
Lewis Carroll (1857) 

“do you remember how were we?
about how you ate and talked, munching and storytelling;
about how we discussed rain, the small burn on my hand;
about how we laughed at each other and argued fiercely;
                        no, nothing, they are seconds and minutes,
aren’t they just the past, faded memories, and washed away
to some dark corners; light now focuses on ego and motives;
don’t you remember that we were not like this?”

she sipped some water, he listened;
coloured, textured flesh; bones a little more single shaded,
rough and firm; thoughts and perspectives, where do they stick?
do they wear different shades, clothes shiny and rough as flesh?
or do they stand firm as they are and as they are made, white shades?
wait, but where do we feel how were we, in flesh, bone, skin or nerves?
we are prints of limited vision, gossips, talks, our silence and absences;
some of us flesh, some skeletons; inside all the layers when we breathe,
where do they fall, touch and make stories?

                           flesh, skeletons and breath,
                                           what do we see and choose?
                                                        what stories are made loud?


Wednesday, 15 November 2017

Street Art

the ringing in my ears echoes your unuttered words;
the hesitantly lingering petals of yesterdays throngs;
the gaps between undecided moments infect my ears,
in which street would I find the cure for this relentless pain?

I have left a part of me somewhere back in dark;
no, please don’t let anybody seek her or ask
for I have kept her a child so mute and unerringly meek;
she won’t make out anything you would like to hear,
will there be any messiah who can read eyes for cloud-like thoughts?

the hesitant winter here struggles with a stubborn sun;
the ringing in my ears succumbs to words in my eyes;
I am all, all those who could never speak, decide and step out;
and my thoughts are cloud like; they carry rain, river and ocean;
let me paint the streets, write on roads and spill it everywhere
for every mind counts, every tear and every untold struggle
and yet before I spill, the I, the all, yes before I spill I bow to the pain
for I am not going to paint you but the spark inside you
and to write the wings inside you, the beauty of your silence---
                                             oh pain, spread smiles…

Visit dVerse for Poems on some images of Street Art 


Monday, 16 October 2017

mere drops, mighty drops....drops

Google Image

wrapped in time and,
in and out
of the five senses, illusions;
rain drops on leaves

Google Image

is dancing rain drops
on leaves
red and green
they dance, drips and moistures
past and all seasons

Visit IGWRT for Shadorma 

Tuesday, 10 October 2017

between muse and words, lost...finding...

till the end of the silence
till the length of that gaze
it hanged on tightly
then it dropped down as
                     a tear;
like the man whose eyes
                        bind muse and words
for the girl, her whole world,

                          left silently….

Google Image

Visit dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille