Saturday, 18 February 2017

...finding ways to be lost...

...the scent of earth embracing grass, leaves and wind,
the scent of earth growing rolling into heart, bind
my heart with the song of rain, adorn me with puddles
and swaying grass, mud and rain grooming
my existence to seed-size consciousness
growing roots knowing earth, branches
embracing sky-fullness of consciousness
rain filling , drenching, soaking, melting
me and the green and the blue and the whole truth
let me call it my insane sanity screaming, meditating. ..

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

Forever spring...

Google images

time was still like a winter creek
conscious like a scared rabbit
then came the green sprouts

when you crossed my path
now the garden smells fresh
where you put steps
along with me

Visit Prompt Nights for Valentine's day special poems.

...every home be (he)artful...

Google Images

the last of the stars fading into a secretive land, slowly;
blue and black spilled all over, like paints smeared with artful fingers
morning wind kissing the lemon-sour lips;
hot, sweet and sour lemon tea slowly mixing a yellow tint
reviving thoughts, morning spirit, thoughts that take your eyes to yonder---
a slowly opening sky, art of nature knocking at the hearts,
I blend it with today’s cuisine packed with (he)art, aroma and flavour;
my thoughts are filled with the smell of ironed fresh cloth,
and a slow murmuring sound of TV changing moods and colours---
an artless world out there, no one is spared; it’s a market out there
yet I see from my window homes that wake up to mornings as same as ours;
where do they come from, the heartless merchants of death and mayhem?
when you my dears go out…
spill a bit of love that I blended with your meals, your cloths and your hearts
for I am the mother at home, dreaming an (he)artful world of co-existence
with cupped hands and blessings…

Visit dVerse for more where Lillian asks us to include the word 'heart' in our poems.

Thursday, 2 February 2017

Crossing the river

I am crossing the river now,
I am nowhere near you,
I am scattered, long ago
And deliberately so;
Scattered among grains of sod,
To be whole doesn’t mean anything now.
Here when I cross the river
I don’t carry yesterdays
And no meticulous strides;
The tree that was full of nests was cut long ago
So when I see the faces across
Tired frames with bags around
I yell out to sinister woodcutters---
“You have set me free”
I am crossing the river,
Crossing time and flow
To get scattered a little more
Until nothing but light gathers me above
and I am crossing the river now

Visit dVerse for more where Ally Saunder's artworks are given to inspire our writing.

Tuesday, 31 January 2017


Pic from Google

rays of dawn
falling crisp
on icy pane,
dreams drool
melting on edges
dripping truth,
lazy frame
slowly stirs,
dreams and truth
mix and melt,
warmth and cold
cuddle and dissolve,
surreal thoughts
rise and ignite
day’s start---

a day more to catch butterflies

Visit dVerse for more where we have to write a quadrille with the word 'dawn' included.

Friday, 27 January 2017


--- a walk between past and future
looking back and looking forth---
just a walk, where does it really begin,
after the wandering or after a fall?
where does it really begin,
the golden path of life?

for a craving soul, an ocean or a mountain
or the million lives around, where does that cup of truth hide?

Is it just this wandering,
or is it seeking, the thirst within,
an unknown thirst?
walks, moments, halts
or just milestones?
where should the mind be kept?

at times the park bench seems the best place
to while away time with little birds, trees
and the changing sky;
 the beach sand seems alluring
to be with the cadence of waves and the sky;
no obvious lessons, no dictating preacher,
nothing much, but a sense of belonging…

this walk, this mysterious unpredictable walk and
the song of the wind, sing along my soul, sing along…

Tuesday, 6 December 2016


Google pics

days pass, quintessential, clockwise;
mind, textured canvas, anticlockwise;
rabid brush strokes, past blending
roughly with an abstract future,
loud strokes, a delicate silence caught between
brush strokes;
silence caught,
silence snubbed,
moments packed tightly between
rabid brush strokes;
moments lost, before arriving,
before living…

Scarfed in...

Google Pics

soft petals of trust scared deep,
lamprocapnos hang beautifully---
deep, scar(fed) among chlorophyll(ed) shelter,
wind rustles, hushed tears scarring silence---
gracefully sways in wind;
the root? sending pricking pain, past,
bleeding the buds?
lamprocapnos hang beautifully
swaying gracefully
with  hearts so gullible

Monday, 5 December 2016

Waiting Pegasus

Born with shut eyes and open mouth;
Gone through different plains, arriving last
On creation’s own charm, on two legs,
Laden with huge brain, subtle heart;
Brawls between them putting masquerades,
Big-bang energy’s outburst
Still in Universe’s womb, struggling,
Glare at the end of a muddied vortex

Forces shut his eyes again and again

Thursday, 1 December 2016

a 'cover' for 'I am the people"

Picture courtesy Google

am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. 
this line I love so much
amidst all fury and opinions
someone wants to paint me real, alive!
self-proclaimed greats of our land
they howl too much, it was not my voice,
                                                   it is not!

I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history.
I have my own voice,
but, am I misled sometimes,
do I have the right education,
do I have the right wisdom,
am I kept in a cage?
explosion of knowledge
around me
explosion of freedom
around me
am I trapped?
what was the right mixture,
the right mixture of nobility, freedom and responsibility?

I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much ploughing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget.

I forget a lot
I, sometimes don’t revise my lessons
I forget and learn only to earn
I forget that I am the mob,
the people, from which my world emanates
is there a right potion of education for me,
the right kind of teachers for me
the right kind of civic sense to impart?
            .... for

The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.

Visit dVerse for more on “cover” a poem by a poet whom you admire. I chose 'I am the people' by Carl Sandburg.