Monday, May 30, 2011



Monday, May 16, 2011

a niche for myself ....

I travel to places
far away or near by;
places that exist or may not,
beyond the hidden shadows,
hitchhiking, cruising or hopscotching
from one part to the other
in my mind
leaning on the wings of my poems.

I go to countries;
new places
like an artwork of blue green,
an oilpainting
with mountains nudging the amber sky
or the zigzag sunray through the
geometry of a cityskape,
where birds spread wings to tempt me
the falling rain teases and
a naughty breeze tickles my tresses,
where the rainbow does not weep in the sky
and the soil still holds its virgin purity.

The day will pass away.
Tomorrow it will all fade like a dream,
tomorrow it will seep away from my clenched fist,
tomorrow again I will return to my closet of wrinkled hope.

Today let me hold onto this moment of victory
for tomorrow the stubborn weeds of cold reality will be back.

Sunday, May 1, 2011


A butterfly
wearing a pretty magenta gown with dotted yellow,
fluttering and flickering behind the window,
floating hastily here and there,
like a torn love-letter in a gush of wind.

As I open the window ajar,
with a tiny smile
brushing past my face
she flies,
taking wing
under the vast blue dome,
brave and defying,
like a rainbow flash,
leaping forward
soaring higher
a splurge of color
against the serene white canvas of cloud,
painting my cheek with a hue of hope.

seasonal love

He says
I am a rainfall
that he loves to wear on those days when
he feels lonely gazing at a faraway horizon;
I am a dew drop
that he loves to caress on those special occasions
when he is alive and positive;
I am an autumn sky
that he fancies to look at while listening
to his favorite Beethoven;
I am a silver moonlight
that he allows to be in his patio on a favorite holiday;
I am his sunshine,
I am his rainbow,
only on those special hours,
only on a few quiet times
when he indulges himself to be happy.

rainfall is seasonal;
dew drop and the golden brown autumn sky
often misplace themselves in the hustle bustle of sky scrapers;
the eclipsed moon or the feeble sunrays keep struggling for survival among the numberless cancerous folds of life;
and the rainbow loses its hue in the gray corners;
those quiet special moments and silent unusual days
remain very few too,
being swallowed-up among the usual clatter and clang.

struggles ...

My soul, 
a frail grain in the sand of time
has died so many times
and is buried underneath;
yet I have taken new birth
rising each time from my grave
sheltering my poor soul
with my armor like body,
defending it
 against struggles and tears.
I have carried on my sturdy shoulder
wounds and labor;
each time my knees wobble and collapse
I stand back again,
defying laws;
I have given my soul to wear
 a body,
scorched in summer,
with blemishes and scars.

only because 
my body has traversed 
the burning noon
it renders
 my soul
 some shade,
some solace.

written for One Stop Poetry Sunday Picture Prompt