in a place that only sort of exists

in the silence in my room
the methodical deliberation of fingers
on keyboard,
compile the tacit exchange between you and me,
soundlessly beating across a net of stars and dreams,
meeting you in my half-comatose slumber
in a place that only sort of exists.
I glimpse through the window,
not your countenance,
but the words I would verbalize
if you were truly here.

mere text only simplifies the emotion
complicating mood making me speechless.
no matter how infuriated,
sound of my fingers on the keys
try to convey everything,
and hide it too, all at the same time.
the jumbled words dance around
and try to reach you and touch your soul
across this vast electronic chasm

"yet why do I feel sadness seep through me?"

in the blankness of the white page------Writers Island

I move my rings on my fingers,
looking at I do not know what.
in the books I read, I try to find signs-
in my mailbox, what am I searching?

in the blankness of the white page,
I try to find words- your words,
which you never say, can never say;
it is as dificult for you as it is easy for me.

"in the complexity of it all, it is so simple-
breathing you in- is answer enough"

the end of the world for me------Writers Island

amongst my collection, I looked for it everywhere
somehow my mind could not recall where I had misplaced it
a much coveted possession gone missing right in front of my eyes
replacing it is not a problem and is only an option
but how did it happen in the first place
it might be trivial for some
for me it was a serious matter
for a few days it played in my mind
finally I gave up on it
making it a note, I will replace it soon

now I am at your place enjoying a cup of tea
what do I find nestled in your shelves
the very same book I have been searching for
do you mind giving it back to me
so that I return it to its rightful place

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

I was reading "On Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham" some days ago. I found it missing. I searched for it everywhere and couldn't find it. After I had given up on it, I found it a friend's place who had picked it up from my place. She had not asked for it. I wouldn't have refused her if she had asked for it. But taking it away without asking, I was kind of pretty mad!

ravages of time----One Single Impression

squinting his eyes, he looked towards light
none forthcoming, he was lost in bygone eras
one after one, he had taken on so much
lost in the war, lost to disease, ravages of time
had bled him of everything he possessed,
his children taken away, gone forever.

his ear heard the sound before he could see,
she threw herself in his arms, crying bitterly.
his gnarled fingers gently touched,
soothing the weeping child. she snuggled
into his chest, secure in his love,
the grandchild who had survived.

"holding her to his heart, pulling the rug over her-
his thoughts were, had he really lost all?"

warm feeling----One Single Impression

when droplets of rain travelled on dark clouds,
they waited to be shed at an appropriate time.

I stood there watching out for the first drops
of rains on my head, wanting and welcoming it,
a warm feeling of anticipation cocooning me.

as I waited with a peppy song in my heart,
winds came out of nowhere dispersing them
to tiny useless drops on the parched earth-

making dust rise out of it, the smell hitting
my nostrils. instead of rains, now I was swathed
with dust, a cloud of it surrounded me, almost

trapping me. somehow I escaped and as usual
my shower was simulated rainy day for me.

moon faithfully fantasizes---Writers Island

was it but a year ago, the moon shining bright,
(etched in my mind, so well);
I strolled with my loved one in the orange light,
our voices intermingling like twinkling bells

suddenly the moon grew dull-
my love seemed to have sprouted wings;
he appeared a face of a smirking skull
what I felt in my heart was a ghastly thing.

fantasy was it? for my love lay still
within my arms, his eyes aglow;
wondering why my lips were chilled.
silently I pulled him closer, kissing him so.

one year gone, the moon is still bright.
too bright, like a ghost of woe;
I am standing by a newly dug grave tonight
with a wrecked heart, it's bizarre you know.

clawing crawlies----Read Write Poem/Monday Poetry Train

And come ride the Poetry Train


blighted lights blinked bright
slighting my intelligence.
cooped in the room for so long
eyes to the dashboard
i was trying to decipher signals
never seen before
unknown to earthlinks
large torsoed,
small headed creatures
of outer spaces,
visible through glasses
of the windows in that strange disc
some might call an UFO
those crawly legs, cringed me
clawing at my dry throat
more than elation,
I felt abhorance
no way I was interested
to meet aliens
I prayed for hallucinations

"sometimes spiders have that kind of effect on me"

full bloom----One Single Impression

was it not yesterday
you were but a wee girl
with curls tumbling down your ears
your jumping up and down
gave us a glimpse of your short plump legs
encircled by frilly frocks

now with your svelte figure
wavy hair falling down your back
your body curved to perfection
are you not defining the term flowering?

intermission-------Writers Island

sweet smell of hibiscus tickles the nose
dark green leaves softly sway in the air
moist earth cools the feet
I watch the gentle night slowly unfolding
taking the light away from the surroundings
I absorb it, my irises growing wide
wondering at the sheer beauty of it all
when sudden rains pelt on my head, jolting me
I find their intrusion downright outrageous

sleeping beauty----Writers Island

cursed she was by the evil witch
and was made to sleep
for no one knew how many years.
her parents, the king and the queen-
although happy she was not dead,
mourned their daughter's fate.
year by year, they slowly retreated
to other parts of their lives, being
with other children. she was forgotten
sleeping in that bed of hers, weeds growing
around her palace, thick trees covering it-
silence of nights prolonged her agony.

when a lonesome prince lost his way,
finding the palace was his oasis.
slowly climbing the stairs, he saw
the sleeping princess lost to world
when his lips touched hers,
he tasted the great bliss of death.
triumph of the princess was blood
of those who kissed her luscious lips.
under her bed were skeletons
of doomed men lost over the years.

green-eyed monster

invisible to naked eyes
virus of jealousy crawls,
snaking into touching distance.
stage has been set up
for the next kill as destruction
has taken away the thrill.
chasing gives a kick
when there is nothing else to pick.

raging green-eyed monster
within the mind of the adversary-
is the best reward one can get

ignomorous ignominy-----Read Write Poem/Monday poetry train

And come ride the Poetry Train...

pleasure was all yours, pain is now mine;
you walked away, leaving me to die.
is it my fault, I came into being?
I didn’t have a choice, but you had one.
why was I than abandoned by you?

if this ignominy is existence for me-
death I would have welcomed
wholeheartedly, within your womb

"no one has ever given me a voice"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wrote this in Sept 2006 after reading about a newly born girl who was left in the bin to die. She survived but not everyone is so lucky. In India, this happens with children who are born out of wedlock. I edited it a bit and reposted it here. Nothing has changed in this part of the world in the 18 months when I first wrote this.

pit of your spit-----One Single Impression

dipped in spit of your self-loathing
you idolise it, almost worshipping it
that's what gives you a high, which
drugs never did. you draw attention
to yourself comparable to a child's,
who cannot know better, but what's
your excuse. your tore your own soul-
abused your inner wisdom. wearing
cynicism up your sleeve, you pretend
ignorance. one of these days, it will
fall apart, you will go back to old ways,
that sane voice lost forever. till then
we too dip in your glory of self-pity.

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

This is a rant in the form of a verse. Although, when I offered glory as a prompt, I did not intend for it to be written like this. Not by me, not by anyone else. Nonetheless, this goes out for all those who are self-obssessed. Loathing or pitying oneself is a form of self-obssession. That cynicism they assume, is all a hog-wash and crumbles under its own weight.

slow demise

seems like yesterday, I was in that theatre
with creaky chairs, broken springs and all
fan whirring out the dialogues on the screen
buxom heroine dancing around trees
the pudgy hero looking nonchalently

for all predictable story lines, it was still
a pleasure to visit the olden days films
much planned ahead, funny that it feels
now when we have multiplexes, reducing
the screen, taking away half the fun of outing

"I still remember how a friend got stuck on
chewing gum left on the seat by a prankster"

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

Hindi movies are full of songs and dances..

collected clutters-----One Single Impression

amidst the clutter collected over the years
I sit thinking what to discard
what to take

old obsolete LPs without a player
those cassettes which I never got around
replacing, by ubiquitous CDs

books collected over the years
a few yellowing, almost distintegrating
regardless, I hold on to those

nothing else matters that much
in utter chaos of my so-called memories
my home for so many years, is left stranded

"life has to move on and all that blah-blah. is that consolation enough?"

parallel plot

yellowed paper fell from my journal
my eyes scanned through the mysterious markings
did astronomy play a part?
was it about a parallel world
faded out of vision by the familiar one?
writings on the wall had not warned me
I kept speculating about its origin
how did it come about in my pocket book
almost brittle piece of paper with frayed edges
stars and squiggles with lines and curves

"give me that paper, it is mine"
my five-years old niece came to me with a bounce
almost snatching it from my hand!

debris of our own making---Sunday Scribbling

in the planetary positions, strategically placed
along with suns, stars, moons-
you are born to a cancerian mother
and a piscean father,
surprisingly you are a goat.

you roam the world with a wordly glee
which belies you infancy,
standing amidst the human debris
of cola tin cans, candy wrappers, plastic garbage
you survey the world with a disdained stare

you escaped selling your soul to the highest bidder
nonetheless, you body would be cut to ribbons
flesh sold for a pittance.
no one gets away from celestial seasons-
even if you have ancient wisdom.

"the world sure is a diabolical place"

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


Out of this World from Sunday Scribblings took me in this direction.

creatures of eerie night

In that eerie night, moonless and scary
lake reflected the dark sky, like a tapered glass
I could hear the scary sounds of rustling
moss, the kelp, the zebrafish, the very mice and flies, 
These tiny, humble, wordless things -- 
 how shall they tell us lies?
What had made me come here in the first place
walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
that too alone without a torch,
my heart was chilled, body so taut
sooner or later drown in the indigos of darkness, 
but now, for a while,the roughage
of fauna held my feet down,
my heartbeat could be heard a mile away
Invisible twines entangled me
can't you just imagine my predicament-
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs 
of deathly unknown creatures of the night giving
in to the panicky feeling I surrendered myself for the inevitable ending,
my head spinning, splitting apart.
Something fell heavy on my feet.
Jolted, I picked up my book.

"interestingly, I had become a character 
in that book I had been reading, in my bed"                   

This is offered for Totally optional prompts (Novel?) as well as patchwork poetry. Lines
have have taken from poetry by Catherine Faber, Federico Garcia Lorca, Mary Oliver and
Robert Frost,  in that order, and patched into it. Click on the links to read the whole poems.

garbled garbage-----Read Write poem/Monday Poetry Train

Ride the Monday Poetry train too...


one side of that paper you threw away is totally blank-
your son could have practised his maths problems there.
you could written your rough musical notes
saving on the new ones you always seem to use and throw.

the envelopes can be turned inside out, folded again
and glued, then you can see those are as good as new-
the sturdy ones stay forever, carrying much load
ironing those can be reused for covering books.

do not discard that cotton tunic, faded it might be-
it still has life. it can be gainfully turned into a carry bag
with rop strings and beads from old necklace, where
it comes on its own, to be much admired and treasured.

recycle the water in which you washed the rice into potted plants-
vegetable wastes work as great fertilizer, enriching
the soil. egg shells provide calcium. what you call garbage
is fodder for the earthworms which nurture the earth..

"if only we understood the value of reuse, recycle and reduce"

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

This is not complete. It can't be...there are too many things we throw away. Those can be soo beautifully recycled. Please feel free to add to the list. Someday I might get around adding to this one...

reverently renewed---One Single Impression

water melts with the warmth of the sun
flows down the stream.
snow is not to be seen for some months now.
green leaves soothe the eyes-
grasses carpet the earth.
lonely birds get together to chirp songs of happiness,
in no time three months of winters are forgotten.
spring is welcomed whole heartedly,
before summer burns us down again.
don't they know, it passes too fast
and we have too long to wait?
each part of nature is too busy renewing itself-
living only in the present.

"what about my dried out falling hair-
it only thins out with each successive year"

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

Photo Credits: public domain