curling & uncurling

she sews holes

but the wholes never come into being

purple juice of grapes

spurt from her lips; stain her pristine dress

she outlines it lovingly

her doubts reflect in the walled mirror

faith is so fragile

hence she has no use of it now, nor ever

her feet disappear in water

her head sways sideways and upwards

I uncurl my mind around her-

I am not the only one. I know I stand in line.

rock bands rock out of my brain

I am nothing but air trapped in a vacuum

of my own making

within my brain chaos thump on the walls

creating the most beautiful ache

some rock bands may come out those

maybe I ought to market those

I lay down with the lies I tell myself

that love will help me die

I wrap everything in a scented tissue paper

and hit my head with my fists

if only it was possible to gather the crumbs

into my empty fold. if only...

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

I must mention here that not all that I write is autobiographical. So I wouldn't like anyone to assume as much. As I said in my blog header, I don't know from where words come, how they form and why I write. I have to. Isn't imagination a wonderful thing? For a poet?

designed patterns

with a cone in right hand,

I watch the henna flow,

creating patterns on my left palm

those intricate designs

tell a story on my palm

I squeeze it carefully

to prevent spurts on patterns

when it dries out,

I scrape it with a knife,

loving the dark ochre shade

apply henna oil to set it

morning comes, I wash it

admiring the designs

I watch the world of sunset

on my palm, kiss it slowly

spread it in front of my eyes

and let the patterns engulf me

I think of those dances

which were so easy

each of my steps so carefree

my dress flowing around me

I come back to the present

smell my palm

each finger gyrates

my other hand holds still

watching its twin go crazy

hand out, palm upwards,

henna is a great story teller

reaching out

why did I abstain from calling-

letting my affection go to sleep?

that silver tumbler broke the ice

my thought process turned to you

I remembered our childhood play moods

your goofy attitude, with that smile

spoke to you in my mind

I called out again and again

maybe when that tumbler fell down

your mind heard that clinking sound

folding my hands in grateful prayer

I take down the superficial halo-

we both reached out, mom helped-

I called, you answered, siblings again

"again I hug that silver tumbler

and give it to you, brother"

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

Some days back, I wrote about one of my brothers, estranged from us. On Monday, I called him and he responded. I went to meet him on Tuesday, along with my mom and younger brother and his family. I think we will be able to mend the fences. I again need your encouragement and support.

moth or mammoth

a moth hovers on ground

its wings broken

only a few hours

but its life cut short

I pick it up

place it on my palm

pitifully it watches me

(or so I think)

time does not travel for it

radial light beckons it

with much effort

dangerously dangling

it rises and falls to the ground.

so little done, so much to do.

nothing gets done. nothing gets done.

a trophy

I had carried it for long

everywhere I went

it was with me

I cherished it

pampered it

loved flaunting it

even when it almost faded

it had become a part of me

the very thought of letting go scared me

then I recognized the truth,

surrounding me,

it took pieces off me

a parasite feeding greedily,

I gave it a big shove-

it fell away, leaving me free;

splinters of pensive thought

lay scattered on hard ground

"it deserved the hard coldness too"

dance of the zeroes

baked in the hot sun

ripe like a pineapple

I moisten my dry lips

summer hates me

zeroes dance in front of my eyes

I plant myself in deep pit

hose my feet while pots jump

stream of thoughts flow like silk

I have blown those away

cars zoom past

I let flies trouble me

in a roomful of plates...

why did you get me inside this house-
displayed me with the plates
I am not at home here
outside is what I prefer
I have a permanent grimace
it isn't just a phase
you have placed me in a miniscule space
separation from friends is unbearable
they sit on other shelves
I can't look down from that top shelf
my thoughts stumble and fall
I want to smash this room and break free

"merely a rooster for you, I too have a will"

This didn't come up as I desired it to yet I posted it. I might work on it a bit after some time.

lost in our own world

my two older brothers did their sums
my dad watched over them
I, with my pencil, scribbled
in a handmade journal-
my dad had got the sheets,
my mom had bound those-
a line, a few scattered words,
some numbers thrown in-
(in today's world,
those make a password)
likewise my little brother lay beside me,
his nimble fingers fixing a toy car-
each one of us lost in our world
my mom our binding force

(you see, it was love at first sight for us)
I still prefer a pencil,
along with a handmade journal,
both older brothers dabble with numbers;
younger one fixes things,
dad watches over from above-
mom is still the binding force

red sand

I let the grains slide through my fingers
each one reflecting the lights
I can feel the beginning of my planet in those
a story in each particle
I don't know any of those tales
I can feel the heat and the grit-
abrasive on my body
yet I can feel the life
and the character of the land
red sand takes in my life force
giving me back in thousand folds
since inception of the particles
it was pre-ordained that we live here
sharing equally with everyone
however, destruction is our other name
we will disappear into nothing
but the red sand will live here forever
telling our tales to whoever who cares
to listen, to learn, to continue the cycle
" to be destroyed yet again. and again"

tumbled thoughts in a silver tumbler

I don't recall how but it started as joke-
I told my mom I wanted all my old things
my mom handed me that tumbler,
a small one of tarnished silver,
edges now rounded,
I don't remember each and every mark
but she does.
(I had made them by throwing it in fits of anger)
she said, "you always wanted the same tumbler
to drink milk, water or juice
somedays you even hid it from my brothers."
no way, I tell her,
I was ever ready to share with one brother-
I was always hanging around him,
even when his friends visited
he too indulged me,
he would have bought me the moon
and stars thrown in a good measure
if I wished for it
also the way I was ever ready to do
whatever he asked me too
(he never did)
I stored my share of goodies for him
(which he did take once in a while)-
the same one who is estranged from us now.

I put aside that tumbler
and I ask my mom in a desolate voice
does he ever think of me, of us?
will leverage of our love remedy the space?
I want my feelings to reach out to him
my tumbler of love and affection to overwhelm him
I fear what if it doesn't,
will I survive, will my mom survive?
I hug that small silver tumbler to my heart

half-way through

when I think of those times
how life used to be then
paper boats floating on water
paper aeroplanes flying all over
origami made my mind sharp
also made my fingers coordinate

when I think of those times
how life used to be then
I used to serve tea in my tiny cups
(those times were rare)
my dolls were my guest
and my brothers envied me

when I think of those times
how life used to be then
writing notes was the norm
photocopying was unheard of
hanging out in the canteen
used to be only guilty pleasure

when I think of those times
how life used to be then
half-way through I stop myself
what I have now is priceless too
I possess my memories
not to forget my creativity too

when I think of those times
how life used to be then
I don't regret anything
not then, not now
you can't stop the time
from going leaps and bounds

musty scent of love

those old notes- yellowed,
in tatters, words smudging
I tape them carefully
to preserve them for you both

it is not quite dawn yet-
what am I doing in the wee hours
going through old letters
taking in the musty scent of your love

you know she sleeps in the next room
I don't wish to wake her up
like the way you were
ever so careful not to disturb her

what I see through my hazy vision
your words lovingly penned for her-
her words reciprocating,
my heart aches for her loss

I am no connoisseur on recipe of love
(but I know) she is still spellbound by you,
you can see that from up there,
but she cannot and that hurts her

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

When I get glimpses of my mom missing my dad, it hurts me too. She is careful not to show it to me but as her daughter, I understand how much she misses him. I miss him too but it is different for her. As it should be. As it ought to be. I always have wished for a love as strong as theirs. I write it for both of them, even though I know she will not like it that I can read her so well.

About comment boxes...

I thought I would take a moment to rant here. I do that once in a while although in the recent past I have not done much of that.

Today I will talk about the comment boxes.

As we all know blogger has introduced the embedded comment box, and it has been a while now. Somehow I don't find it user friendly, especially if one uses word verification. Why do I have to click it at least thrice to get my comments through? It truly pisses me off.

I also don't like the intensedebate way of commenting. It also takes a while and I kind of desist from commenting there unless , it is something I can't miss.

Open id is a good way. Wordpress uses it, although it is somewhat different. Commenting on wordpress blogs is a pleasure.

I don't mind comment moderation and/or word verification, but both being used together, is not a good option. Have either of the two, not both. I didn't have either but due to spam, I have resorted to word verification. And any comment older than two weeks, goes into moderation.

We all thrive on comments. And the least we can do is to make it easy for our visitors to leave their foot prints.

That's all I gotta say for now. I do welcome your inputs too.

now it is there, now it isn't

she created patterns
some with bold strokes,
her charcoal sliding smoothly
predict of her fingers just right

when she went to fetch colours
feeble ones ran out of the paper-
leaving behind a chaotic art-
a hole here, a vacuum there

she poured paint over it
waited for it dry
when the paper fluttered in air
she inhaled the essence

disorder in an orderly piece
gave her such a high
elation of creating chaos
is better than any drink