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