Ticking Backwards?


I’m absorbed in the simplicity of yesterday. Has that ever happened with you, passing the present moments into the beauty of the past? These distinctions we make, these objective constructs of time, I wonder sometimes if I should believe in them because sometimes time doesn’t feel like a set, categorized piece of convenience but a free reeling wave or cloud from which one moment slips to the other effortlessly, one moment transfiguring into the other in such a way that the present seems like the continuation of the past, both subtly marching into the unknown, armed with nothing!

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The Flowing Mountain


It is a beautiful mountain,
a valley of deep blue flowers,
It is a beautiful mountain,
growing grass beneath blue flowers.
A lithe twirl of wind
makes the valley flow,
flow and flow and flow
like a river on the mountain grows.
It is a mountain with a river on top,
a dream of beautiful blue flowers,
a companion of the river you cannot see,
It’s all magic,
it is still, it flows, it grows, it seeks.

Every day the wind meanders smoothly,
it stirs the beautiful river,
it is an ocean, it is the sky-
the Flowing Mountain,
forever flows,
never dries.


#Poetrymonth post


A ladybug


It crawled on me that day,
a ladybug.
It crawled on me like a distant dream,
it delicately touched and nestled.
A moment wrapped me in its beauty,
and a ladybug held my finger.

I remember the moment clearly,
the enveloping lawns, the bedding grass,
the silent love and the settled dust.
Piece by piece the beauty
from quiet, soft eyes,
eyes that held that moment, eyes that made that moment
all that was love, all that was beauty.

A ladybug crawled on me then,
it touched me just as quietly and unnoticeably.
I remember that moment clearly,
and I, still, remember that ladybug.
It was a small ladybug,
I remember her like an embodiment
of all that was love, all that was beauty.


Happy World Poetry day!


Chasing Rainbows


My eyes reach as far as they can, I find two rainbows outside my concrete windows.
One solemnly spills its colors in the sky space and the other glitters in the smiles, in the free smiles of the kids playing in the mud after rain.
The colors up there are supple and quaint. I wish I could clutch a part of it, spill it unstrung and repaint!
But the colors down there are raw and unconstrained.
They jump like monkeys with vivacity and in bounty.
The mud litters ingloriously, they dance however undaunted.
I stand behind my window, I view two rainbows together.
The sky reaches out to my eyes, my vision dilates and I chase and I chase in the merriment of capturing it- bare, untouched, picturesque!
But the park holds me still.
My heart chases it.
I do not want to capture it for once.
I want to live it.
But I stand there and just look. I watch two rainbows together.
One, a clear stream of resplendent colors,
other, too far, too distant with muddy pinafores and dirty collars.



My mind takes me back to all those simple drawings of a five petal flower, easy to make, uncomplicated. I would make gardens of it in my immature drawings and they would always look simple and beautiful. If there’s any flower that makes me nostalgic, if there’s any flower with which I’ve had a connection, a memory, then it is daisy.

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