The black the white the gray of life

The black the white the gray of life

Monday, December 26, 2011


Here under my lap,the canvas is spread.
It's brown somewhere,
Green glistening, somewhere rosy red.

How much love the petal lost!
How unkind the wind has thought!
The grass has stopped its little gait.
Alas, the world has bowed to fate.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


Lighting up the wood,
The moon rose to merry.
Hooting across the mountains,
Shrill-shining penny.

Rocking in my cradle,
I glance up the tree tops.
Winds’ treacherous rhyme,
Haunting me a song.
Wishing with my little heart…
The wind to cease and the light to last.

Across the curtain plays,
The werewolves’ war.
Bouncing silhouettes decorate,
A little girl’s dorm.

The moon beautifully cast.
The stars in their best charm,
Here sleeps a bud.
There a brave girl is born.

That night in the city,
The moon shies,
Smoke rises from the earth.
The stars feel lost.

Garish raucous begins,
Bursting the sky, scaring the stealthy fog.
City celebrates.
One world dies.
Another is born.

Ephemeral light disappears.
Poisoned the air,
Rips leaves, hearts and ears apart.
Here sleeps a bud.
There a brave girl is born.

Monday, October 10, 2011

The woman I met.

Shards of a mirror lay,
Under the cat's paw in her play.
And how she freed herself...
Clasped in the shades of the curtains Grey.

He chases many women in one,
One in many.
Man he lived like a liar.
Faked his charms and laid his own pyre.

There it broke into fragments,
His made-up fantasy.
Now she isn't any.

What Princess.
What Castle.
He called that to too many.
Many in one?
Or one woman in many?

From her Dream she awoke.
Long-lost in the moon's abode.
Old the bronze clock struck four.
The kiss was over and a hiccup rose.

Every shard is broken glory.
Reflecting her, as many.

One the little nursery rhyme,
Two the ripening fruit divine,
Three the dame of sinful crime,
Four he chased and stole her time.

What Princess.
What Castle.
He called that to too many.
Many in one?
Or one woman in many?

He chases many women in one,
One in many.
Man he lived like a liar.
Faked his charms and laid his own pyre.

The mirror sees,
Beauty's demise.

In fury's wicked grasp,
He destroys every piece of beautiful glass.
But she shines.
The woman who loved a wicked heart.
The woman I met last night.

Friday, September 30, 2011

The Swan’s Gift

Do you know of the kind of magic, the words ‘Once Upon A Time’ have on little children? They bring soft surprising adventures on a lowly lit, dark night. Like a sudden wave of cool air, when it’s drab and humid. They bring in those old stories of fascination when Kings fight and Queens lie sulking. Those clichés where the golden potions cure frail, ill dolls in distress or a wicked mother poisons the ‘apple-of-her-eye’; happy fears to a child because what begins with ‘Once Upon A Time’ ends with ‘And They Lived Happily Ever After’!
Needless to say, this is a different story. This is the story of a little girl called ‘Pelli Bianco’- which means white hair. She was a princess, but she lived in no castle. She lived on the banks of the beautiful river Canuto. You may begin to picture her, with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes. Long white tresses so silken, they could drape the bright yellow sky too! A shining Tiara perfectly poised on her little head with a white gown wrapped around her petite self.
Well, let me interrupt your rose tinted vision. That’s not all of her. She was anything but pretty, with her dark black hair cursed by streaks of silver. Mind you, that wasn’t anything to be taken for wisdom, considering her ‘petite-ness’. In the whole of the land, Pelli was the shadow of misfortune, for they believed her hair was that of an ugly witch’s. Now, if the kid in you has awaken and curiosity has filled your throat to the brim, hold on, for I know you are eager to understand why I called her a princess. Pelli was a cherubic, light hearted and gay spirited girl. She did not know what misfortune was, nor was she familiar with who named her Pelli Bianco. Her hair never bothered her, for most, she hated humans. The sweet round pebbles, each different from another were her friends. The birds, each a different colour and tune were her company. Not to forget, the leaves, all different shapes and the waves dancing each to a tune of their own. She felt one with them. Here she lives, peace in her heart, away from the world of black jacks.

One day, misery befell the Land of Canuto River. It rained so little that year, the river was drying up. Raven lay famished and starved in her little Tepee on the banks of the Canuto, while her dry eyes craved to see her beloved Cigno enter with some news of water. Her stomach swelled with the gift of life inside. Raven struggled for breath in the sun lit Tepee. The wind hooted through the tall grooves. There was no sign of Cigno yet. Raven closed her eyes to the dark of uncertainties that posed before her. The world felt silent.

The shrill cry broke the silence. At the crack of dawn, while Cigno slept, the little baby chirped for attention. Weak from the thirst, Cigno opened his eyes slowly, and stumbled to his feet. He picked up the little baby in his arms and a wry smile spread across his cracked lips. He looked at his Raven, now sleeping forever, and a tear, just the size of a snowflake formed in his eyes.

His snow-white hair glistened in the scorching heat. Jaded, he stepped out of the Tepee, and stared at the once flourishing bank of a river, now just a little rivulet. Just one last time, as his breath heaved and his hunger twisted in his stomach, the starved Cigno looked at his little daughter. Her eyes black as coal, just like Raven’s ,were lit with glee.

It was her hair that reminded him of their love. A blend of raven and silver, magical and enchanting as much as those starry night’s he’d spent in Raven’s little Tepee. He held her up, his hands outstretched to save Canuto. The little silhouette blocked the scorching sun.

There was a sudden burst of light! Cigno collapsed! His head hitting the harmless pebbles, while his little daughter floated in the sunlit sky. Her hair gleamed silver and grew and grew and it grew! It blocked the sun, just letting enough light to stream through. Thunder crackled an angry laugh and the sun hid behind the dark clouds. Tears burst out, from the little girls eyes. Scared, the little child let out muffled cries.

It poured and poured and poured. The rain hit every dead body in Canuto. Drying, dust covered leaves and parched land soaked in the boon.Every pond, every lake filled to the brim! Cigno smiled, drenched in the rain and his tears. His daughter lay beside him on the silt. Before he closed his eyes he touched her little pale face “May you live long my child Pelli...Pelli Bianco”.

There among the pebbles and fruit laden trees she grew, little Pelli. She danced and sang and read the lips of the fish to understand their laments. Celebrated life with her silken long gift the world was blind to. An ugly flaw to their eyes!

The catastrophe struck again and the sun soaked in all the water of Canuto. This time no one knew what to do.Stupid, ugly world, always takes boons for curses! Cigno must have smiled from Eden, flying past hell.

The unusual fairytale ends here. But do you know what Cigno means? Cigno in Italian means ‘swan’ king.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Dark Hole

On your axis vile men gloom. Turning their heads to innocent,cherubic faces. Junkyards swallow once green meadows. On the moon rests my lovely window.Here it cannot touch me,this brutality that I have borne like scars on my heart. You go on twisting and twisting. Striking with your cruel blows. Rattling mass. Slashing hopes.

You could not bare anymore, Women eating men like air? Or did you fail to bear the looming lust of hungry ghouls? Like children counting days to candy, you eagerly ate all the dirt. The worms laid on a table of four. You fed them hurt they took it.

Your core is not molten. It is piping red and hot. Yet it is so impenetrably wild. Unkind to them you spin. Take your ugly game on them. Riding with rage and jealousy.
They confessed their vulnerable sides and you squashed...squashed until they shed their bones. Rattled until they died.

This wicked game you play. Only till death takes its toll. Only till then. You can conquer no spirit. You have left your brutal footprints.

The moon sings to the darkness and I faint.
My window blasting with light.
I'm no extraterrestrial, but I stretch my hand out and you heal.
I fall into a dark pit, beyond death there is utter silence.
No, not an earthling.
Meaningful silence...
Silence talking to me.
"You did it right. You made it alive."


My own blood turns hostile to me.
Cells disintegrate and sink into it like ships with holes.
This breathlessness does not stop me,
Stability suffocates me.

My mind travels, swollen with exhaustion.
Swooning with abstract images of a bygone life,
When I was blasted but not broken.
I was thrown but untaken.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Dawn Knight

On the dark surface of the night,
The fly of oblivion buzzes past.
I stare at the knowings of my life,
Shrouded in askance.

Clout of unknown suspicion haunts.
But your loving gaze rules the night.
My passions strike again and again.
So, I let my tormented mind drown.
Polishing old remains.

You look inside my hollow eye.
You taste the frown that dances my lips.
You choose to sew a scattered heart.
My hunger you tame.
Making splashed paint come to life.

In your fire I burn my soul,
On your tender kisses I thrive.
Vulnerable I hate to be,
Like knife slicing through butter,
You make me in strength believe.
Hope floats to survive.

Sorrow licks my plate of sumptuous treats clean,
Tethered to my sins,
I pretend to be bravery queen.

Rider of dawn,
You stroke my hair,
Re-kindling my joys.

Stay you may immortal...
Cast pale shadows chasing off the night.
Embrace me so eternally.
Encase me in your love tomb.
And I shall live with you beyond time.

Sunday, August 28, 2011


The sun shines soft today,soothing a strand here and there. My hair shines in streaks of empowered individualism that runs to grace spirits of melody.In the grasp of the warmth, the water lashes against rock. Liberating salt pepper cliches that surround me in the materialistic world. Freedom has been binding, not really existing like it was in my dream. The warm breeze gets me elated this late afternoon. Happiness worms its way again into my mind. It is a sweet irony, how in the same breeze it was once fluttering like a leaf, restless in agony. Twirling and twisting in the dance of madness.

Blow wind, blow me out of my mind. I'm finding, searching, farther as I may. Turning not again to my lethal mind. It is my own that I fear. Vile demons of creative drought. Words jinxed in an unkind broth. Making me an awful stew.

Blow wind, blow me out of my mind; Until silence descends upon me, unwinding me into another time.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Gone Cold

The photographic frame of her eyes catches and scans empty walls. Painted gargoyle, smelling of pungent green moss, desires set aflame. People climb the empty walls in their timidity, like little ants in hurry. Some slip in their fury and fall, some let impatience sweep them. She stares from the thicket of her lashes. Impotent to the fall each man makes, sterile of love. Emptiness feeds on nothing but abortive hope. The sun rests on her lap and the moon grins in all his evil from the sky. Frost laces her hurt and she cuts deep wounds, abrading pale skin, keen to see sign of life. Expecting a fresh warm gush of blood to fill her hungry mind. Starvation burns her insides as she sees nothing but layers of more pale skin beneath.
The window panes shudder and the snow engulfs her again. Her snowman promised her the sun…in love they would melt and become one. Then death came crawling like a spider. Pinching his skin blue. Poison spreading like fire in the forest. Irrevocable, incurable, pounding his temples and hemorrhaging her happiness, she can’t reach out for him with the sun on her lap.
She lets herself shred. Begging the sun to leave her and take her man. Melt him alone. The wind let out a moan. The moonlit night covered him in a blanket of white powder. Here he melted betrayed.
Now she is hollow. Repenting why she let her love die, how fickle is her mind, early spring butterfly.
Completely shred, so half a hand left. Waiting to build her snowman again with her hollowness!
One red rose lies there. Like a blot of blood, crimson and fresh on the eerie whiteness.
The snowman died and no one knew. They..those ants crawling the empty walls crowd among the rose of death. In their shrill voices sing an obituary piercing the dark skies with crackling thunder.
She has no grave. She died with the sun. Her soul haunts the abandoned silver woods. Guarding her snowman in a white cloak, mad beyond madness, guilty beyond redemption…
Unusual love trapped the SNOW-WOMAN. Trapped in the castle of her own fears, prisoner of her own demons…
Gone cold beyond death. SNOW-WOMAN.


I don't want the peace of the graveyard,
I would prefer the turmoil of the ocean
and I shall always sing my own song.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Mother Sterility

I dropped a tear into my meal,
And it turned acrid.
It stung my eyes.
I dropped more tears.
Oh! and how the world turned saline!

Tuesday, August 16, 2011


There is no occupant,
Nothing to empty till the last drop, but agony.
Old autumn leaf tattered by the wind with holes,
Hollow to the core.
On a course unknown.
Like a camel,
Timid and unintelligent.

Snails grow on me like adamant weeds,
Piercing me with barbs,
Turning purple.
Dead flesh twisting and turning.
Like a reptile whose tail's chopped off.

I'm back to you.
Steal me from the world and I will never ask you.
Bent like an old rubber slipper,
Rusted insides...
Don't let your breath mingle with mine.
Mine is foul.
Corrupt inside.
That foul stench of hollowness.
Pale cuts not oozing blood.
Just Vacant...
Lying in a pool of venom.
Dark Green Venom.
Dinner of the Dark.
Don't touch me..
I'm infected with vacancy

Monday, August 8, 2011

Aged in love

Hell let’s forget the world,
Leave careworn smiles behind.
Here’s to the pastel skies,
Shedding their icy cold,
Melting, like ice floating in a glass full of youth.

Hell let’s forget the world,
Delve into sins,
Triumphant and graceful...
Locked like a bracelet,
Cheering on together,
Up and down the wrist of life!

Hell let’s forget the world,
Silver in age,
Traverse adventures and commit innocent crimes.
Until oblivion conquers us,
And beauty becomes a matter of the mind.

Hell let’s forget the world,
Leave careworn smiles behind.
Who knows…?
When the old woman dies young…
The young man’s old memories shall keep him alive!

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Away from rhyme

Every note hung,
Up and down a string.
One word agreeing with another.
To the world's ears music.

Here I stand.
Unstrung, unsung.
Complete in my discord.
Moving silently through every note.
From the baby's lullaby,
Into the leaves in sophomore of the spring.
From the rusted, old temple bell,
Into the morning rain, rattling window panes clean.
Making sure I'm not strung perfectly,
Made into a Tra-la-la.

I'm a note not yet made,
I shall never pigeon hole be.
Away from rhyme,
I beat an unusual euphony!

Khuda aur Insaan

Khuda toh woh hai,
Jisme kush insaan hai.
Aakhir khuda ko bhi toh,
Insaan ne hi banaya hai.

Sabse khusurat hai tu jisse aye zindagi,
Woh to bass doston ka pyaar hai,
Baaki kaun jane ki kya hai zindagi?
Lamhon ki hai zindagi,
Ya zindagi khud hi ek lamha hai?

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Gone Away...

On the Silver Oak tree,
I planted my childhood dreams,
I hid one that wintery night and the blue moon watched me.

Dropping late eve’ shows,
For stars were at stake…
I watched the wind dancing on the Asoka trees instead.

Joey my pillow is wet,
From tears I needn’t exuberate,
For now you are a good old boy,
I must be happy, but I’d much rather regret.

O’ Neem I know not your hooting call now,
For my ears are choked,
With a thousand million DB and some chorus of the smoke.

There are no sweet, round pebbles,
All I can pick is greed,
Of sugar-hungry souls, pouring out like ants from an ant-hill.

Watch me moon, watch me now,
Worming like a squeak,
Every day I push and pull at doodles of useless strings,
But stationery and frozen I stand, like a piece of meat,
Like packed in old newspaper,
Not a liberated kite, elated and in glee.

My home is here,
My land is gone.
My love is my happiness,
My family my strong.
That thing I cherish both here and there.

His love embraces me tender,
Just like the Guava tree’s shade.
In Maverick manure I grow,
It is pure beauty that I grace!
It's true love always there that seldom needs show!

Robin peck my bananas crazy,
Though I’m not behind the curtains, watching.
Squirrel cuddle the grass mad,
For in life there’s no stopping.
You never know when it’s sun,
When the clouds come marching.

Gone away to my love,
Gone away with my knight,
With him I shall return to make the earth my land…
As green as the Parakeet’s guise!
I promise.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Creaking Shoes

Image: red shoes by sarinni deviantart

Nothing holds the lament harsh,
too big a wig, too scornful a laugh.
Eroding flesh for her punishing stand,
Nothing worthy in all's command.

Fainting light of her love,
Fist in a pot painted gargoyle.
Breaking isn't what shaping did,
Many compulsions to chose between.

Upon the reclusive wind,
She signed a pact and summoned a dream.
Dauntless below,
Fearless above...
She breathed.

Love lost her heart found,
Not no more in her misery bound,
She stepped out...
Blistering but braver,
Tear drop now evaporating fear.
Her feet dance in joy...
Conchs of time her toy.

Out and away from semblance,
Sore from helplessness,
Weary of suppression.

Out of his misery grasp,
Out into the sun,
Drying her spirit drenched.

Standing out of her creaking shoes.
She sways!
Light as ever!
She sways.

Friday, July 1, 2011


Oceans of my mind I cruised,
Like a toy duck,
Rippling and touching with waves.
I still need an object to inflict my pain.

I’m searching for it,
That God forsaken soul.
I reach the bank and He takes me by my hand.
Warm sand caressing my feet,
Kissing my nerves purgative weeds.

My feet hit the cold rocks,
Sharply knifing.
I shiver in the cold pain.
Sorrow, suffering, pain, defeat.
A burst of light and a pleasure orgasmic.

“That is what it is my child,
Suffering is inflicted pain is kind.
Only pain shall cut open thy soul,
Revel ‘cause your forlorn no more.”

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


I'm the ocean in the drop.
I rest my head on sand's arms.
Blowing a conch,
Into the chaos inside my head.

My Story

I'm here. I'm there.
I see myself everywhere.

Again and again, full in all the fragments.
Never broken, not so still.
A butterfly in the caterpillar's dreams.

Stealing, running, growing lean.
Becoming all I could have been.

Whatever I touch turns to tin.
In this world of hate I believe.

In a tub I swim like a fish.
In the cupboard I breathe like the sky.
And in my hands I die like a fly.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Destiny's Boundaries

Here, where the horses graze and the stream makes its course known,I find freedom. In the lap of the green pastures and mystifying unknown banks, pebbles rotund where the water's passionate kisses lie ample. Like ripened, luscious fruits, sons of the sun.

I meditate, under the halcyon shade of the leaves. Self-possessed in bucolic ramblings.
I make love to my spirit. Slowly and languidly. Planting one kiss at a time.
Elated like a fickle, little butterfly, I surrender.

What an orchestra nature is!
The leaves, the song of the creek. Chirping and buzzing to make me believe.
Solemnly, I visualize the distinctive line between the sea and the shore. Slowly fading. Talking. Telling stories of those that strayed its path, some plunged head-on, suavely some floated alone. The water drank up their stories but the shore stored them, carefully beneath the pebbles.
The crane dips its beak, to quench its thirst. My thirst for freedom is unquenchable, its depth feverishly imaginative and arcanely unknown.
Under the cranes wing I find thee.
In its flight I find me.
I'm free.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Interpretation is a product of experience.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Nature TO Me

I am not a colouring book. You cannot fill me with the colours of your choice.
I am warm and gentle, so much so that I carefully melt flakes of snow, one each at a time.Though I garner great strengths of destruction, I seldom use them. I devastate when my gentleness transforms into fury, then these innocent flakes of snow suddenly become murderous storms.It is a reaction to a very malignant syndrome.

I have recently developed the H.D.D. or the Human Distaste Disorder. A disorder born not out of a deficiency, but out of superfluity of a commonly found being.

Its population floods my body with trillions and eats voraciously into all my resources.
The common symptoms of this hazardous disorder are:
The sparseness of my dense green grows and the parched-ness of my flourishing fluids.
Black vile, wisps of smoke suffocating me and chunks of waste, white and stretchable,choking me and throttling my soul.

Tolerance gives up on me, and I vomit my fluids, sometimes I cry and whimper. Then further and further I melt in agony.

Now the chaos has completely deafened me. The smoke has completely blinded me.
Yet they do not hear my plea.
They play. They pirouette, triumphant over innovations; unaware of the inevitable devastation they invite, their end and my cure.

Literary Spurts

Friday, June 3, 2011

Spools Sanguine

Some here, little there.
Yellow aspirations,
Green flush,
Mellow mirage of dawn.
On the carpet of faith.
Flowing yet bound.
Subtly sanguine,
Squeezed until last.
Free but not,
Until I'm woven into a single form again.
Back to being human.
Faraway from liberty.
Hopes tied to my ankle.
Back to dependence.
Wretched to human.
"So called" sapience.

From the lack of inspiration.

Dark in a corner, slowly I melt. Like a candle in a cast-iron stand, melting without fire, flickering without wind. Rust on my nerves and old glory in a caked puddle beneath. There is still life in a remote, desolate corner of the despondent dark.
My smoky imagination crowds to blind the light. After the revelry of light, my end is here. Right here in this darkness. I belong. Yes me.
I have no gender. No form. I'm just an amoeba of thoughts.I'm stripped off every human demarcation. You don't know my colour because it won't shine into the retina of your definitions.I'm undefinable, just like I always wanted to be. With every drop I create a more potential fire. I break to bring together. I dissolve to reappear. I create and then I disappear. Leaving an aroma of mystery behind, trailing to your nostrils and intoxicating your mind.
I detest permanence, stability. I stand naked, the wax of botheration I have shed.
Nude, immune, ever-changing into the dark I delve deeper and deeper. Un-cast.
Waiting for the rust to desert me for the spark of inspiration.
Into rebirth.
I am creativity.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Hyacinth Retorts

These veins beneath,
The calm blue of my exterior...
Grapeful purple spite,
Of your endless fiendish malice...

Violent my colour will kill you,
Joyous my dreams beat you.
Like a yo-yo vicious in naivety's hands.
Back at you my antipathy rants.

You drained my colour,
You made me mad.
I was blooming but you scraped the stem off the hand.

Cleaning filth yet born with it,
Leafs of slander will trap you,
Inner peace will drill through...
Pain will make its dent there.

Euphoric I will float across,
Mockery making its dance of rot.
Many like thy must be rinsed.
Veins of vile and bones of barbarity,
Burnt in the scorch divinity.

My moon will dance and your sun will sink.
Shun the birth of cruelty.
Ersatz your love has shrunk.
Too small to fit my loving heart.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

The Balloon Woman

I stared across the window and glanced at the street.

Hair like that of a thicket. I would have lost my way into the deep bewilders had I been a cricket. Little freckles muddled her face. Like those on some mushrooms that grew in the wilderness or among the weeds near the pond. Father said they can't be devoured and shouldn't even be touched, their poison might kill us.
Was it the same with the Balloon Woman?

There she stood, from morning to night.Every evening she would narrate unusual stories to the kids from the park. Well, the park was full and one had to wait for their turn at the swings. Why would the kids leave such a tempting offer for some crazy stories? I wondered, as I tied the red ribbons to my hair, making a perfect bow like the wings of a little crimson butterfly.

Then I fluttered from the kitchen into the front porch of my house.The enchanting smell of incandescence sticks still filled up my nostrils like a pond flourished and full from the first spell of rain.

I untied my hair in the bus, not fearing the 'untidy' remark and the shame it would bring to my mom. It somehow never felt free and 'alive' with those tight, strangling knots in my hair.The long thick twirls tangled in the wind sending a feeling of guilt down my throat, as if the knots had shifted there now. Though the wind washed them away again, with the gruesome feeling. I tied my hair up again, giving in to the wind, or guilt or maybe some other stifling emotion.

As the bus stopped in front of Anita's house, where the Balloon Woman was now, she waved at the bus to all the kids, except me. I never waved back. I never liked the balloon woman.

She was dirty, filthy and maybe had lice in her thicket like hair. She ate soiled dirty pieces of bread without butter or jam on it. Father said she was poor but nice and worked very hard, and she never begged.She told funny stories of her once lavish life in Calcutta. She made friends with the women through their kids so that she would get little scraps of worn out make-up from them for herself. All she gave in return was maybe a free extra balloon from her weary old hands, frowning a little but hiding it. Though I could sense it from the window. She would grab the make-up and tacky old jewelery from them just like I grabbed at Ice-cream.

I loved but one thing about her, the lovely colorful balloons that danced from morning to evening in the bright blue sky.They were a part of the Balloon Woman's identity. They brought smiles to little kids faces, but when the balloon woman blew them she looked tired and exhausted. They were to last just for a while.

These days I don't see her. I miss her and her little colorful halo. I asked father if she floated along with them to God and he said yes. I asked him if God had sent for her or if she went on her own accord. Father said God needed such souls up there, in the bright blue sky above. Ones who loved and lived with dignity and gave random acts of kindness a try.

The children will miss her stories. She is one wonderful story herself.

Balloons never fascinated me but that evening after school I bought one Red balloon. I went home and wrote my heart out with a little sparkle sketch pen "Sorry Balloon Woman & thank you for being so kind."
Then I ran up to my terrace and let the balloon fly up with the wind. The red slowly became a haze as tears welled up my little eyes.

From then on, I try and give random acts of kindness a try. I shared my New Bedtime Story Book with my classmate in the bus on my way back home, helped mom set up the table for dinner and hugged dad for the Ice-cream.

I also shared my guilt with mom and said sorry to her for leaving my hair untidy and pretending to not know how I got the remark every week.

She just laughed and kissed my cheek.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Frost child

Teaspoon of love,
warmth spared frost with,
The child that died young.
Could have been blessed by the sun.
They sonographed and knew it was HER.
So they let frost gnash her very existence.
But she survived.
Topping the X-mas tree astar.
They named her the goddess of fire.

Mirror Mime

Why can't I free myself from the shackles of myself,
I run into pandemonium,
It is freezing,
Blue recoils my bones.
Pieced jaggedly.
From underneath the lashes of pretense,
I look into the gray water.
I see a black-blue monster..
Cut into pieces by a drifting cake of snow.
I spooked myself.
My reflection spooked me.

Monday, May 9, 2011


I walk inside, dull and dreary. Into a dark tunnel that smells of mediocrity. Stinking like stale cake.Battered and whipped into a batter only to be baked into a work of some hypocrite. They call themselves writers. They pick up different ingredients of originality to make a stupid, plagiarism of a recipe. It stinks gross, like snot and puke and bile. I let it wash out of me, but I cannot get rid of this static reaction, so I let myself get poisoned.A result of rusting creativity that cannot stand this awful smell of sham. My brain is still, but confused thoughts are waltzing like lack luster pearls around my bloodied head. More chunks of my original insides rush out, in an attempt to free! Fear burns my throat like acid. I sense it coming up my throat. I'm going to throw up again.And again. And again...

They will always be human. They will decay and our work will live even when the nibs of our imagination numb and the ink of our passions cease to flow. Like a cow they will chew and chew onto our independence until our nerves shred and our gray cells disintegrate.

I until then, choose to nauseate and throw up instead be the slave of a vile monarch in the guise of timid democrat. Bawling my words at him.
Just Throwing up not giving up.

Thursday, April 28, 2011


Toothpick by toothpick,
Picked and Picked.
Cuspate from this end to that.
Like my body was a sponge.
Absorbing every tear like gelatin syrup.
Lachrymose into pale colour.

Pleasing the child of tantrum.
The Christmas decorator in tinsel time.
A bag of punching temper.
So the heat melts me into,
Gooey liquid like crow shit.
Then baked with flattery,
Inflating my ego.
Again they feed on me.

With intricate care I was made?
Or just for the clown show.
Bones and hide,
And a pinch of fear put into preparation.
Served on a plate to hungry dears.
Golden goblets with maudlin poured.

Pitcher filled with dreams of mothers.
Spongy Side.
Edge soft.
Stretchy stand.
Elastic cast.

Fortunate cake, whose toppings last.
Pretty, pretty.
Born from the swampy dumps.

Colour of your mood.
There is nothing new,
Nothing 'own'...
In the marshmallow.

Decked up marshmallow.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Listening to Silence

On a bed of brown,
Enveloped by the graceful greens,
Truth that lies,
Like a mother’s warm lap.
Sleep sets in.

Muttering like a lullaby,
The beautiful mid-noon breeze,
Cooling my forehead,
Thoughts of tomorrow are lost finding me.
Worries of yesterday don’t haunt me.
Searching despair, hope suddenly greets.
Content I donate breath,
To liven a dead belief.

I’m forgetting foes,
I’m forgiving my dreams,
I’m competing against time,
I’m winning.

It is so utterly beautiful,
A rendezvous with my spirit.

What does it mean to die and decay,
If not this?
Listening to silence,
Finally peace.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Chasing Chastity

I'm a branch of a fig tree,
Slowly caterpillars of envy climb,
Nibbling joy leafy loose,
Leaving holes in them.
Chasms unabridged,
Acidic after effects of
Chernobyl at heart.

I believe the dream has.
Then you come,
Shake the feeble trunk,
Sending tremors at my juiciest ones.
Lovely figs,
Rosy my dears.

I'm hung in suspension,
How can I catch?
I can't repel.
Spare them.
Relishing in plan of rot,
Basking a smile in the scorch you pretend.

Broken branch with no 'thwack'
Oozing purity in sobs of despair.
Chastity I chase still...
Mask your wear.

One Fig lost,
One and a half...
No No No.

I catch them,
My leafy joys have shed.
On Chaste ground they lay.
In the chase,
I distract you from hunting my juiciest.
In exchange of what I laid.

I will Wrap 'em up.
Still unrot.
You may sell.
What Price will they fetch?
Purity today is no jewel!

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Matrimoney Market

Broken knees to
Bursting hearts.
Ribcage ripping,
Razoring realities,
stalk, stalk,stalk.

Archaic Communion cottage cheese like,
Fits only petty hearts,
Freezing rites.

Not fist but testicles,
The heart.
Their heart.
That's the size.

Zombies locking hearts on rings,
Rings exorbitant buy souls in swapping.
Round and round,
On pyre ground,
Hollow circle, chanting crowd...
Engulfed in nothingness.

The lock fits not the same key,
Deformation infidelity.

Passive infideling,
Trashed them...
Plath the genius,
Sexton the fabulous,

The flame we surround,
In a want of fire.
Trapped in the market of mirrors.
Each Deceive, malign.

World market of fairness crease,
Melanin, not a disease.
Loosing it just to please.
Slicing off, amputating,
Bullying the brains off genius it is.

It has caught,
Victimized herds.
All of them.
All the 'hers'

Let perfection the brutes,
Scandalize beauty.
Trap the butterfly,
Cut the wings to make it pretty.

Water not the thorns.
Spit Spiel.
Blades on identities.

Friday, March 25, 2011

The Sack of a Kitten

When I was a little kitten in a sack,
You were there,
Were you?

You fed me up,
You dragged me rags,
Your soothing touch I never knew.
Soothing were you?

Balled into fists,
I saw.
You never gulped them.
Up breast you clenched on…
And on.
I interrupted your letters with my tearleft eyes.
You saw.
Did you?

Against my bosom I held my hurt,
Trumpeting an evil laugh surrounded the sack.
I got out,
I did?
But I never seize or squeeze,
Any meaning to decipher you.
I’m Sorry
Are you?

Mumbling cumbrance to my Enid Blyton book,
In, the story fantasy grew,
Step moms were too good.
Contemptible realities I grew to write.
Thank you.

That story.

That story.

My favourite like,
Oh that story.

On his throne,
Honestly grew strong fellow.

Parzival –
Cloak of sunshine.
Loving gaze, kind eyes.
Bless Him
That Sonshine

Less perplexed,
I'm doll in the cupboard.
Not your fault.
Your beady eyes some,
innocent shines.
Innocence Maybe?
Am I right?
love is still.

God Bless You.
Bless the king kind.
Will you?

Standing for approbation
Like a speck of dirt on your palm.
Will you?

Wednesday, March 16, 2011


Just a hush at midnight,
Imagination sneaks in companionship
Of worries, fears and dreams,
All sublime.

A land of toys,
They drift like clouds in candor,
I set my feet in,
Softly...making a little sound like dew drops on leafs.

Tapping in toy land is a crime,
Plastic anger beyond the iniquitous dark,
Each is same to the neighbour
No fights,
No one unprecedented
All alike.

The line of crimson on my pale face,
Marvel turns into an ‘o’ disgrace!
I shun the darkness,
I shout,
Shattering the materialistic loud.

And shaken they stare around,
The soldier, the ballerina, the Amelia,
Even the sailor and the teddy bear.
Stiff dissolves in a caring cloud,
I cup my hands and breathe,
The moon has bid the sun is in,
The clichés have ceased dance,
The Key has to be turned again,
Igniting nothing new now.
I’m a vagabond,
I will traverse a lively sky,
A vibgyor new,
Once again stumble upon the earth,
The Toy Land.
The plastic crowd.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Cacophony of the world.

Cut it out…
They shout
They shout.
Shaking through,
My carcass phew!

Deafening my sight,
Blinding my sound,
They shout
They shout.
They don’t cut it out.

I’m nauseatic,
Sickened by the ruthless ghouls,
They see no love in the petals divine,
They see no music in the bees buzzing rhyme.
They shout
They shout.
They don’t cut it out.

Oh! One day I will float high,
To the alcazar with my love star,
My aspirations are set up there,
Elusive, insurmountable…
But I can look up atleast,
From the grandest arched window,
With my love,
I will take a leap!
I will cut the hopeless cord
I will believe.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Drowning glory

The spring time is prolific; the gardener with her shovel works in a dry, scorching heat of the mundane. Youth wanes day after day, flowers wilt to death, slowly and steadily withering into the soil. Drowning into the humus of humongous hopes. Her mind is a wandering hermit, her hands dig deep into the soil partnering the earthworms in crime. Expectant rays of sun kiss the earth, traveling from her face to her bosom unto the just watered soil. Beads of toil drip from her forehead, as if to collect drop by drop until fortune is kind to spare time for her.
Tireless she works on, seasons wage past but her will does not succumb to minor catastrophes. Sometimes hail, sometimes storm. Sometimes jaded she rests her back against the bark of a sturdy, supportive tree. Its calm loving shade nurtures with kindness. The leaves sing her tired eyes to rest with a soothing lullaby. Not one, not two tracing branches many, the meadows change color like a chameleon. From dawn to dusk the hues twist and turn from orange to golden to mauve. As the darkness hugs tight, light melts and the wind that dried her beads of toil, leaving a cool complacent smile, betray her. They cruelly seep in from the gaps of her little straw hut, freezing her weary heart. Into nightmares she dives, fearless still, in the flood of time.
The little observant Robin Red Breast sings her a melancholic obituary. Endless, soulful stories of her drowning glory. Leaves disconnect with life, from their mother tree, as if devoid of a loving presence. They drift with the crafty wind, finally settling on the grave of her being…oh so sublime! Here today, the only place where flowers don’t wilt, no wind whines. The only sound is of her heavy breathing…a reminder of her shovel clashing against stone...digging on that one thing she saved for death after life.

Sunday, February 20, 2011


I’m falling…deep into an endless reverie. A storm my thumping, hopeful heart whirrs up. The adrenaline rushing through my veins is my only companion. The last time I climbed up a cloud, I was tempted by its height, its towering pride. I took an audacious leap, hardly knowing I will end up just hanging onto the edge of faith.
Regret I have deserted, the wind is making love to my ears. Fiercely, passion overcomes my once stagnant hormones…so submissively I grace this reverie. This memoir of a saga sought after, end after end, beginning after beginning. I close my eyes, like when pleasure inundates my heart throbbing for this escape. The wind still hasn’t had enough of me…nuzzling my ear like a pointed nose, reminding me of my love adored.
This is just foreplay, for memories are amulets, they will, they stay…warding off evil. Suddenly my spirit chimes, as it welcomes a dream divine. A reverie inside a reverie, me fluttering like a curtain at a window pane. My soul is at the bottom of this reverie, unsung, floating like piano keys. Notes of magical love embrace my soul, and I see, beside the fog unruly, I see…my soulmate, my alter ego dressed in all loyalty. We play. We toss the notes in the air, we spurt the magic of love in the caked, saline flower pots at the window pane. Giggling, in the aroma of joy we play musical chair. It’s amazing; just two souls that love has encompassed are wound yet free in this game. There is no victory, there is no defeat, and love is agile. Realization dawns upon me and I melt completely into this dream…only to believe that the charm is an endless game of musical chair, unbound by time into a life beyond life.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011


A dam burst,
Savage waters swept everything.

Dreams in a pipe,
Hopes caught in turbines,
Debris a-good-great-memory,
One thing but rose in the flood,
Of the expectations worldwide,
Caught in a whirlwind time-wind.

Making sure,
Turning sore, short spurts of desire,
How puerile, how gibberish.

The cruel water chasing sharp rocks,
Attempting to smoothen,
Not with folly pared.
Just transforming them into wizened pebbles.

In the war,
No David saves the dam,
Water against water,
Stone against stone.
Me a silent bubble,
Sailing on a sea of noise…
Squelched in no time.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011


Image: from deviant art by Grawl

Formless, breathing with realms
Casting away slowly,
I believe you live in,
pools of dreams,
on hopeless pillowing.
Why do I feel a sense of belonging?

Let my lash a desert haggard,
Not one not two, close all,
Once into a slumber of plague,
Racing against the uncouth dark.

Vex me so much,
till the burst of dawn?
Are you a ghost of a broken child’s eerie past?
Or a candle inextinguishable of a writer’s burning art?
Or chronic fears of rue depart?

Else what?
Whatever be ‘o’ tenet,
You only thrive on tenses!
Bid bye my senses…

Monday, January 17, 2011


"The Mondarian Mushroom" by Stijn ´wulfnstein´ Louis

In the land of splashy greens,
thriving on unmitigated genes,
shrouded in sheen of hopes,
a complete outcast,
begins an audacious course.

What nerve,
What gills!
What stature disconcerted the wind!
Fungus of customs and uncouth nightmares,
inside horrifying movies,
bolding up,
an act of pretence.

Inside rests a softer core,
Sponges of curiosity,
Soaking in knowledge’s galore.
Sometimes lit by the sun’s shadows,
emanating an aura,
blinding disheveled goals.

The fight not land into on strangers plate,
Acting different, a brutal crime to slay,
Not craving to photosynthesize ,
his enemy his own soil,
his only offense,

Friday, January 14, 2011

To the world...

Not that i care,
what you perceive.
For all the pain the thorn gives,
only the rose's beauty in the mind pricks.

Slender waisted or bloating with banter,
Pink and pampered or dark or discoloured,
who are you to make my existence?
Who are you to judge with malevolence?
O world who are you?

Meager crumbs or useless hopes,
I live on,on my own,
I have an angel with a rainbow of halos
And I will run a mile the clouds,
we will dine with the sun,
we will shadow our duties bound..
Who are you to call me misfit?
Who are you to call me a convention?
O world who are you?

Hair of raven or colourless like dump water,
Not your concern, not your goal.
Mind your own,
Mind, remember I have an angel you don't.
Who are you to make some story?
Who are you to call me funny?
O world who are you?

One eye,
Sunk or floating,keep your labels.
Save them for further reference.
Be done,
I don't care because I sense your guilt,
Your green envy,
You don't have,
an angel like me.
Good bye,
I pray you be free.
Just tell mine...
Who are you to feel sympathetic?
O world who are you?

Monday, January 10, 2011


Why do we lose the real in search of the immaterial?
Why do we walk past sorrow when we can leap to hope?
Why do we love others, more than our very own?
Why can’t we love without hate?
The question remains….

How can we deceive when we must believe?
How do we curse when we must nurse?
How can we feel tired without trial?
How can a mixture lead to original?
The question remains….

What is laughter without pain?
What is victory without the risky game?
What is beyond if the farthest is near?
What does it mean to vanish, disappear?
The question remains…

Why don’t we sight the straight, the obvious,
Some questions we never ponder,
truths we choose to not discover.
Yes indeed,
It was schizophrenically monotonic,

Yet we did not ever think!

Sunday, January 9, 2011


A green leaf once came to live,
branches of two twigs,
one hopeful,
one less hope,
fought and fought for days alone.

Breaking off was not to be,
it hurt the tree could see,
a beautiful flower nearby,
said that's nothing,
it will cease.

Growth came,
dew of love gently brushed,
but nothing to the leaf's relief.
strong the leaf bore the winds,
Fighting every brutal chill.

Slowly maturing yellow aged,
the branches strong but waging still,
tearing apart the leaf,
two worlds torn,
its veins bursting.

Beneath a malicious fall,
but into the lovely flowers arms,
one that loved,
one that friend,
one that hope,
one that ray.

But the flower in fury,
an unknown sort,
banished the leaf a land forlorn,
detached the leaf shattered,
knowing not what trust felt?

Wilt is taking over fast,
seems every purpose lost,
one last of its very dreams,
when the wilt takes on the winds spin,
powder of a courageous feat,
making way to the flowers roots,
loving, living , caring through.

The flower's joy safe and sound,
the only love death unbound,
existence cant bar the leaf,
wilted it will eternal live,
breathe vibrant color of faith,
light shines through silhouettes,
cherishing dreams of the leaf the wind will get!