Category: Poetry

The silence
speaks to me
of things long gone
of times past recalling
of words spoken in a careless rush
to win, to hurt, to acquire

Aloud, so loud
the silence hurts my heart
it rakes its unforgiving nails
down an aching void
of regret and yearning
that drips down my face

Those banshee wails?
Is that the silence
full-throated in its censure?
Or is that me
calling for you?

Always so busy, rushing from one thing to another,
when will we ever find the time to just be?

Make every second count, I’m told…

I do
until the clock winds down
and stops…

and I pause
and draw breath
and dream
and think
and smile
and love
and be…

Who am I, really, when no one is looking?

Who am I when I am alone?

Am I one thing or am I many – so many that even I don’t know the pieces of the puzzle that comprise me?

I’m looking for me
in a churning, shimmering ocean
of illusions and mirrors…

Distracted, disoriented,
I settle on a mirage of me
that’s a beguiling chimera…

Dazzled, deluded,
I misguidedly cling to
the me that I’m not…

Too late, I discover
that I let go of the pieces
that authenticate me…

I am forever cast away
in the waters of inattention
…I’m adrift at sea…

In memory of all those who went too soon – claimed by a virus that was as brutal as it was indiscriminate…

Cut adrift from you
buffeted by winds
of a malevolent fate
icicles of fear
pierce a heart
that stuttered
the day they put
a plastic tube
down your throat…

Even the heat
of a fearsome anger
that rages at the edges
of a mind grown numb
cannot warm the emptiness
that I clothe with memories
of a former life
when forever meant
a long, long time…

But for us it ended yesterday
and all I have left
are ashes in an urn;
an agony of disbelief;
roiling oceans of regret;
and a dark despair…

Your walking shoes don’t know yet
they wait by the door
for 6 o’clock.
I try them on…
too big to fill, they don’t fit
but you fit me so well
and now the cavernous cracks
in my being
that you kept from widening
tear me into pieces
of a puzzle that
makes no sense without you
and your pillow
– with memory foam –
barely remembers
the shape of your head
while mine still carries
a stray hair from your tossing and turning
as you strove to find the air
that eluded you
just before
they took you
to the ICU…

I had never imagined
that you’d go in one door
but you’d come out another…

I capture the last bit of your DNA
off my pillow
and add it to my collection
of memories that
– try as they may –
cannot fill the void
in my soul
that should be in your outline
but is now me-shaped.

I hide in the open
letting the rain curtain me
from eyes that probe
for signs that I weep for you

The tears don’t come
for you linger
long after the river
claims your ashes

Fuelled by memories
of a limitless love
I converse with you
in whispers and sighs

Seasons follow seasons
and they vie for my attention…
but our unending farewell
makes time stand still…

A sad poem…or a not-sad poem…
What do you think?

Well, love it or hate it, it’s finally here.
The monsoon is eagerly awaited and equally dreaded…
Loved because of what it means to agriculture and forests,
and to power generation plants;
Loathed because of the flash floods and landslides, the humidity
and how it strains drainage systems.

In this Haiku, I prefer to take a romantic view of the monsoon…

Sultry tranquil days
Nights of turbulent passion
Monsoon on my mind

What does the monsoon mean to you?

This city does not want you
now that its roads are paved
and skyscrapers stand tall
against the elements
that burn the skin off your bent backs
as you trudge on blisters
born of social apathy
and political indifference
towards villages that have
nothing that can keep you there.

Your DNA is imprinted
on the very bricks that
won’t house you.
Your sweat trickles
into the fissures
that you pack with concrete
which, once solidified,
will block you out
from the dreams that
you’ve always dreamed
but will never realise
because this city
does not want you.

The virus does, though.
It also wants the ones
who shunned you
when you had nowhere to go…
and when you get there,
it wants you too.

The summer we met
unfurled into seasons
made resplendent
by first love

Monsoon rains
conspired to add
new meaning
to age-old truths

Autumn leaves
sailed down to join
in celebration
where we lingered

Later, besotted snowflakes
drifted lazily
and turned to crystals
in your hair

In Springtime,
your ardor tattoo-ed
promises into my heart
of more seasons to come…

How lovely for first love to become an everlasting one – the one that spans many seasons. What do you think? What’s your story?

We keep hearing of how important it is to pay attention to body language, to make eye contact, to use and observe non-verbal clues for effective communication. We’re told how it is not just the words that we use but all the other signs our bodies display that make a conversation meaningful.

This is especially true for love…the words ‘I Love You’ are empty and meaningless if there are no actions to supplement the words, or if the follow through is antithetical to the concept of love.

Here’s a Haiku that, I hope, conveys what I’m trying to say in a better way…

Speak to me of love
let your eyes, your lips, your touch
do all the talking

Tell me what you think.
Do you notice when people say things that don’t resonate with what their bodies are showing you?

This beautiful yellow-footed green pigeon – or Hariyal – was photographed early one morning by my brother-in-law, and it inspired a haiku…as well as several hashtags…

#covid_19 #secondwave
#hopeforthebest #natureisbeautiful❤️
#natureshots #natureheals #natureneedsnofilter #natureneedshealing

New day, new options
Standing out or merging in
Either way, stay safe

Such a serene, gorgeous bird, don’t you think? I had to Google its name – I do hope I’m right about it being a Hariyal…