Moon

We were together from the beginning,
Him and I;
He smiles down at me
And here I am,
Helpless. Bewitched.
By an unannounced law.

His blinding aura
follows me whenever I go
Omnipresent;
So, I just smile at him in response
and like a drop
keep going with his flow.

Says I’m the only one for him,
only one capable of life.

Summer

What is summer if not the
excitement brought by
fragrance of spring
tangled in cold wind,
running through the hills
desperately,
to reach the soil blooming
in plains??

The sun shinning over trees
The source of light and heat
curing blues of winter patiently
and the pearly clouds around
playing hide and seek.
Doesn’t the Sky feel dreamy?

The enticing aroma
of fleshy mangoes
is scattered around the
spring dominating branches.
Birds, now and then
take shelter in curled
lively trees.
Life is blooming everywhere.
Life is inviting me to live.

Garden

Another day while I was trying
to escape from the dark,
I saw this boy
in middle of the park.
Everyone was sitting in shade
but he sat in open,
The smile on his face
was near to broken.
Instead of sky
I started staring him,
when our eyes met
his went dim.
He got up and started walking
towards my way,
shaking hair, a mixture of black and grey.
Abruptly, he gave me a smile
the one, hard to exist,
Before leaving, he gave me a star
on my wrist.

Beloved spring – Poem

It was just yesterday
That I wrote a poem
to the early spring.
Blooming flowers in my garden
soothe my heavy heart,
every bud glowing green;
Spring is a work of art.

The hollow earth
beneath my feet
is now as lively as a new born,
Sometimes I feel I romanticise
spring too much
but, I am not willing to unlearn.

It’s April now.
It’s sowing in the hills
and plains don’t know
what to feel about that,
Maybe because the world
isn’t over the beauty of winter
yet.

In return, spring gave me
early rains
Humid winds came knocking
on my window,
Altostratus clouds are hovering  over
and the spring wrote, “to be continued…”

I have lost my train of thoughts.
It feels like my ‘self’ moved on
but my shadow is still there,
In the snow
And everywhere.

Seasons?


It’s almost dawn and like any other day;
I am looking for something to hold on to.
A popular and supposingly brilliant quote “you find happiness when you look for it” is here again but I feel like I’m done.
How can I look for happiness when all I feel and see is my failing attempts to understand it? How do I define something I have never experienced?
The weather is as confused as I am. Sun is yet to set but it’s too cold for April. Trees are leaf-less yet flowers are ready to bloom. They said spring is early this time,
but what is spring?
How do we know what rain is, when it’s raining? How is downpour so precise?
Where do all these seasons come from? Are wants seasons?

NaPoWriMo- Metaphor for Anxiety

/The joy of walking on old stairs, built on new stones and the fragrance of fresh paint is scintillating//

I am always happy to visit home
yet worried seeing it
The thought
that a place might be different
from what I think it will look like,
is devastating.
Even if a colour gets a little brighter
than what I had in my mind
causes panic 

Anxiety is like being stuck in past home while living in a new house.

I have moved on, I did,
atleast physically.
We have new flowers here
all are different
none of them belong here
or to each other
They seem distant.
Grass is greener here, too much green.
Abundance has  never been this shallow.

From my window
sunsets are blue,
Sky is pretty as always.
Sea is in harmony with the wind
But I’m worried of rain.
I am trying to adjust here
I eventually will.

Prompt: Metaphor for anxiety by Silverleafpoetry

Who really is living?

I am envious of street lights
for they see more than I
I wish it were possible to borrow another pair of eyes;
I’d love to end up in places
where my being
is not known;
A safe heaven
to wander alone.
Then again the thought of
“how do I live?”
And the weight of realization
that I already am doing that here;

//who’s living where?
Me in places or these places inside me?//

My feet run back to same roads
as if those paths
are inhaling me;
Am I here to see the world?
or the world is here
to see me!?

Paradox

I run into the world
though I say I hate it, everyday.
And romanticise this
zero-fucks-giving prude,
emotion less, pathetic generation
which is proud on our
“I don’t care anymore” attitude.
We leave our kin,
in the search of shelter,
ignore close ones and
look for ‘family’ in strangers.
You think you’re looking for compassion, but no!
You’re looking for pity,
for someone to feel sorry,
for someone, who is
more davestated than you.
If I ever try to push this
microscopic burden
out of my way, my hands
turn numb under the
realisations that in the end
It’s all me who will stay, but
But the longings take over reasons.
In this hope to feel better
about life, we turned
the world – home into disaster.

Anything but Human -a poem

We are birds that flock together.
Hunting worms, blind to the nature of the ones we’re dying to feed on. We follow each other while pretending to know it all and end up with a worm stuck in our throats. We are not choking, we are not okay either.
We are birds;
blind, foolish and hungry.

Other days, we are mice, wating for scampering feet of cats. Instead of running away or hiding, we’re waiting for trouble to knock on our doors. We are not happy or afraid but curious to see who will live, who will fight, who will give up and who will thrive!
We know what is happening but we are the generation of blind eye.
To pretend not to see is easier than to see and suffer.

We are the sailors of dead sea.
Instead of coming together we are waiting for the other boat to flip over or run out of hope, we are waiting for the sea to choose a winner;
for it’s easy to blame on time and circumstances.

We are everything but human, yet human.

A war of Poppies- a collaboration

How to suck color out a rainbow palette? Is it possible for humans?

They always suck the red out of wounds and then blame the flesh for not being enough.

Beauty lies beneath wounds. But humans scrape wounds off shamelessly instead.

If the sky was painted black will it shield the wounded hearts?

Once I saw a poppy field. I didn’t see the sky’s reflection in it. Did sky shield itself from the wounded, red poppies?

I can bring all the green of rainbow to the field, will the grass still be greener on the other side?

People manipulate what’s beautiful for them. If green is brought down, they’ll again scrape it off.

I think poppies are the women, in middle of war among themselves, pushed to be and do better while their  roots are stuck in filthy mud of  “you can’t”.

Red gushes through the field right now. Is it blood? What if poppies sucked blood. What if all this beauty was swathed in blood?

The bleeding hands/people make  half of this world. They defile pride because they bleed.
I wish the world was colorblind but women.

Pride! Pride is anything but woman.

I’ll wear a scarf that’d wrench me if I ever try to favour red with blood. Both are different.

All I think of is women. I’d love to bring Gods, to ask them for shelter but there are no Gods and maps are deviod of safe.

My new graveyard is a poppy field. It bleeds so the sky keeps away from it. No beauty, no God. Hence, oppressed and hence my home.

No matter who rules whom, they sow poppies to see them bleed.

Skies look blue just to prove beauty can’t be red.

Samyak introduced me to dialogue poetry and our rants turned into, this really close to my heart poem.

Image source: Pinterest

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