Spinster

I wrote this one after reading the poem written by Sylvia Path.

Here is the original poem

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©2023 mermaidspen

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Pencil- my muse

Wrote this poem after I nearly lost my mind because couldn’t find a pencil to write a poem. My urgency gave me a poem :))

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A pencil, slender and slim
Hides in the beauty of its being,
The beauty of being – the wood,
The wood of life- A tree.

A long history; stretched
a thing of creation,
a tool of wonders.

From my classroom to house
you were always there,
my solace, my comfort.
Comfort of holding a pencil.
Comfort of knowing-
mistakes are allowed.

~Kajal, Pencil- my muse

5 years of Mermaid

Hello beautiful people,

I can’t express my happiness today. 5 years ago I registered with WordPress and here we are. I’m thankful to you all from the bottom of my heart.

This is a special day, and after planning and hoping for a surprise,  I have finally decided to take the “mermaid’s” journey further. I’m starting an Email Newsletter next month It’s going to be a semimonthly thing (additional surprises depending on my mood and news).

Newsletter – A compilation of my favourite poems around the time, my current read, a book review, a poem of mine, scenery of my views (occasionally), a question in every newsletter (you can talk to me about it or share your answers by replying to the email), a special poem.

It’s a free thing. I invite you all to be a part of my writing journey and support my works. Hope to see you all there.

© 2023 mermaidspen

Aimonomia

At the hurried footsteps I lingered
a little, in hope to soak in the charm,
hustle and bustle of busy corridors
of the bus Stop.
With a hesitant gaze I looked
in the never ending space.
Tens of faces, hundreds of emotions.
The different eyes meeting
my urgent gaze, in-split seconds
I saw the panic in each, same as mine.
Long sang romanticism of a window seat
to feel air flowing through hair and
feel the outside world colliding with the glass,
is what a person lives for in such journeys.
The ever moving tress, always in hurry
are here again, but not to stay, like seasons
they too have to be somewhere.
At the railway junction I saw a family in rags
Plump faces bundled together under clear sky;
Humanity can inspire emotions but not enough of it.
Long ago I remember feeling the same.
I couldn’t recognise it that time
I can’t name it today too.
Maybe the best journeys are the ones
which we document less and live more.

(wrote this one in April for #Napowrimo)

© 2023 mermaidspen

Home

Home.
Comfort to some
trigger warning to others.
I know you hate my generation
The self labbed
Woke people
Who are drunk on one side of a story.
I am a generation
The one who is totally
Failing at being what
We’re to be.
You take pride in
Densely packed
nervous buildings
glued together with curiosity,
not hope.
And call this a living.
You and I have
different understandings of home.
I have seen too much of waves
to call shore
As my home.

© 2022 mermaidspen

Allegory

We talk about grass
the way one talks about earth.
You can argue that
it’s the same thing
but honey, it’s not.
Earth is the one who nurtures,
lets the life grow
out of it
and have enough strength
to support life.
Earth is a mother’s womb,
heart of a father,
The eyes of the couple won’t/can’t be convinced.
Grass is life.
It can’t grow on its own,
It can’t see
how green it is
or how beautiful
the world think
a vast, lively field is.

© 2022 mermaidspen

Haiku-01

Writing is cool
Words in my tired head
To read is to live

© 2022 mermaidspen

Crimson Red

Weather is dripping
from your tongue.


White of the clouds
is the calm
the calm you carry around,
the calm I lack,
the calm world needs.

Love?
Love is the crimson red;
of all the times
you have died
because of
your complexity,
For never fitting in,
For never being understood,
For never having been loved.

They say war is an opportunity.
Red tears are
a substitute for poppies.
But
how do you know
the colour of tears?
Who claimed it?
Who named it red, anyway?

This is an apology
to all the Colours
to all the shades I wrote about
without knowing
what a colour is.

© 2022 mermaidspen

Art is Agony

The way things are,
I’m having hard time being okay with that.
They say- forever never lasts long,
HOW to be okay with that?

I see my friends turning to art,
Reading shit and calling shots.
WHAT is the meaning of art?
WHERE do I shoot my shot?

I’m afraid of asking questions
for all my WHAT go unnoticed.
The cat on my patio is purring unnecessarily
Is she afraid of living, unnoticed?

All the questions are hiding
hiding behind question marks,
Despite the endless possibility of no’s
All of us are looking for more,
Childhood wounds are surely popular
to leave marks.

© 2022 mermaidspen

To bake a cake in the eye of the Storm

It hurts to grow old, he said
with a hint of pain in his eyes,
and looked at his trembling hands
maybe was trying to recognise something.

“Movement is tiring” he said
to bake a cake in the eye of the storm,
To see the same souls and faces
in all the people, in all the forms.

I wonder if it gets better
for they say everything does,
People generalise though
And when they do,
do they think of us?

Maybe it’s more about losing
than to fit in,
All the storms took things from us
But I miss the spot
We used to sit in.

© 2022 mermaidspen