Poetry
Over the hills, Along the shore.
Virescent lines drawing curves of hills I worship every time I recall her figure, Douglas firs aligned Rivet memories from our first kiss How dry
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Virescent lines drawing curves of hills I worship every time I recall her figure, Douglas firs aligned Rivet memories from our first kiss How dry
An owl swivels in her carriage of primordial haunts. In her padlocked church of trees. She knocks against night-forest scars, blithely written in frost and
I awoke this morning, and as I was sipping my coffee, the thought of where I was in life brought me to thinking of what
This dimly-lit café, there’s a voice then two, then three speaking like a broken triangle with so much impatience. Winter, dense and black, crams
I leapt behind the horses of my mind’s imagined sleigh As snow had fallen overnight to softly greet the day I grabbed the reins and
Dead poets’ poems, seen within the admiring eyes of the living. The power of sadness penned, employing language, graceful liquidity. Poets who wept their anguish
I read somewhere about this French artist making porcelain weapons They symbolise women, delicate, yet dangerous, or at least that’s what I remember
To the universe who places the perfect kindred spirits in my path. Thank you for your protection, the wonderful souls, and all my privileges. To
It was the guy coming the other way this time that looked down toward the ground… then slowly raised his head and met my eyes.
I sketched your face in the midst of a bleached sky; touching the cool wet sands barefoot and loaded tonight. A great inhale lights the
I love the way you smile the way you squint your eyes when you laugh I love the way you dance when no one’s
The flame hovered silently, above its sooty wick Throwing jagged shadows on the walls of mortared brick And as my pen leaves marks of ink
In Memory of Victims of War Here : parents go to bed with no hope Of seeing their children in the morning Here, everywhere you
If only eyes could differentiate good from bad, I would be somewhere, thinking greater things. It all begins in an experience I had, With the
most days the sea of sadness engulfs you like a tsunami that swallows homes people and the earth you drown and you drown until
Maa doesn’t talk about numbers She says I’m 17 monsoons old She hands me Shakespeare’s ironies when I ask her to teach me arithmetic She
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The Walls We Build: “There is loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of
I’m skilled at bottling up my feelings but I’ll burst if you shake me. one pull at a loose thread and I come apart at
Another child has been killed by yet another house-help – this time they are both males. The boy, a child of 3, was placed inside
At exactly twelve noon, she was found dead. Sitting all by herself, a fat old cat resting at the foot of her chair; oblivious of