Smoky Vision


the uncalled notion, rolls into a catastrophe
a burning ozone within the heart
the beat too rapid, unforeseen, unheard
was it really coming from his chest ?
breadthless eyes, searching for the smoke
there was a fire, a row of steps indicated the truth
he couldn’t follow now; his shadows visible at twilight
his conation, bearing a strong warning
his heartbeat, accelerating with every thought
all the emotions, simmered in his throat
his attentions diverts
just a few hundred yards away
the raw beauty, with long raven hair, reverts
deepened skin, with footsteps bare
sleak fingers, stretching shapely at the end of each arm
eyes shadowed under the long lashes
her unwieldly dress, sinuous through ashes
wrapped amassed smokes; flying with the wind
her dainty cheeks, turned crimson
before he could make his visibility known
cloaked in the shadow, before his cover was blown
he retraced his steps towards that divine vision
a delusion locked his eyes on her face, as he neared
her rosy lips, that would smile in the brightness
of the sun; now pale with disquietude
perspiring skin, question in her eyes
his feet rooted, just a few steps behind
a yard of distance, and a hundred miles to reach her heart
where was the courage, that dug into his veins
where was the fearless man, who had torched the shed
to free his love, from a tangled thread
her deep brown eyes, slashed through his soul
he felt a vigorous force,
push through a storm in his blood
his heartbeat, intensified,
blatant as the horse back ride
four steps and he could reach her
the vision from his dreams
a perception has set his heart with a gleam
even with the anguish relenting
the unspoken words, blood staining her smooth neck
tear streaks of dust, tracing the contours of her cheeks
with soft careful steps, she made her way towards him
a magnetic pull found their fingers, as they locked
a nerve wrecking relief, from her shoulders, dropped
as her head, fell on his chest; no screams, no cries
Resentment from days before, could’ve dried
Years of insolence, trapped behind the castle walls
She had spent her days, scrubbing floors
Instead of playing with dolls,
Her only solace, had been the concealed window
Where she was locked every night
Away from the villagers sight
He was a shadow, a robin for thieves
He had brushed his skills, with the first hoot,
Filling his needs and treasures, with every loot
Until his eyes had fallen, to the sheer beauty
His mind adhered, his heart captured
His only goal, to free her from the affliction
His plans set, with every determination
He glided his way towards the woods
Carrying his maiden, in his arms..
Through twilight and smoke, they embarked
Upon a new journey, and disappeared into dark


Nowhere to Fly…


Jackie was a happy camper.. He was loved, he could imitate our voices and learnt new words faster then a toddler. maybe he wanted to feel the air in his wings, maybe he was content ?  He brought much joy to our lives n our home. Sometimes I wondered if his eyes could be read? I tried too… but maybe not hard enough.

His cage remained open. He knew we trusted him. Its a great feeling, this trust. My kids trust me a lot. and I want to reciprocate it the same way, without any ‘ifs’ n ‘buts’.

Jackie had a sudden death and it left us feeling empty once again. It was like he couldn’t go on with the loss of my dad. My dad loved communicating with him through whistles.  He wasnt the kind to give up, but one day he couldnt fight with his own battle with cancer.

There are choices we are compelled to make, even if we dont want to, we just have to… giving up and let the fate decide; and thats where it all ends !

Nowhere to Hide

DSC00487It has taken me 10years to find myself. I thought I knew my destination, the terrain of thoughts that keeps me on schedule and sometimes not, it all seemed sorted out. A lot pf people my age are standing on successful grounds. Even with their struggles, they kept the wheel of life rolling; many would call it ‘moving on’, but it really is just the wheel rolling.

When my parents and grandmother praised my writing and artwork, i thought I already had whatever it takes to be successful. They were always so proud of me; even when I did nothing ! All those marshmallows in my mouth melted in my ego, and all that was left to achieve was a successful marriage. It has taken many agendas off route; to make me understand that the meaning of my own existence lies only in my hands.

I banked on all the relations, friendship, in laws, colleagues… Yet I stand alone… Perhaps I invested in the right places but through wrong channels.

As my daughter gets closer to the start of her teens. Her innocent question being, ‘mama, you can write poems?’ , ‘mama, how did you know the math problem?’ or to her sheer surprise when I told her office stories and she asked, “you really worked in the office before I was born?”. An innocent little mind has always seen her mom cooking in the kitchen, making sure the house is in order, kept family ties strong, making sure of everyone’s comfort, entertained guests and retired as an exhausted horse at the end of the day; the fact that her mom Is educated relays queries in her small mind.

I graduated as an art student, worked as a kindergarten teacher, displayed art work and sold some too, then worked as a creative writer, took some spiritual walks alongside… and declined a dream job offer to work as a research writer in a well known magazine at the time my wedding date was set. 10 years ago…

In a third world country, it takes up all the energy to prepare for ones own wedding, emotionally and physically. Specially when its arranged !


Torched Beacon

The flaw of a speech
An uncertain step
A bold writing
Not holding any depth
Sustaining fake tears
Lurking behind
A cynical smile
Proud nose
Perched high in the air
Without a single
Sign of despair
Using harsh words
As a weapon
Burning dreams
With torched beacon
Is this who I wanna be ?
Is this who I ever could be ?
Is the cost of success
Crumbling into an ash
others dream n mine…
Could it be turned into cash ?

The Image of Life…

as we live each day and open it as a gift

as the lives from within, seems to drift

as the breadth we consider to be ours

as the meaning of life becomes swift..

… it was never meant to be;