Tuesday, April 06, 2010

Home

The metaphysical question popped someday;
When you wondered how a home could crumble,
Tremble and crash without digits on a Richter scale,
Without physical quakes or forces of destruction.

Certainly, it could crumble everyday with a tiff;
Might remain joyless, empty of sunshine and light
By premature deaths that leave eternal chasms,
Or by calamities silently borne with muted tears.

How else could you describe that fleeting security,
A little sunshine and feelings of coziness and comfort,
The cuddling warmth and the elusive happiness
Juxtaposed against violent fights and silences.

It still crumbles everyday with little misunderstandings,
As it has always done since you started all raging fires.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

For Baby



My soul you are; my child,
My baby fluttering inside.

My days are full of longing,
Dreams of being your mom.

You were a dream before;
Now waiting at my door.


What bundle of surprises,
Wisdom, virtues and vices.

What a bond will ours be? 

I wait for time to tell me.

Unborn child, my little one,
Teach me again how to love.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

Hibiscus


Saturday, March 20, 2010

Winca Rosa


Thursday, March 18, 2010

Snapshots from my Garden


Friday, February 19, 2010

Anger

There's a soul in me
Who hates to cuss 

And be cussed,
or even a single word
that flies from anger.

But there's a mind,
a little thwarted
a little violent
Who loves to break
someone's complacence.

on such days,my mind
Breaks out of silence,
thrashes the opponent
with bitter words
quite unexpected.

a little remorse felt,
but more satisfaction
at raised eyebrows
that show surprise
and a little awe.


Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Sunshine



You advise me to write about my life and the things I have known closely and clearly; beings that I have cared about the most; so that you can read into my person and know the workings of my mind, which changes from transparent to translucent to opaque all the time. All you want to do is to know me inside out.

But when I think upon writing about my life, a rein of reticence falls on my hand. It pauses suddenly. It thinks twice before going into details- about writing out its venomous accusations and repressed memories of loss and longing. It hates to point fingers at the usual figures of contradiction who inspire mixed feelings of love, hate, fear and freedom.

Is there truth or only versions of it-yours, mine, theirs- that have become too vague to be recalled with accuracy. So, this heart dislikes to break its own shell of peace and refuses to indulge in resurrecting skeletons in the cupboard, that too in these days of love and sunshine.

Home

Home is where your heart goes back time and again, where you want to spend your quality time enjoying the activities that you like. Home i...