what are words if we cast them out
like pebbles into a stream?
what are promises if we make them
for a moment’s scheme?
what is a home if a family isn’t one?
what is love, if love is but a pretext
to get things done?

Love and Stories 

One morning you’re going to wake up and see that love is all around you. 
That you’ve been looking for it in all the wrong places, and all the wrong sources.

There’s no saving Them, because Their hearts are cloaked in darkness, dark things, dark words,

But you, you’re the light, 

You are a blinding glare, no ordinary person could ever directly look upon.. 

Your light is what the world needs right now, what They need right now.. 

So don’t keep waiting, don’t tug at the ropes of boats that try so hard to abandon the dock.  

Let them go, let them sail with their forever discontented weight,

For your reddened palms need a break from that tight grip, 

So let me say it again..

That love grows in the most unlikely of places, and let me tell you where,

In the nest of two black and white birds looking after their young, 

It grows on every leaf, every tree, every vine, stone, and stream..

It blossoms when flowers come to life, it sets with the sparkling orange sun, and rises anew, light yellow and pink.. 

Love grows in the far off green mountains, and in the deep ant colonies, further beneath this earth, 

Love is rain, love is stories written in books, hearts, souls, and smiles, 

Love is kind, it’s forever content, its forever unparalleled and sudden, yet it’s always found..


a drop, that’s all it was.
a drop of rain fell
from the grumpy skies.
cold, cold, cold, and cold,
a drop of rain landed
on his broad forehead,
it was like a small pin prick,
that’s all it was;
a mere pin prick on his forehead.
it slid downward,
on to his long nose,
on to the rim of his upper lip,
tracing his skin,
imbibing his sweat,
merging with his warmth,
becoming warmer,
becoming him.

just like that

he sat beside her,
on the icy cold floor,
cupping his palms,
on her trembling face,
holding it as if 
it were a tiny flame;
a flame, neither fierce nor mild,
like a heartbeat,
and said nothing.

in the remaining few seconds,
which seemed like an eternity,
she nodded
and over
and burst into
an uncontrollable sob.

soaking his palms now,
tears began to drip 
in small rivulets 
along his arms
and made their way into
God Knows Where..

like that,
just like that,
years of heartache 
flooded from her eyes,
years of half-dying words,
insecurities, and mistrust
pushed their way out of her,

and so she pressed 
her hands to her chest
as if to pin down her heart
which had begun to soar
in its new found lightness..

just like that,
good things 
had a peculiar way
of coming back to her.

The Swing on the Hill

my mother built a swing
when i was just a little girl of four,
in red, green, and blue - painted t'was.
and the colours were very pretty,
when they shone in the sun.

the winds ruffled my ponytails 
as i swung myself into the air.
and i'd just sit there and swing, 
day after day,
and sometimes even after 
darkness cloaks the hill,
and before my mother cries:
"it's time to get inside!"
i wondered as i swung,
how the moon too, swung itself 
with me.

in the year i turned five,
my mother gave me another,
but this time, 
a sister,
and not the merry-go-round 
i had made her pinky-swear
to give me.

this year i shall be twenty five, 
and the swing on the hill,
twenty one, 
dear God,
has it been so long?
yet it stands so strong
as if it were only built 

although the colours 
of the swing have gone,
and we, moved on,
i visit my swing on the hill 
sometimes for therapy.
the old swing now
has become such a sight
to my burdened 

time does fly,
without so much of a flutter,
and i guess that's how
things are meant to be.

The New Year Tragedy 

give the beggar your bus fare
and come straight walking home.
follow the white city's 
blackened maze of drains,
and come straight walking home.

on your way, you may,
lean on to a placarded wall,
and scan its art into your faulted soul,
and you'll think there never really were
a truer story told.

you may sit with the dirty street rats
on the cold iron railway tracks,
but all you've heard is the wrong glory: their glory, not my story;
their pride in pictures (with a couple of hashtags), not my pain!
you'll be surprised if only you knew
what fumes, what waste, what poison ran in our veins,
all the while they pretended never to know.

so we peopled this place with life and things
for we had nowhere else to go.
beside a mountain of waste and poisonous gas,
we lived our lives here through.
though the mountain of waste lay mounting each day,
we had nothing else we could do,
so one fateful day, 
after an auspicious pray,
we sat about reveling in a festive day,
until it was overcome by rotting corpses,
for that mountain of waste went "BOOM".

so the white city walls and the white city houses,
the white city people and the white milk rice,
turned gray, black, and blacker.
the white city sighs and the white city tears
came shooting down like spears on this New Year's Day,
and with life and vigour 
they helped.

of course i could say, 
what an ironic play these white city folk 
do wittingly (or otherwise) display..

but i wouldn't. 

so,i gave the beggar my bus fare
and i came straight walking home,
though my home that once stood on this blasted land
lies crumbled all in all. 

so i stood on the ruins
among a blinding glare
coming from the white city folk
doing their share.