Chop-stick
two not-hollow sticks 
both thicker than picks, 
smooth as peas,
put it down your throat
and it'll make you really sick, 
not from the horns of goats, 
nor made of fabric like coats
it's really just two pieces of, 
wood, metal or bamboo.
Think of it as a present to food, 
which in turn is a present to you, 
and if only people knew, 
it's merely poles in twos;
it can be really long, 
it can be really short,  ...

When I step
outside into the light,
there is a myriad of weeds. 
Weeds not, says I, 
they are clever survivors. 
Flowery and white, some
that whisper words of
promise
Clover, dusted slightly with dew
Oh, idyllic is the you! 

Dandelions want naught, 
but they give tenfold.
For flower crown, 
for sunbeaming shimmer, 
It makes peony seem dimmer.

And buttercups, O buttercups! 
Sing for the ages, 
sing of the cerulean skies! 
They lift their chins up, 
bursting with hope and...

  Verbal expression of love

Sometimes I ask myself, whether I thanked the bhaiya, who helps me to find books on the library shelf. Then think that how could I be so dumb head, he used to narrate me stories, used to read me books, and always used to have charming looks . Say thank you the verbal expressions of politeness.  Sometimes I ask myself, whether while asking my friend I said please, as she is my life’s big cheese....

Silky wood betneath the fingers
Settling comfortably in author's hand

Smooth black case with metal bands
Dully gleaming in the desk lamp light

Gentle ting! of nib on inkwell
Drinking of the source of words

Rich black ink trails from the tip
Like a moonless, starless night

Softly scritches on cream hued paper
Leaving letters dancing in its wake

For the pen is a friend to each writer
It lends its time to our hand and helps
Us shape...

That cup,
Oh that beautiful cup,
That dear,
heartwarming,
handsome,
cup!
Such a beauty to behold,
Filled with tea,
hot cocoa,
coffee,
milk,
juice,
water,
ice,
soup, 
food, even
if you wished;
Always there,
to comfort you,
warm you,
fill you up,
That endearing cup, 
That exquisite cup!
Always there,
Waiting, waiting,
to fill you up!
 

Ode to the wind and the runaway flowers
Ode to the pollen and man’s solar power
the waves and the paint stain on your silver dress
the girl that I crush on, the boy you impress
ode to the light in the window each morning
ode to the roof cracks when the rain is pouring
to the beach and the sun
and your gaze and the fun
birthed from sad days and happy days and 5 out of 10 days ...

Made from pressed wood
bears a part of nature with it 
reminding itself of its humble roots
Carries news of joy and misery
to everyone the poor and rich alike
It listens to your sorrows, your frustrations, your joy
all without complaining or showing it's pain
we press it and crumple its soul
but it never complains of the pits of dolor it falls into
The words act as tattoos covering the expanse of it
doodles are simply artistic words...

 The coffee table is smoothly varnished, still shiny despite the thousands of touches it has accepted in its life. Many family snacks, and even a few meals, have been enjoyed over the sturdy, rectangular, wooden surface. It was passed onto our family by our cousins, and it complements the warm tones in the family room perfectly. It is the centre of the room, the heartbeat, if you will. It signifies the memories made around it. Although it gets in the...

Cars Hum, Birds mourn, Clouds cry
Drowning in a pool of one’s own tears
Sobs mocking their beholder as shaking hands collide with rivers of mourning
In the midst of their attempt to cover a shameful visage of defeat.
 
And yet the sun still rises, abound to the sky
Painting each tile on the sorrow-dripping rooftops with unseen colour
Juxtaposing against the monochromatic grey that blanketed it previous
A skid of stars, lost one by one amid the labyrinth...

Thank you for the memories
My lovely little diary
You were always a good listener
Through all my little monologues
Like a baby in its mother's arms
You always had a shoulder for me to cry on
My tears flowed out of my ink
But you always wiped them off
From you, I got this little saying
The sun might fall in shame
But like the sun, you too will rise
When you learn to turn the page

Words flowing like water
printed worlds on a page 
a puzzle being put together
with every chapter 
setting your imagination free from its cage. 
 

O pillow on my comfy bed
how I love to rest my head
on you at night in comfort warm,
tired, sleepy, free from harm 

dirt fills the cracks between upper and lower
the difference between heaven and middling
like an earthen bridge connecting my childhood to who I've become
I loved those shoes
still threw them away
no time for remembering
the bridge had long burned down

A dream, once lost...
Now caught by the feathers and string of that one object that's always hung near your wall,
A dreamcatcher.
The beauty of dreams, kept pure and wholesome, away from the evil of dreams...
All thanks to the dreamcatcher.
No more restless nights, tossing and turning under the covers, fear and fright living inside your soul.
For the dreamcatcher has caught all the evil spirits that live in your dreams.
Woven into the string, now one with...

running my fingers over the rough spots of 
    yours, uneven crescent nails and 
calluses on every fingertip, 
        the pains of practice as tools 
                    for your artistry:
    a short ridge where you rest your bow 
        that you draw with every stroke, 
    pressure into strings conveyed through
            a patch of skin, a moraine i explore
        through my own fingertips. 

a short ridge on which you bow 
    the distance from stage to audience
        and from your gaze to mine i could explore
            for thousands...

Words
are jumbled in my mind,
begging to be let out
threatening to overwhelm me
with their relentless screaming

When I can't stand 
the Words
for another minute
I sit down 
at my desk
and reach 
into the little white pouch
with the Chickens
and pull out
a black Pen

I press down
on the black top
of my Friend
admiring 
the silver tip
that emerges
from the depths
of the thin black creation
known as the gel Pen.

I...

Thank you for the memories
My lovely little diary
You are the perfect listener
For every conversation
Like a baby in its mother's arms
You were always a shoulder to cry on
My tears would flow right out of my ink
But you'd always wipe them off
From you, I got this little saying
The sun might fall in shame
But like the sun, you too will rise
When you learn to turn the page

Thank you for the memories
My honored little diary
You are a wonderful listener
For every conversation
Like a baby in its mother's arms
You were always a shoulder to cry on
My tears would flow right out of my ink
But you'd always wipe them off
From you, I got this little saying
The sun might fall in shame
But like the sun, you too will rise
When you learn to turn the page

Just a 
shell, worn and beaten and
bruised
Scars like folds on 
paper, boiled water and
nails
Gallery of misplaced things
art, and
tortured reflections

Imperfection

Cling to flesh and muscle
and bone and heart and yet still
when the waters calm, 
all that is 
left, is
me

 

a fountain of knowledge,
dripping through wooden pages.
a million emotions,
spilling over the plastic cover.
you seem so small, little book,
yet you hold within you the power to change the world. 
wintry scenes and summery days,
are spent within your cosy cover.
and i thank you, little book,
for expanding my small world. 

Words
are jumbled in my mind,
begging to be let out
threatening to overwhelm me
with their relentless screaming

When I can't stand 
the Words
for another minute
I sit down 
at my desk
and reach 
into the little white pouch
with the Chickens
and pull out
a black Pen

I press down
on the black top
of my Friend
admiring 
the silver tip
that emerges
from the depths
of the thin black creation
known as the gel Pen.

I...

I woke up creatures long dead, the far-fetched faces of outwardly humans on those pages of you. You look crumpled, yet in a dignified way. I swear I smell the water dripping down from that angel face I drew on your creamy page, the blend of graphite seeping through  Wings of silk broken off from insects scattered, warm soothing tea infused The sound my pencil makes on your spiral bound edge You stretch 30cm across, 42cm long
The boundaries of...

It's like a fire that warms 
From around you 
It's as warm as the sun on a 
Winters day 
Keeping the darkness 
At bay
Woven red and walnut brown 
Keeps me floating off the ground
Like a dream 
Wrapped around 
My body
Keep out the cold 
Embraced in safety 
Woven red and walnut brown 
Wrapped around me 
 

if my voice was enclosed
in something
i would say
it would be
in an old
blue-silver book
with its brown pages
stained with the
burden
of my pen
and my hand
tattooing words
when no one looked
twenty-five lines
on each page
giving bliss
to my eyes
as my rhymes
flow with ease
and that faint smell
of vanilla
that my nose
addictively hosts
as it watches
your chemical compounds
decompose
the many quiets nights
on my bed
as...

The sign of true love
Laying lightly
Delicately
On the very tips
Of my fingertips
And the harness
the home feeling
The look in your eyes
Lighting my soul
into a deep fire
one that rages on
The love that grows inside
Fore this ring saved my life
Gave me a promise
A chance
A person
A  home
And the way it feels
is undescribable
For me to say
or think
or dream
And with this ring
I chose you ...