Peace lives

as the shadow of war-

where gunmen smell darkness

in every flower-

when this heart morphs

into a desert

peace comes out

as succulent

with spine-

peace is the mirage

of the green shadow,

walking with a lute

in hand-

yet you are deaf-




Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Peace @ Poets United





each little brick of this house

is harsh, dark, clumsy and tired-

you walk and memories prick-

we stay here-


mildewed souls, uttering damp words

day and night-

while in the tiny spec of land attached

where there are very few green spots,

I hadn’t noticed

when the little curry-leaf plant

had shot up into the sky

to bring seeds of light

to plant in our heart-



Posted for my prompt ~ Light @ Poets United Midweek Motif

No Flowers For Me




Even a single rose in a vase

Speak dead words-

I am no cenotaph

To be wreathed

With dead words-

Let the blooms

Light up the boughs

Till they fall-

No flowers for me ever-

[Today I chose the gift I don’t like to receive]

Posted for my prompt ~ Gift(s) @ Poets United Midweek Motif



Now I know why mountains draw me in more than the ocean. May be for that reason I rush to the Himalayas whenever I get a chance. An absolute stillness overwhelms the constantly chirping mind. I am at peace. The majestic tranquility tells me there’s nothing to fear. Why don’t the sea waters tell me that? Why do the waves pose as huge tongues to lap me up?


Is that why I love trees? Because they don’t run about and roar like the ever hungry Bengal tigers? Imagine a pine tree standing its ground in storms! Even grasses delve deep quietly into the dark soil. I find shelter in such grand stillness.


Isn’t movement graceful? Isn’t sound delightful? What is life but a rhythm with note. What’s better? To be the silver screen or the movies it shows? Or the spectator; participating in all the smiles and tears yet keeping a safe distance from the happenings simultaneously. What’s so fearsome about movement?


Yet I fear. I prefer a staircase but an escalator? Never. There’s a fear of fall that works within. Haven’t I fallen countless times when trying to ride a bicycle in my younger days? Didn’t I enjoy every struggle-moment to get onto the seat? Or am I growing a spectator mode within me? And fear is helping me to getting into that. Age is feeding the fear factor; or may be it has made me more cautious.


Life has brought me here and I don’t intend to change now. I see how every sunrise and sundown roll towards me wave like. I have neither closed my eyes nor shut my ears at their crashing and challenging noise. I don’t bathe but watch and await the grander stillness.



290 words for Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: A Pantry of Prose, #3 ~ Phobias and Fears @ Poets United

Fall Of The House Sparrows



‘Do not go gentle into that good night’,

Nest in our core to let your chicks grow;

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight.



Though ticking clock bullies ‘dark is right’,

Because mindless deeds brought dicey tomorrow.

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.



Once, you were all over, like the sky, bright,

Voices now rise for the hapless sparrow,

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight.



Feral men are everywhere in sight,

So this planet convulses in its death throes,

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’.



Our children vow it’s not ‘dying of the light’,

They are out for you and yours my little sparrow,

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight.



Little brown bird, why this Spring is so quiet

Why do corrupt souls continue the row

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’

We’ll shield till they are ready for flight



Quoted words are from Dylan Thomas’ poem ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’


Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Biodiversity @ Poets United