All walks are not the same-

when you are crossing a border

your feet become your heart

pounding your thoughts-

All walks are not the same-

when you stand dazed

in front of the Buland Darwaza

having lost track of all the words-

close your eyes, you’ll time travel

what use is there of your feet?

All walks are not the same-

when you walk to the Dashashwamedh ghat

your heart becomes the Ganga

flowing for centuries-

you take a boat, ride and see them,

lying in a row at Manikarnika

you watch, how they have crossed the bar

flinging away this body-



Posted for my prompt ~ Walk @ Poets United Midweek Motif





In search of poems today

I stepped onto my tiny stretch

of a land,

a garden? may be,

which is strange and enchanted-

(a poem is very much possible

even on the tip of a leaf here)

here reside strong willed

trees, plants, shrubs-

queer fellows they are-

they chose the site and flourished

without a care for a gardener-

they have weird ways

of asserting themselves-

like this white periwinkle,

that even forced its way

into this poem.



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



On the other side

of this twilight bridge

where I am standing now,

there is a deep, dark and lovely

forest of stars-



on the other side

of this autumn bridge

where I am now standing,

there is vast, white and charming

fabric of rest-



this is a moment for celebration, for



there is a sun birth

and a spring birth

after this bridge journey ends-




Posted for my prompt ~ Bridge @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Plastic Bags


Plastic bags in feisty flight,

In the deeps not so bright,

What witless hand or eye,

Could frame thy immortal symmetry?


What dreams and hopes inspired,

Oblivious of the Nature’s ire,

To drag the world into a charming hell,

Where day and night tolls the knell?


And what mind and what brain,

Could design thee to be omnipresent?

The summit of Everest and polar caps,

Skip their heart beat, pant and gasp.


When marine lives choke and die,

The giant gyre of litter* sighs.

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who wrote poems make thee?


Plastic bags in feisty flight,

In the deeps not so bright,

What witless hand or eye,

Dare frame thy immortal symmetry?



[I used William Blakes poem The Tyger as my inspiration for today’s prompt]

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Plastic Bags @ Poets United Midweek Motif


*Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Thus Spake The Baby Blue Eyes


Image credits: Teerayut Hiruntaraporn



What would have happened if this ground remained as a military base as it was formerly? You’d probably hear voices of ammunitions and blood even today. But we have erased the last trace of war from the very air around here; we, the teeny, tiny blooms. We have made this part of the planet a floral paradise.


I am Baby Blue Eyes of the Boraginaceae plant family, dwelling in this Hitachi Seaside Park in Japan. If you wish to see me come between April and the early week of May when I lol with four and a half million of my sisters and brothers stretching over 190 hectares, seeing the humans’ futile attempt to take a ‘person free landscape photo’. I have heard them say, ‘Anyway we’ll photoshop them out of here, later.’ Do the tourists from all over the world flock to see how we blend the ground and the spring sky! They gasp, ‘Surreal!’ The Japanese call this, ‘Nemophila Harmony’. Nemophila, is another name for us. But what’s in a name?


No, I am gravely mistaken. Doesn’t the name Hiroshima or Nagasaki send chill down your spine? Fukushima? And Chernobyl? I hear Chernobyl has a happy ending? People say, trees have taken over. Researchers have seen brown bears, lynxes, European bison, boar and Przewalski’s horses are thriving there. Hurrah for biodiversity! Sorry to say but it is an unexpected side effect of evacuating people from the area.



Image: Proyecto TREE/Sergey Gaschack


However I love humans. All the world is my family. If you give me a little space in your garden I assure you I won’t harm a single plant. I’d rather create a sky drop on your green spot. I look quite pretty as a hanging plant as well as a potted one. If you decide to have me in your home I’ll snuggle into your heart. My promise.

(307 Words)



Posted for Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero : a Pantry of Prose, #4 ~ From the Point of View of Trees @ Poets United