Prose Vs. Poetry


[I have been in space and time where and when my dazed thoughts were made of vacuum. Words dared not enter there. There was existence, consciousness and vacuum. No prose, no poetry. May be prose was first to make appearance and much later in a stable form was poetry.]




Do I mourn

in prose

or in poem?

it’s salty wordlessness-

while each cell is

the cathedral spire of Notre Dame;

my house of prayer within

is in flame-

do I go to

prose or to poem?

it’s salty wordlessness-

neither a long howl

nor a sigh-

it’s always wordlessness-




Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Writing Prose @ Poets United





When I think of you

the tall, dark and handsome fellow

With the halo of a smile

I love to sin




in infinite ways

mon amour

thou dark chocolate-

I don’t mind

getting lost with you


in des(s)ert

my sweetheart-


swallow me up,






Posted for my prompt ~ Temptation @ Poets United Midweek Motif

The Eyes


I didn’t know my eyes had tongue. My aching body desperately wanted to take a little siesta. Curtains were drawn, windows closed save one for this body of mine needs a bit of a sky, a bit of greenery and a bit of bird voice before it retires into numbness of slumber.


My eyes stuck out its tongue to the morose hanging curtains and ventured out into the blue sky. Alas! Hungry clouds had devoured the last trace of its blueness; how solemnly grey they looked! Poor heartbroken eyes! Like cut off kites they were gliding downwards and got stuck in one of the branches of the huge mango tree……to be pleasantly surprised. Wow! Weren’t they mere blossoms only a few weeks ago? Now just look at them! Like little green fairies they came out of the flowers and enjoying a swing in the wet breeze. They were all survivors of the first April storms. Confident little mangoes!


Eyes decided to have a closer look at the pond. So they came down. In no time they spotted a white stork meditating on one leg. Clever fishes were nowhere to be seen. Three water fowls were moving to and fro  heaven knows for what. Cuckoos and sunbirds and barbets and whatnots were pouring music into the air. The highly talented eyes were quick to sprout ears to hold all the notes being played. That was a great feat. All on a sudden a small black cormorant popped out on the surface of the green pond. It must have been having a good meal inside the water world.


Eyes were excited.


Not so the body.


The tussle began.



Weary feet managed to get near the window and the hands pulled the curtains down. Lips did a smiley. Ears closed all doors. From the veranda wafted rose fragrance. Now my eyes grew a nose.


Posted for Telling Tells With Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #2 ~ Magical Realism @ Poets United. It has 313 words including the title. Hope it fulfills what Magaly hopes for.


Supple, nimble, tender,

self-less but busy hands

do not much think about

E m p o w e r m e n t-

they work


in unconditional love-

mending broken nest-

raising fledglings alone-

their breath is a blessing-

they hold a sky in one hand

and a world in the other-

they stir you

to kindle and radiate

wordless love-



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


His words

scald the souls


the poor wife-

the only son-

the mother in law-


he neighbors us well-

honey and sugar

he is

to those living close by-

he keeps our keys when we are away-

in times of need he’s by your side always-

he has earned the sobriquet,

gentlest of men-

all rough edges smoothen,

thorns spell petals,

when it’s a neighbor-


the tooth and nail; the knife and stone

are kept intact

for home usage-

should I love this “crooked neighbor”

with my “crooked heart”?


Quoted words are from Auden’s poem, ‘As I Walked Out One Evening’



Posted for my prompt ~ Neighbors @ Poets United Midweek Motif


The old lady at my doorstep in the dark envelope of dawn is a letter read thousand times over. We all know what unsightly words she is made of. A letter without the writer’s address, greetings; no comma, no full stop and no question mark. A ransom letter she is. I become the exclamation mark in bracket and resort to become a hyphen with the other member of the family when I am compelled to read it.


The envelope glides down. She tears it open and steps out of it, clad in a white sari, covering her head with the pallu*. She has a long stick with a huge iron hook looking like a malicious grin attached to the end in her right hand; her eyes intent on the kill. One of the Weird Sisters!


This is the time when my flower babies have begun to yawn, shaking off nightly slumber. Mother hibiscus lets the ladybirds, radiating their scarlet halo creep her branches. They will make a meal of aphids once they are spotted. The purple sunbirds will alight for the nectar soon. Mother won’t be surprised if the Red-whiskered bulbul pair comes back this year too for nesting. Last year all three fledglings survived and winged away.


I give a muffled call to the husband. He comes looking like the monster fish forever fixed on the wall of the Bandra’s Chapel Road. “Whatever’s going on here?” he thunders. “Flower plucking”, comes the reply in C Major. “We don’t appreciate thieving; why don’t you pluck your own flowers? Leave at once”, he completes keeping the rumbling tone intact.


She disappears swinging her small bamboo basket where lies my plucked out heart. Her dirty look stays on.


You either become a selfish giant and raise the wall higher or unsee the happenings around you. I am still thinking. What would you do?



*pallu = loose end of a sari



Street Art In Chapel Road | ©SatishKrishnamurthy/Flickr



Posted for Telling Tales With Magaly Guerrero: A Pantry of Prose, 1. @ Poets United. I chose the first option of taking one of my poems What Is A Wall For to turn it into a short story



It isn’t a sunny day today

when you spot

pigeons against a dreamy blue-

and miss the sparrows

or even crows-

when your thoughts escape

like little white sails

in a cloud trail-

but today

you outstretch your hands

to hold the clouds

in raindrops-

cold, wet-

look at those huge fronds

of coconut palms


all those mango flowers

determined not to fall off

swaying with the wind-

and you are thinking

of the war clouds


over your borders-

it isn’t a sunny day today-



Posted for my prompt ~ Cloud @ Poets United Midweek Motif