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



Kindness is a clay pot

with water

for birds-

kindness is daily living

with healing


kindness is a hand

picking up shards

of a soul-

kindness is kintsugi

treating breakage

with gold-

kindness is existence

that feels like

a breeze-

kindness is you

a true part

of me



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


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

Zero Tolerance

Syrian Kurds Battle IS To Retain Control Of Kobani

Google Image

I have zero tolerance

for the worshipers of violence

that unleash Lucifer

to other lands

in the name of army

to sniff oil in others’ soil,

to make their ‘streets melancholy’

their ‘minarets mourn’,

to kill and get killed-

while their angels at home

are on a shooting spree-

how playfully they kill-

I tell the wrathful deities,

of the trigger happy nations:

stop writing horror stories-

live and let others live-

but they have no ear, no eye, no heart

save a big, illiterate mouth that runs deep

to the abyss dark

to churn out words of liquid fire-

we have seen so many

bellicose civilizations seethe and fizz

like pathetic bubbles before-

these scourges will pass too-

Words within inverted commas are from Nizar Qabbani’s poem Jerusalem


Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Zero Tolerance @ Poets United

Put Out The Light…..



Darkness is a white misty world

where light is not absent

yet you can’t sight him-

his frozen words no more breathe-

darkness is angst and despair-

darkness is disheveled hair,

the loosening of the tight bun

to be hung to the waist-

darkness is dried up milk in breast-

darkness is insomnia,

a million spark

to be surged on paper-

darkness is a flair,

a fire,

a burnt soul-

darkness is a dead love,

a forever sleep

in a kitchen gas oven-

to be resurrected in luminous words-

(Whatever I have written here had happened to Sylvia Plath, one of my favorite poets)

Posted for my prompt ~ Darkness Is….. @ Poets United Midweek Motif

Why This Hurry

(it seems our normally very brief winter will be briefer this year)



Gliding through the mist

Winter alighted

On my palm-

It held in its beak

A marigold promise

Of staying long-

Its plumage not as bright-

Eyes listless

feet, in fear-

In a feeble chrysanthemum note

It crooned into my ears

About the lost bees-

Then I don’t know why

It threw all its song into the fire

And left me to a pitiless sun so soon-


Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Climate Change @ Poets United

The Poet Has Gone

It’s comfortably cold here-

Winter birds have all come-

The pond is full

With water, tree-shadows and fish-

The blue sky seems dreamy,

So are the night stars-

Things of beauty,

Scattered everywhere

Like a Mary Oliver page-

Yet there’s an uncanny calm-

Where’s the ecstasy gone

With the “luminous fruits”,

“emerald eddies”, “lean owls”

“egrets”, “daisies” and all……

When I close my eyes

I see ‘red’

What’s burning, methinks-

A fire in a forest in a faraway land

Or a heart?

An ear of mine catches a note-

Is it a dirge in the woods?

May be-

A poet is gone-

Words in inverted commas are from Mary Oliver’s Poems


Posted for Poetry Pantry #436 @ Poets United