Category Archives: Poetry

The place for all your poetry to be shared with the world

A Future when I’m Not

A future when I’m not
I can clearly imagine
Although it should mean nought
I am quite oddly caught
As I shouldn’t have been
Invested in this plot

Perhaps I think the Earth
And Mankind should survive
To wait for my rebirth
But then is there a dearth
Of planets where to thrive
In many a Universe ?

Now Sonja made me think
About Future and I
Is there really a link ?
Advanced age made me blink
Time quickly passes by
So quite soon I shall sink

And although simple reason
Tells me I won’t be here
For this or other season
The logical cohesion
Perhaps from latent fear
Shows no sign of adhesion

Perhaps I am not honest
For although I imagine
The Future but at best
It isn’t the longest
I’m not in but I’m in
As if a ghostly guest

For I’m the one imagining
Even the Future I’m not in
So without me there is nothing
Now this is not too flattering
Although it falls far short of sin
I fear I am just babbling

( ASA )

The time zones of emotions

People’s emotions are like time zones.

Someone out there is a mellow morning
in whose crimson yellow warmth flower eyes bloom
and petal eyelids dance
merrily, merrily in mirth.

Someone out there is the night of the no moon-
plunged into a solitary black hole
exposed too early to the dark truth
from an unexpectedly early sunset
in a family of two.

Someone out there is an afternoon-
a fiery passionate rebellious red
shouting slogans for reforms
from the seething heat of hunger strike
of a cauldron belly.

Someone out there is that translucent wee hour
love-making secretly in the fantastic reality
of a romantic mood as two bowl lips
serve the best of their essences.

Still, yet, someone out there is that
delicate twilight-
nostalgia rains in collages of black and white
blurred memories of second childhood
invite the first
Eastman images flash in between.

People’s emotions are like time zones
and these time zones change
when left unperturbed
for the universe knows to strike a balance
and make equilibrium exist.

Brindha Vinodh

Sitting here.

Sitting here.

If I stop and take a break… yes take a breath.
Will you sit by me and try to understand the world?
Out of everything we did it all on our own.
We didn’t needed anything… at the least anybody.

If I sit here… oh yes just sit here to puzzle our world.
Would you sit by me… yes share one moment?
If we sit here could we forget the world?
Emancipace all we ever shared and still sit here?

We don’t understand Us… yet quite we feel the same.
We try to express how we feel still we fail to understand.
The three little words is said so often, hollowed out and worthless.
Still they are the most powerful we can express but they are never enough.

If we sit here… oh yes just sit here and exchange opinions.
Could we then forget what they told us… forget the world?
Before time get to old… would you show me a place abounds with life?
If you just sit here by my side…please let me know your wonder.

Let us stop the waste of time… to much lost never return.
I need your grace and magic… so could you bring me back there?
I just sit here… try to remind me how to find my own.
If you sat by me… yes just stayed and removed all my doubts, I would live.

All that I am and became lies buried in your impenetrable eyes.
Now I just sit here bewildered by what I once was.
Will you be sitting here… yes just sit here and tell me once again about us?
I don’t know where to sit… confused about how as well… where can we sit?

The little woman

Once, in a little village lived a little woman

In a little hut surrounded by little trees.

A little rivulet meandered amidst little wild flowers

And little bushes that sang songs sweet.

She smiled unabashedly and her little face

Glowed with delight while the little candles flickered

On the little table spreading light in the little kitchen.

Hers was a ‘back to basic’ kind of a little life

Where needs were little and desires as well little.

She made her own little loaves of bread

That she ate with a little cheese and salad.

She ate the little that she produced

In her little garden with little beds.

Calm and relaxed, she had compassion for the little creatures

Of God, like the birds, insects, bees and butterflies.

The little bees gave her honey, the insects pollinated her little fruit blossoms

And the birds and the butterflies added joys to her little heart.

Deep inside her, she knew that she would rock a little baby

In a little cradle and give satisfaction

To her maternal instinct with little tinges of pride.

Dauntless, the little woman pursued her dreams

In her little world evolving with love and peace.

pramila khadun

My Warring legs

“Six decades of coalition comes to an end”
Threat was from my old tired legs.
But how can a relationship be snapped this way?
I adamantly demanded an answer-
“After all “I declared “you are just a part of me,
And have no right to threaten me like this”.

Then began the lament of my legs-
“Don’t you teach us what our rights are!
Have you ever treated us with love and affection?
We have always been taken for granted ,
Let us make it very clear to you dear thankless lady-
“We are not a set of Indian homemakers to be taken for granted infinitely!”
Diwali ,pongal, ganesh chaturthi or a birthday of your loved ones,
Long rows of mouthwatering dishes you made all for your darlings
Have you ever thought about us for a moment ?
Had we not supported you for hours and hours together?

“Long walks around the temples praying incessantly for something,
Carrying home a big bag full of vegetables for an array of next day cooking,
Running after a loaded bus at the last minute –
All this was made possible because of us .
You never gave us our due and
We have supported you for half a century and more,
Now enough is enough we are breaking our ties with you!
With helplessness and disbelief ,
I kept looking at my warring legs!!!

My Photo Albums Part1

Yes,they are many.
Lost the count,Yes!of the albums,
Not the photos,Is the least to say.
I, the one, with prosaic thoughts in plenty,
love my countless collections.
Oldest one dating to my freedom fighter grand mother,faded and jaded
Latest one up to three years back ,
After which my phone;s memory card took over the duty.
I do not quite like it.
The ease of browsing through countless pictures.
I prefer touching the photograph,
Earlier ones or the recent ones,
Metallic toned or matt,which I prefer as it helps me,
Soak the memories in picture,through its texture.
I spill countless invisible tears as many pictures are lost.
I forgot them in rush of life
And they stuck to each other for silent conversation.

A Missing Photograph

A morning lost in reflection
And small talk, where answers
Are offered before questions are asked – –

Where ancient anecdotes draw blank faces
Through unvaried retelling – –
Your voice guides me to a room

Filled with cobwebbed memories
And dead spiders – –
You stare at me

Through a beam of dust
Young and framed
Six feet above the ground – –

There is no smile on your face:
Annoyed by your mother’s refusal to let
You wear that long skirt

You had designed and stitched yourself
“Protecting” you, you said, from the overfriendly
Photographer’s sepia-toned gaze – –

I must now liberate you from this glass cell
And let you out on your last parole
To visit your parents and your husband

Residing, dear mother, in the timeless family album.

Fall, only fall

Rain, insidious rain
Cannibal rain
Impoverishing rain

Droplets, tormenting droplets
Ledges, drums for the droplets
Punishment for the eardrums 

Fall, only fall
Fallen leaves, pavements soaked
Drenched in leaves
Putrid leaves

Puddles bitting at our shoes
Puddles sipping the whole army of clouds 

Rain, more rain, only rain 

Women growing sad, their wrinkles follow the droplets’ pattern on the sheet of glass
Their lives grow roots that meet the trees’ roots under pavements

Knots germinating
Brewing new seasons

But for now

Rain, insidious rain
Cannibal rain
Nauseating rain
Breaking knees rain