Author Archives: Sana Rose

About Sana Rose

Poet, Writer, Mom, Homoeopathic Physician. From Kerala, India. More at

The Balloons

My skin has festive balloons
tagged all over – smiling, bobbing,
spright and flambouyant.

Underneath the layers of skin,
my blood lurks with dead cells,
spreading, drying up into stains
of hollowness forming a murky fog
of heart-shaped lies called love,
but I cling to its presence.

I shy away from its kisses,
but my heart yearns for rectification.

The sweet after-tastes remind me
of my milked tea and honeyed lemonade,
not of the gumdrop days of beginnings.

I pour cup after cup of silence into
the empty basin, where my butterflies were.

They have lost their coloured wings,
metamorphosed into pieces of stretchy,
inflatable balloons, tagging my skin now.

I wore my heart on my sleeve,
now I wear my smiles on my skin
and my truths behind my eyelids.

– April 27th, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016

The Puppet Returns to Go (The Puppet – 11)

For the myriad ways
I cherish the air
you casually breathe…

For the thousand dawns
I find in every sunset…

For the untimely comets
crossing my star-gazing eyes;
for the colours flickering at me
from the drab brown curtains…

For the music of my own voice
rather than its silent death;
for the fragrance of wild roses
surpassing the nosy minds
with no minds in their noses…

For the delectableness of rolling words
between your palates and fingers;
for childhood dreams resurrected
with the unforgivably sweet petrichor…

For the leaves that quiver
in the stagnant evening air;
for the vertical sheets of rain
replacing my eyelashes…

For the earth I can meld into my arms
despite the thorns and stones…

For what I am and want to be,
for the sake of my soul’s satellites,
a sign board as wooden as me
I put up, on the way to town:

“For Sale! The Puppet…”

– May 18th, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016

Paper Dolls

Criss-cross, criss cross –
the scissor-blades go zig-zag.

Heads and joined arms,
joined toes and hem of skirts –
the paper unravels into
two-dimensional dolls
in multiples of ten.

I toss one more of it to the trash bin
spilling out hundreds of this obsession.

They were my army,
with no eyes, ears or mouth,
or even a nostril, let alone a nose.
And they knew nothing about
living or surviving,
let alone fighting.

I do not take offense
on their behalf,
upon their inanimity –
we are just one of them, you and me.


In love,
our hearts flutter
like paper dolls decorating
our childhood room.

In pain,
we crumple crisply,
the papery rustle filling
our emptiness.

Their wholeness is only
a part of us.


I separate the held hands,
unhook their toes,
singling them,
breaking the chain of monotony
and consistency.

Disorder is innate,
a few paper dolls shall not
rewrite it.

– April 21st, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016

When Love is a Tremble in Your Heart

When love is
a tremble in your heart,
you are a leaf,
gliding your way

The earth is ready to bed you,
let you meld into it,
take you for what you are –
an offspring of Spring…
But, bid adieu when you should –
a moment more may not be
borne well.

The branches have
many more Springs to live,
many more leaves to sprout,
but only the earth lasts…

When love is a
in your heart,

– March 31st, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016


The midnight sky is an umbrella
to my tattered, restless soul –
The moon stays past its time
to listen to my story.

I take my time to lay still,
anticipating the loudness
of silence that would tear me apart.

There is that moment
I never wanted to be in.
There is that loneliness of sorts
waiting for me
in the midst of a loud crowd.

It’s a give or take moment,
and I just let it pass
for another time.

I wonder at my indifference –
it’s alluring, captivating
and triumphant
when I finally succumb.

– March 9th, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016

When the Night Weds the Sun

The valley calls it a day,
as it eats up the sun
like in a kid’s
crayon-coloured vista
of the world –

I had pictured an early moon
when the sky darkened its face,
but the stars on the ceiling
were already in place.

I sigh through the nights,
unwillingly taking strides
with the clock hands
ticking on and on
until daybreak –
another day begins,
another dawn
for birds to rise.

But not for me;
For me, it is night
in a sparkling gown
of blinding white –
saying, “I do” with the sun.

The fireworks when the couple kiss
are their dreams and my pain –
I wait for the valley
to swallow the sun again.

© Sana Rose 2016


She has crossed rivers with you,
swam oceans for you,
burned her pride for you,
taken your hand,
and placed her strings in it.

She has danced for you,
danced with you,
danced in your heart,
forgetting her aching feet,
just to be that epitome you adore.

She has loved and lost,
loved yet again,
just to keep the world going,
taken pangs of existence
merely to live many a poem.

She has clambered mountains
just so you need not come down,
leaving behind yourself,
just to have you raw,
unfiltered and unadulterated.

She has spread her wings
to shade your face,
to veil its unpleasant shades,
to be your abode when the sun sets;
she has always endeavoured.

She has always endeavoured
to be what she is…

– March 8th, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016


Her tear would get a pass
Through your heart
If she cracked it well enough.
But no, she wouldn’t,
Lest it would change you.

The dewdrop on her cheek
Is a passive adornment for you,
Never seen in real light,
Never wiped by your finger,
Lest it would be real.

The pain in her bosom
Is a poetic fiction of sorts,
Read not even for fun,
And never opened to,
Lest it becomes tangible.

She is the blazing sun
That can hold it all,
Yet rise and shine everyday,
Yet don’t let you touch her core,
Lest you burn yourself…

© Sana Rose 2016


Her need to feed
Is urgent, natural,
Made for –
The dewy child suckles
Contently in her lap.

The same dewy child
Grows diabolic horns,
Spits up curdled milk
On her blue-green bosom;

Digs his tiny nails
Into her tender flesh,
Unearths feasts
For his greedy bones.

Buries his own rotten flesh
In her sacred valleys;
Evaporates her springs
And incinerates her mane.

You are Earth…

You were.

-January 29th, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016

The Volcano

The crackles of fire
Muted to infinity
Penetrate the hollow heart.

The frozen teardrops
Are its jewels,
The billowing curtains
Adorn the camaraderie,
Concealing the fissures.

A sigh hydrates
The aridity within
Quite constantly;
The perspiration involved
Is premature,
Just not enough.

Unyielding thoughts
Engaged within,
Just to hold back.

The hopes ensconced
Are cyanotic,
Dreams malnourished…

There is only
One way out –
It’s a volcano…

– January 18th, 2016
© Sana Rose 2016