Poems. 

{Purple} 

The warm ambers in the sky
make love beautifully with the blue hues. There is no positive and negative;
those are just views.
Not to say they don’t exist,
but there is more too.
How do we make love to both sides in truth? Tell me,
How does the sun rise and set?
How does the moon sink and swim?
Who is to say what is blue?
When the ambers blend in too?
Of all of the clues
I see the purple hue.

{Cold Feet}

May those feet
forever be cold
As a reminder
That warmth is a walk away
When it whispers come hither
As though it is enough
to be comfortable
Do not get fooled
Stay uncomfortable...

{Beyond Choice}

What looks real from far,
May disappear from close.
But both exist, you see the irony?
The two truths?
There is no one universal truth.
There are many little ones,
That each one has a false in it too.
You see one can’t exist without the other,
It’s not either nor, it is none or all.

Look at how nature shows us variety,
Not as choices,
Do you see what I mean?
Do you see how they all get along?
It’s our human nature to
Be splitting it all into right or wrong
Nature just breathes and grows
Dies slow. With grace and dignity,
Regrets are only for mortals.

{Favorite Aunt}

There is a depth now
In her silence,
A beauty in her omnipresence,
She lives in every leaf, and every word and every tree.
Her life a beautiful example
Of unconditional love
And devotion to her own
Keeping aside, at every step,
what the world thinks.
For she knew more,
She knew the world doesn’t see
The beauty that surrounds life
In art, books and poetry.
In the laughter of children,
the sorrows of the weak
She touched each one
With a heart, that’s judgement free
She would openly speak
Her spirit free
Her heart clean,
her mind always looking for peace.
She turned every suffering
Into a thing of beauty
The love given
Never expected receipt
There was no tally
No transaction in the world
that could begin to match her generosity
My favorite aunty,
She taught me how to read,
For the love of stories
Not to excel in anything particularly
Not to compete
But to enjoy the imagination
Of imagines worlds and their shared beauty.
She taught me the art of giving
By giving me everything
The happiness in little things,
Pickled jars and a hot cup of tea
And all I can think of
Is the beauty she leaves
For you will seek
What you find,
And find what you seek.
And like a magician
At work
She turned all the world’s suffering
Into a loving peace.
In her smile, and child-like voice
She would speak of what no one sees.

And now she has left us
In a graceful silence
leaving us to understand
A simple thing
That no matter what,
And how deep one’s suffering,
You will always find strength
In the lesson.
That only love can teach.

{Grandma}

The chain stitch

Goes over and through

Pierce the needle

In heart of the loop

The shoelace

You cross and turn

Into butterflies’ wings

Watch carefully, will you learn?

 
Keep the ribbons

From those gifts

You will need them

I promise you this.

Don’t fold those corners

For books, that is sin

How would you feel

If I bent your skin?

{Smile}

Undress that polite smile

I know your cheeks hurt

Show me those pursed lips

That pause in your mind

What you really think.

{The theory of dark matter}

We are porous beings. Constantly letting in, constantly letting out. Passing time through us in different shapes and forms. We are a hole made up of a million holes, intertwined in stories. And thus, we are storytellers; an amalgamation of twisted truths to use at our disposal. We are porous beings, constantly eroding, dissolving away as each of our story dies, falling to the ground on deaf ears. Slowly disappearing, bit by bit, blind to the naked eye- just as quick as the flutter of the butterfly wing, or as slow as the dying of a leaf. Unseen. Imperceptible. Until we vanish, and all that remains is our stories. And stories of our stories.

Entitled to nothing except our seemingly negotiated end. To our silence.

Use not words to speak, as the language of the tongue dies a thousand deaths; use the words of silence as there are none. Silence will teach you to speak again.

{A kind of silence}

Even the silence

Is silent

The found is lost again

Dwelling in sweet bitterness

Are the truths to avoid.

{Love and ends}

The unspoken words,

a last wish, lover’s regret & what if’s.

The wind’s bends, the dead ends,

the loose ropes and knotted hands.

{Quarrel}

Who dares ask for the sunset,

but fails to mention the moonrise?

The blues of the oceans,

but not the blacks of the skies?

{New Year}

It seems silly that time is measured in days, 365 as people say, but it is not lived in days. The muse in me looks for the muse that isn’t me. In dishes and the fog lifting slowly, the rain and snow together as though my familiar world precipitates in a togetherness of this one. I try to review, contemplate the time passed, but it doesn’t feel present to contemplate on and seems to disappear as quickly as it appears. The day feels no different but there is an emptiness to it, as though even though the earth is still moving and is unaware of its movement, but the ground is, because it feels still. Today I feel like the crisp of paper, the clarity of to do lists, the touch of ink on type and lettering, everything evaporates, leaving me with this insatiable presence of just today. Is it the last or the first, is it any different. Not for me. Not to me. I have so much to mourn and so much to celebrate. Years of existence appearing and disappearing in breaths. Everything feels new all the time, so the new year has lost its significance. It’s beautifully plain.