A new leaf

There are poems inside of me

That paper cant handle

Turn a new leaf, they say

New year, new beginnings,

cast far off from the painful yesterday;



Another pile of  resolutions,


Its not a magic wand

Old doings will haunt

Old frames pertinently stay

I cannot be unaware of the

real day;


Drawing : Pooja Verma


It hurts my creativity

O Angels, my eyes go misty

give me some naivete!

There is no rest, no repose

I don’t want to understand anymore;


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As I travel through time;

Or it travels through me, sublime;

For each is its own paradigm;

I think of that place;

If it can be called a place;

Beyond time and space;

Where, as souls, we gather;

In our stations, you and I together.


Sharing our aspirations;

Not by words or actions;

Those are for mortal men and maidens;

But by the presence of the other;

For soul mates, we were;

Savouring in the company of one another.


Looking down into the dark abyss;

We see those who have a long way to go;

And above us are those who glow;

Each in their own rank and row;


We know that to rise into that glow;

We must create time and space;

Into which we must take human form to grace;

Forgetting each other;

And all we shared together;

Into the hands of the Blacksmith;

To be burnt and forged therewith.


And when the pain is not bearable;

And the purpose becomes a baffle;

And there is no way to pass;

And life seems a morass;

The kindly Blacksmith, awesome;

Throws us into our soul mates bosom.


Who for now is a stranger;

Whom we seem to have known forever;

To whom we want to open our hearts bare;

As we did before with little care;

But clouded by our acquired ego;

We loosen the reins slowly to show;

Our joy with this soul from long ago.


Alas, it has been the Blacksmith’s play;

To bring together soul mates gone astray;

At the direst moments of their way;

For relief, but only for a short stay.


Be warned O Blacksmith;

Lest the heavens be torn apart;

That this time around;

Your mallet shall take respite;

Contributing poet, and friend Vilochan

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Drawing : Courtesy Pooja

Write , erase, shadows, bits of light

I can never feel satis-fied

It’s the same, history

There is no mystery.

Rarely I feel this bright,

Like that precious light

Of the eclipse!


Traversing along, in our

Own orbits, closing in maybe

Till we crossed paths

And I , like the moon

Blocked your world

You are so much brighter than me

Glowing in your endless fire

Engulfing me, embracing

My entire

I felt so bright,

Like that precious light

Of the eclipse!


They say its unlucky

Someone stole the moon

Dusk n dawn of colours canary

 But I was lost in awe, you

aligning  into my orbit,

Warming me, embracing

My entire

I felt so right,

With your precious light

Of the eclipse!








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                                                                        Live art drawing by Sophia Chiang, live model Sanan

It has been a lifetime

As I struggled with the demons of mine

That pretended to be values

And virtues

Whispering that living for others is godly

While serving my needs is worldly



And for ages I flowed

In the river of life

Half drowned

Seeking salvation

In my confusion


I must thank you

Whom the gods sent at the right time

As I struggled to surface in that river

To give me a reason

To stay above the water


Tonight I shall raid the heavens

And lay down my claim

Right or wrong

That the gods keep us together

For as long as you want.

  Contributing poet, and dear friend Vilochan


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What place is this
That beckons me to let go
To be as I wish to be
Unrestrained by the shackles of norm
Answerable only to myself

Here the clouds gather heavy
The wind has stilled itself
The leaves shake no more
But the birds continue to call out
Telling me that the clouds are only passing by
That I should continue lying down
Under the open sky

But why?
Why should I choose you
Over all else
To unshackle my restraints
When that which I yearn for
Has taken another form                                                                                                                             And there is none worthy anymore

v-doodleContributing poet, and friend Vilochan

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Brain workout



Some days I write blog posts,

………and some days are spend

mulling over my artist friend’s vacant canvas

or another’s tea n tattoo fetish,

worry about the one who is stuck in training,

or the one who went trekking in the

heat of September.


don’t get me wrong, It is rather exciting to

have a brain workout with friends’ issues,

than my own, beaten twisted struggles.


This was a friendspiration week. No regrets!

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Filed under Latest Story, The making of Me

Ink, Illustrated on skin

Each pattern has a meaning

boasting of circumstances and colours

symbolic of

love, hate, rebellion, stuff in between

of facts and memories, that one wished

to hold onto, tight, tight from

under the skin, ligament

even marrow, if I may add.


Strange dilemmas, to share or not to

share, to expose or not, the heartaches

determined to guard then just

scream it all out, a proof in pain, the

ultimate creative expression, intended to

preserve the spirit, an extended companion

for life; I ‘ll  add you in my list of the

strong and mad.



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Ochre deep




For you Pooja, Happy B day!

I ve been contemplating

reflecting actually, a lot

not like I ve discovered anything new.

Same voice, same harangue

for the 1023rd time, maybe an exaggerated

number, how does it matter

shameless is shameless.


Stop procrastinating, start working,

clean  palette, squeeze, mix, smear, go onn….

basically, I may end up

never getting my act together; yet

I am  your little canary , the brilliant timbrado ,

my song like water notes – droplets, or flowy,

a’times bubbling high tones,

forever sweet and guileless.

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Case history


Contrary to what you may believe

or give examples of me so cool and free,

in actuality is, objectively putting

unharvested anxiety and brain acid oozing

like branches of a tree.


Hours never enough, works left undone

imagination and will running in their own spree,

brilliance caged, at a place of no outlet

no substance, not even context to disagree.


interiors convulsing, entangled

ideas breeding like a crazed queen bee,

negotiating with the passions , mellow down

to bring forward only the decent, that’s a guarantee.



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Greetings from the couch


A short , or a longer phase of me

being ….out of service, is pathetically

dangerous, I tell you.

Although I strongly believe travel gives

perspective for some fresh writing,

but the baggage of vacation is

no fun!


Packing, rush, the rigmarole of delays and crammed

seats, un needed trashy buffets

frenzy of holidaying people, silly purchases

sad pillows at the B & B s,  sadder staff, I

return with loads of laundry

perspective , anyone?


Act positive, I KNOW!

rearrange my cushions, get back into position of

that right comfort, let in the flow, perhaps

a stronger round of coffee, fresh memories

of the orange sunset, chirping birds, corncobs

revel till done.


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