Chasing your shadow
in the night, I realise that
you have been long dead.
Come to me, my love
and taste the nectar from
my garden of Eden.
A drought in monsoon
brings to me the flood of your
A dusty road leads
me to a place I call home –
the warmth of your breasts.
Gallows are my home,
for I have notoriously
sinned to be your lover.
The winter night sends
familiar chills down my spine –
you stole my fire away.
Mornings find a lover
in bed, a cigarette to smoke,
and a song to sing.
Wake up to a day
where I braid your golden hair
into silver locks.
Oh, my love! Won’t you
practice charity – won’t you
look at me for once?
The wind blows from south
and brings to me the scent of
your freshly-washed hair.
Find the art here.
Making a path through
dingy, unwashed lanes
to avoid your eyes that seem to follow me
and trace my movements at the galleries,
post-midnight drinking sessions in the company of wayward friends,
and sound dreams while sleeping inside a nailed coffin.
Blasphemic, showering sins on the common, country folks with grey and
wrinkled coats –
face deprived of moisture.
Your eyes that watch me,
are barkish brown in colour and reflects the light
like a 3.3 billion-year-old bright, bright glittering diamond,
which has just seen the sun
and was once a burning piece of charcoal.
Your eyes that follow me
are framed with lashes so black
that the darkness shies away.
Sometimes the moans of a jovial maiden
are heard in my dreams,
giving me a sense of upliftment –
I smile in my sleep –
content like the lips locked in the last kiss
of parting lovers.
your eyes greet me again,
to the sunshine which I now carry,
tied on my weary shoulders
to offer you when darkness arrives
and becomes your only companion.
to be seen by me.
Title courtesy: Seher Dareen. Read her beautiful blog here.
Art by Patrick Ogle.
Flower petals withering
in the season of spring,
talking in whispers
to the orange-painted walls of a place
I have learnt to call home –
Everything rhymes with rain
and I love you
with a SIDEWAYS EIGHT.
eye me at the corner of a street
and I eye you
as you pass me by –
your leather shoe soles
kissing the dust painted streets
where we once held hands in my dream
where a serpent got hold of me and
injected poison in my heart.
And now I rest my heart – size of a fist –
in the closed chambers,
the keys of which only you have the skills
Everything rhymes with cobwebs,
and when you rejected me,
you left me with a little COLON, APOSTROPHE, OPEN PARENTHESES.
The owls only hoot
in the clock-ticking hours of the night
to remind me of a life
I have long wanted to live
while I paint myself with
Everything rhymes with TICK-TOCK,
and it’s not my fault that I decorated
you with a LESS THAN SIGN, SLASH, THREE.
A mirage of life
was dug up in my grave
so I buried my words
and decided to live
DASH, UNDERSCORE, DASH.
Nothing rhymes with orange.
Inspired by ShadowPuppeteer’ ¿¡Everything Rhymes with Orange!?.
Art by Sharon Cummings.
The big, black clouds engulf the sky
where dusk-winged birds to home they fly,
the flutter of which does stir the air –
carries to me the scent of your hair.
Thus I approach the pattering drops
that drench the waiting, golden crops,
fill the air with an earth-like smell,
flushes my cheeks – oh, much too pale.
The doors are shut – no visitors to come,
to tease the rain, a flask of rum;
to wish that you were here with me too,
would drain the flask and paint me blue.
So while you wait and count your days
in your dainty and sparkling ways,
I count my nights too – lying awake,
and write to invite you for my wake.
Art: ‘Morning On The Seine In The Rain’ by Claude Monet
You invited me today,
finally, to your home,
but I refused –
my legs are tired in your pursuit.
Under the fan, I sit
and see it spinning like
my mind spins
when you are near.
My clothes smell of you
after you pressed your warm body
My laundry basket is empty.
While I wait for
the veggies to fry,
I write her a letter –
seventh one this week.
A month later
that I have forgotten you.
I could talk of you
but my lips are sealed –
sore with your kisses.
Hold me in your arms,
let your fragrance linger
and watch me die from
the wounds of your rejection.
Kiss me on my naked body,
leave those bite marks
on which the flowers will bloom
when spring arrives.
You’ll remember me
after you see your name
on my gravestone, saying:
Your lover, for time and eternity.
My mind sings
in your remembrance –
the verses are your moans.
blow the winds from north blow warm,
rustle up a drying leaf or two,
let the embroidered curtains unwind –
my lover is in wait.
let the flies buzz
and the birds chirp,
let the musicians tune their instruments –
my lover is in wait.
let the spade fall
and dig up the dry soil-
two feet deep and seven feet long;
let me lie down and be gone –
my lover is in wait.