Chameleon


The chameleon is a quiet creature. It is slow and patient, it does not much mind its surroundings but it focuses solely on one thing, the capture of its prey.

Easy Going


An old, pink railroad track runs over a lake, by my hometown. It’s nothing spectacular in and of itself, but the view as a whole is quite peaceful. The din made by the trains are not too pleasant, but the most appealing thing is the lake itself. The water just stays still, train or no train. I wish I were that easygoing.

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Ripped apart,
Downstairs she stares.

Basket,
Rocking chair.
Old electrics ring as
Enough kitchen content
Swoons
The devalue of bloodshed.
Dish cloth impale.
Hands wrung,
Dirty juts and cigarette butts.
Yellow fronts. Bowed
Dirtying hair.
Tablecloth canvas
Flash rinse.
Liar’s twist.
Fun loving blags
In centres and ends.
Mirrors
Golden the kitchen sink.
Washing up dry
Where quick hits hit.
A bass line. Bouncing
Off it’s silver manuscript.
Laughs grin and grind
Like flutters,
The mopped floor
A camera lens.
Double-edged.
Tomorrow cuts from today.
Folded menu
His love lies within.
Strong white and fizzing
Cutlery jangles mismatched.
Washing line somber

Yesterday’s rain.
A ride rattles by.

Picture by Adrien Olichon

Vishalakshi

‘Vishalakshi’, who is worshipped as a hindu deity in our country, is truly a vajrayanic Buddhist Deity who got included within hindu iconography. She is often represented as a goddess standing on the corpse of Shiva and holding a sword and shield similar to Goddess Kali. The upper and lower triangles represent the union of Shiva and Shakti resulting in cosmic manifestation.

The Gardener


Summer heat,
Pathway, brickwork,

Cry –
Touch warm brown
On fingers weightless
Stroking through.
Green feather frills
Offering endless love.

Lain hollow blurs
Levels. Fast grief
Embeds remains.
Dirty rubble
Across grainy palms,
Drought submerged.
Circulation
Running still.

Dancing winds
Stabilise.
Dizzy energetic flip around.
Each striven flower
Scent cuts out.
Bare negatives root
Down to drink.

Aside the petals
Pressed in parts
On that paving stone.
Beats the owner,
Boot black in blocks,
Redder than sweetheart
Or my love.
From insane to adore
To cleanse.


Sharp circle.
Lips, tucked glass.
Touches and holds
On the inside.
Outside of rain drops,
Of wine drops,
Stroke like sunshine
Lifting middles.
Sweet insides,
Sweet song.

Picture by Vince Fleming (Unsplash)

Boon of life


Life is a myth – a confluence of reality and fiction. They are inseparable. One can not really comprehend where exactly the reality ends and the fiction sets in. This poem puts forth a ‘dystopic’ dilemma that an exuberant life can only overcome.

Is life a poison that slowly pushes us to death,
Or an elixir that prevents the death from coming?
Regardless of whether we all live dying or die living,
Everything becomes nothing with certainty.
Still, we dig for everything out of this nothingness
As it can never be transcended.

‘If God exists and wants to grant you a boon
What would you ask for?’
‘If it so happens that I’ll come to be the only person
Alive on earth, may I be able to pen down poetry
Or pick up the brush to paint
Without dying for an appraisal.’

Picture by Evie S (Unsplash)

 

Homeless


Bypass fly away.
Hand-me-downs

Shown and shaken.
Potent love
Free as the moment.
Leant phone swipe,
Blocking the road sign.
A corner stop
Money exchange.

Street light shelter
Bitter and open.
Elements angry
at the existence
Of leading home.
A stray attach,
Park life
Distant as smiles.
The undercoat,
Blades.
Wintry August jaws
At rest
Upon raincoats
And fingertips,
Magic
held on the inside.

Dread of filling
Empty.
Crushed can sofa
Impressed,
Click of the gate
Dead
Either way.
Paper gloss carrying
A body
To step in.
Metallic belt
For redressing.

Picture by EV (Unsplash)