Unnoticed is the river inside of us

Vagaries of the weather outside
make it to the newsrooms,
but nobody notices
the changing of weather inside.

Unnoticed remain,
the churning of
mind’s meterological phantoms
that play havoc in some mind-scapes.

Unnoticed is,
the river inside of us
swelling, surging over the banks of
‘I will fight this melancholy today’.

These are torrential rains
we can not take cover from.
We are holding onto
life in any form that we can.

Please know, inside of us there are rivers too,
transboundary between madness and insanity –
that we swim in.
And on some days we drown
in our own body of river waters.

Small, Incomplete Departures

He lights up a cigarette
and offers a generous smile,
A new glint in his very dark eyes,
a new sliver of the moon rises today
not meant for my dark skies.
He doesn’t hold my hands,
but offers a generous mug of coffee
and a very small portion of love,
some advice and small, incomplete departures.
He doesn’t offer me his birds today
nor their colored feathers.
But he offers small, incomplete departures
He doesn’t offer me his songs
But offers telegraphic emails.
What remains is,
notes exchanged in poetry,
life shared in musical notes
and small, incomplete departures.

Road Trippin – 4670 miles along the coast

4670 miles along the coast
I have meticulously packed,
camera and microphones
cables, cards and chords.
I am leaving behind a few things,
randomization of worries and distractions
that yield just black frames
that add nothing to the film on life.
‘Black’ in timeline is necessary though
at the start and at the end,
similar to zero at birth
and zero at death.
But in between, black is just black,
and my love for colours
has me pleading the universe
to grant me tetrachromacy.

I have swaddled in my heart
warmth of a bird’s plumage
and nature’s love for itself.
I am not a banyan tree anymore, fixed and rigid
I am a mangrove tree
leaving behind roots of the past,
constantly growing new roots,
reaching from A to B, B to C
from old patterns to new oddity.

Metta. An RHCP favourite for you.

Mt.IsyLLiS | Mother of Mountains


Mt. IsyLLiS (Graphite on paper)

I have endlessly wallowed
in strange rivers of pain
that’ll run dry when I want it to.
And today is that day,
for I hear a new song
that birds sing for me.
The sun is out after incessant rains
and birds are sun-bathing,
and they’re all singing the same song.
I am digging a deep hole in the earth,
sowing this seed of suffering and pain.
I’ll water it with my tears.
And what will grow will be
a tree of eternal love and hope.
Birds will build their nests in it,
and they will sing the same song
to their fledglings – of love and hope.
I have become
that very mother of mountains
through which were carved
caves that became homes to creatures of love,
through which flow rivers of hope
that greened all that it touched.
I am that very mother of mountains
and my name is Mt.IsyLLiS.

Skies full of faithful promises

Clutter of thoughts
Artwork by IsyLLiS

I run my fingers
through a clutter of thoughts.
Taste potions of my pain
own it, and breathe a new-found freedom.
We spoke in languages
we did not understand.
Must I write of lost love, and departed lovers
their memories and lingering love
that has floated away
on a lonesome cloud?
Or turn in another direction,
where the Sun is beginning to rise
and the skies are full of faithful promises.

Love, warmth, peace and a happy new year to you all. 

Tiresome Tessellation

The many tragic faces of being
The Many Tragic Faces of Being (c)isyllis 2015-16

This tiresome tessellation of
seasons in me.
How will I decipher,
find the only truth that is there perhaps?
I exist in such wide range of colours,
that even my tetrachromacy fails me
I cannot render an image of myself today,
but a certain surge of power I feel.