A single glowing tip

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I rolled all my sorrows
and excruciating pain from these dark hours
in a cigarette and lit it with resolve.
It was after all
always a single glowing tip
and a lonely ride to the stars.
And hell yes, it’s been a fun ride.

Twelve Moons


Twelve black moons in your eyes
I wait for them to rise.
Twelve kisses unaccounted,
to sequin your moon-face.
Twelve dreams, nascent
tucked away in twelve corners.
Twelve more lives to be lived,
in twelve planets yet to arrive.
Twelve galaxies to saunter through,
twelve bodies to adorn.
Twelve magicians barefeet
twelve tricks sublime.
Twelve long years to salvation.

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.