Tuesday, March 22, 2011

monsoon afternoon-2

small droplets

of old memories

rain softly


smell of fresh pain

rides the breeze

spread slowly


your presence

like monsoon clouds

loom dark and heavy


i escape indoors

wrapping safe solitude

tight and warm around me


Friday, March 4, 2011


rooted in the same space, the tongue dances…molding pretty words out of the messy muddy clay in my mind… words that are wet and sticky…words that promise to hold very many, very much…even without saying anything…words which then turn and turn on the wheel spun by your thoughts to shapes that you want to create…which you gather ever so tenderly…and gently place inside you where the fire is lit and the oven is hot…firing them to your perfection…nice smooth strong defined…waiting and waiting again for my wet tongue to reach out slowly…so slowly not to touch the breeze, but just the hues of your yearning spread all over your nakedness that you bare bit by bit…for me to touch taste the pain little by little…and smear paint smudge all that is inside…with bold wild licks making those colors scream so loudly… as they get burnt into the words in the heat inside you…and wait and wait for the fire to die and the oven to cool…so that we can take out those pieces that we created without our fingers getting burned and smile together marveling what we see. without words. in silence.