Monday, September 18, 2017

Autumn light

The soft autumn light is upon us. And, in our tropical gardens only few trees celebrate autumn. . . .and freedom. 

lifting its bare limbs
to the sky. . . 
in the soft light of autumn 
the tree celebrating
another season of freedom

Thursday, September 14, 2017

. . .wishing all be well. . .

carried away
by a stream of thoughts. . .
this sharp chirrup of a bird, 
bringing me right back 
to the present ~ to all things well 
with the world,
and to those not so. . .

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

autumn begins ~

Let no one be killed, no voices be snuffed out. . .anymore.
The stream of life will take it on. . .and the voice resurfaces elsewhere. . .

Senior journalist and activist Gauri Lankesh was shot dead by unidentified assailants –

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

splinter of truth

Time - the enigma that holds the key to Truth, and Life on Earth hinges on the Hope that Truth shall prevail. If Truth were to fail, this world would be a horrible place to live; God, a mere idea of convenience invented by man for his deceitful ways.

For all the Gods and Godmen that we have, a glimpse of Truth is today a rare experience . . . more often, not whole. Yet, gives a reason to smile. . .when it appears.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

take care, dear country

Caught between Ram Rahim and cow vigilantes, my dear country!

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

frontiers of time

A reminder from 1200-1300 ADs for the present day wall-builders and d̶e̶c̶i̶s̶i̶o̶n̶  division-makers. . .both within India and elsewhere. . .

Monday, July 31, 2017

soon to be autumn

Poetry is. . . . "a slight exaggeration, until we make ourselves at home in it. Then it becomes the truth" ~ Adam Zagajewski.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

frail and beautiful

it’s selfie time the world over. And, for the lives that pass without a selfie. . . .

ready to be blown away 
in the wind 
the yellow flowers on the wall, 

frail and beautiful, 
stepping back, I pluck a photo. . . .

Saturday, July 8, 2017

mystic skies

Always a child in Nature’s lap. . .but those journeys to one’s own childhood becomes more and more solitary as years pass. . .


Nothing is as refreshing as being with nature, revelling in the eternal stories of life as the cool monsoon wind turns the pages. . .

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

to each its own. . .

All the atrocities in the name of cow in this country - Who are we to dictate what others eat? Ultimately, man is but another dust in the wind. . .

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Thursday, June 22, 2017

fern soul

The soul is evergreen. . . .raining memories ~ good, not-so-good, happy, sad...So, on it goes. . .

Monday, June 19, 2017

ranoranilac moon

On long and tiring summer afternoons, just when you begin to think that the world is losing its grace. . . .

Thursday, June 15, 2017

counting syllables

Perhaps that's what happens when one tries to haiku in the rain . . . .
By default that's a 5-7-5, haiku or not ~

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Monday, February 27, 2017


              Stories lurk everywhere - Sometimes it's a matter of time,                              
sometimes a matter of looking, for them to emerge. . .

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

and then, elsewhere. . .

And then, elsewhere the sky poured. . . and the earth burst in laughter. . .

cloudless sky

Monday, January 16, 2017

her promise

I talk of saxifrage, the flower that breaks the rocks, and she is eager to know more. . .
'Be you, be a rose!' - I tell her, it takes as much to grow through your thorns.

faint fragrance

through the morning mist 
the faint fragrance of roses 
from within the leaves 
of yesterdays,

how far have we come, 
how much have we lost 
on the way?

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Friday, January 6, 2017

skeins of rain

Each new day brings its own story. . .Into each life some rain must fall ~

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

old dreams

Ah, to brush up childhood dreams. . .

Sunday, January 1, 2017

day upon day

day upon day
a new year quietly unfolds,
surprisingly, there is 
nothing to resolve

just a few words seeking home. . .
I hold them like my own