A month of shadows
I slacked and moped around, whined about being creatively blocked, and emotionally drained. June was a month of shadows.
Slipping between random movements of my eyelids, I pause to breathe. My breath rises and falls; it chases the film that unfolds. I’m a witness.
Skies of yore
The sun bursts into a million flames, painting the sky with its richness of light ochers, bright yellows and burnt siennas.
The teal sky welcomes its newest pal– a bird, in place of airplanes; seen through wrought iron windows, against the background of curry leaves simmering in oil, and runners whizzing past toddlers learning to ride their tiny bicycles.
I breathed fire. I revered the sun. I wore my passion in my heart, and swore my life to my art. I danced to the tune of cackling embers.
The moon shines like a lone child on a Sunday afternoon – abandoned in a forest, filled with the scents of tall grasses and fresh animal blood.
This is not about my grandmother cutting ripe yellow mangoes in the middle of the day, just before a siesta; or about my grandfather poring over question papers for college students.
What are daffodils? How do they look, or where do they grow? and how do they smell? This poem explores the depths and breaths of what a daffodil is to the poet.
Where I grew up
I didn’t grow up near the sea with its fishermen flinging their nets through the sun’s golden beams. I saw no boats, caught no waves or ate no bites of the fish’s flesh, its silver skin scaled off with a steel scalpel.
St. Hallows Eve
What's swooshing around is what you will see and what you will know.