Time after time
I return to the glade
Of joyous thoughtscape
Silver dandelion
Golden sunrays
Aroma of a picnic lunch
Love notes in the basket
In windswept letters
On fragile paper
Gossamer stories
Of loving, leaving, longing
Blowing in the breeze
With yellow petals
Wrinkled memories
It was a sultry afternoon. The day stretched endlessly, waiting for twilight. The orange popsicles stained his tongue but didn’t quench his thirst. He wasn’t sleepy for lack of physical activity. He read books, heard songs on his laptop, played mobile games but time stood still, fatigued by the heat of the Indian summer.
Bored, he picked up his drawing kit and started sketching a treasure map to reach the fabled pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He drew ardently, painstakingly filling vibrant colours in the verdant landscape, flora, and fauna. The emerging terrain captivated him. He paid attention to every tiny detail. The sound of wax crayons against white paper, echoed the unstoppable rhythm in his delicate fingers.
Beyond the tanned mountains, arched the seven colors of mystic beauty. At the corner of the sheet, a speck glimmered. He added final touches to the elusive gold and rested the point of his crayon, in a finishing move, just as the first star of the night rose in the burnished horizon. In the twinkle of its light, with sweat beads on his brow, he sailed through the azure skies, having fallen from the edge of the map.
Rescue me from
The web of cerebration
Crushing my innards
Clutching my heart
Maddening my soul
With another bout
Of stifling anxiety!
Thoughts growing
Like tendrils within me
Squeezing, squishing
Body, spirit, inside out
Squirming in my brain
Twisted imagination
Triggering a volcano
Of anguish fear, guilt
The demons they win;
Primeval joy, lost in the din!
Time for strawberry mojitos
Mulberry plucked from trees
Palash flowers and tomatoes
Ablaze with red so deep
Lavender teas, minty greens
Brown delight of cold coffees
Sweet fruits of labor, now
Tangy orange preserves
The sun seeping in nectar
To return from slumber
With full force of summer
Until then let me swing
In the silver hammock
Wherever the wind sways
An open book, still unread
As sparrows make acquaintance
Abuzz on the wings of a bee
Sweet fragrance of jasmine
Intoxicated with the power
Of just being alive, blooming
Until the breeze knocks it off
From its cradle and it lies
In the dust whispering goodbyes
To the flurry seeds in the air
From wildflowers in sidewalks
Destined to carry fairytales
From this corner to the next!
*Palash is a sacred tree in the South Asian subcontinent. It has bright red flowers in early spring and hardly any leaves
Ageless forests
Testimony to so much hatred!
Today I saw them
Bent, tired, wrinkled
Aging a little bit more:
Menacingly grey
Blinded by smoke
Of dying ashes
Choking on the dead
Burning trees wailing
In the distance;
They watch us closely
Waiting to strike
As vengeance stings
The forest eyes!
Blue Pen Strokes 