Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Sitting for hours, on the wet grass,
I was looking at the yellow butterfly -
Flying from flower to flower,
Amused by the droplets, glistening on the tip of the grass.
It was a Friday afternoon!
I was waiting for you.
I mean, your touch.
The way you entangle your fingers between mine.
The way you tap my lips and look at my eyes.
I knew you would come soon!
I was staring at the stone,
With your name engraved.
Hoping... it brings our love to life.
Hoping... it heals our wounds.
I admit I live in a cocoon!
I looked up to the dark, nimbus cloud,
I was anticipating your arrival.
You came as a tempest with a lash of rain.
You kissed my lips and we were drenched.
I know, this silence is a boon!
Friday, February 10, 2017
I am often numbed by nature.
So many sounds, so many visions, so many colours indeed!
Oh, wait! These are not the terms of nature.
These weren’t given.
But, we created it…
Like we created the barriers, the boundaries, the fences, the lines.
Like we created the war-zones, the weapons, the woes, the wounds.
I am often humbled by the depth of the oceans.
The uncanny gaze of the blue sky
Often renders me speechless.
Oh, wait! Are they meant to be what we call them?
Are they the ocean, the sea or the sky?
Yeah, we named them…
Like we named our beliefs, our bodies, our religions, our sexes.
I am often numbed at the thought of uttering a word
When I realize that it will make no sense to the butterfly sitting on my finger.
I am often numbed by my ignorance
When I realize my intellect fails
To comprehend the philosophy behind the barks of my dog.
Nature, and of course life, is supposed to be a flow, I guess.
But, we are caught in the loops of the words
That we invented...
Like we invented the ideas of power, possession, and property.Like we invented the ideas of mine, ours and theirs.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
I am the body,
That’s been constructed and deconstructed
Hundreds and thousands of time.
The curve on my chest
Is an awe-striking creation,
Often provoking artists
To appropriate me as an art.
The dip in my waist
Is a matter of examination,
Often providing litterateurs
With premises to debate.
The movement of my arse
When I walk,
The flow of my hair
When it flies,
I am often a lump of flesh
Invoking curiosity to be touched.
The screams of my pain
Validate my presence.
The scars on my skin
Prove my existence.
Through fire and the rain,
Through violence and the pain,
I harness my prowess.
I rise with a soul
I rise with a mind
The homogenous time awaits my ingenuity.
And I riseAs I was, I am and I will be.