Hope is…

Pic courtesy Actively Learn

Hope is a bereaved tramp
trampled every day
but carrying on nonetheless

Hope is a soggy paper
lying listless, limp
waiting for the sun to make it fly

Hope is a frantic afterthought
that slowly arises from
the ashes of pugnacious practicality

Hope is a cumbersome yoke
that sits stoically
on fragile, lonely shoulders

Hope is a homeless vagabond
roaming wide-eyed around
in search of a homing heart

Hope is a zealous zephyr
never zinging
singing softly a soulful song 

Hope is an iron locket
that hangs heavy
keeping the depressed neck upright

Hope is a square bubble
trying always to fit
into a round hole without bursting

Hope is a bird on hiatus
lost and tired
but striving to turn up one day.

Written for David’s W3 where POW, Kerfe, has asked us to begin our poem with “Hope is…” I have also used words from Kerfe’s random word generator.

Also written for Eugi’s moonwashed weekly prompt and Jim’s Thursday inspiration.

Sharing at dVerse OLN.


My buttercup

From Pinterest

Your translucent skin astoundingly delicate
gingerly I run my fingers along the length of your tiny arms
how adorable you look curled up on your side
your toothless smile has me in raptures
my emotions palpably raw and overwhelming
I cradle tenderly your fuzz covered head
I listen awestruck to your rapid heartbeat
your petal soft cheeks I tentatively caress
your sweet breath gently tickles my neck
I dawdle over the silkiness of your dainty foot
marveling at the soot coloured lace like lashes
my eyes shimmer with joy,  my heart overflows.

Written for David’s W3 on Mich’s guidelines and Eugi’s weekly prompt.

Disclaimer: The oh-so-adorable babies are teenagers now and…


Time, O Time, do wait!
it cannot be curtains yet
some chapters are still left
the body may be but a mound of sand
ravaged by time’s waves
but the heart smoulders still
with many a pain to feel alive.

Time, O Time, do wait!
don’t be waylaid by the sagging shoulders
nor by papery wrinkled skin
I do gasp for breath sometimes
as they bunch in my rheumy chest
but ties of blood do help me up
their cheery voices call out to me
I think not it’s time yet

Time, O Time, don’t wait any longer!
I think I have lingered enough
death refuses to meet my eye
wavering in and out of clouds of fogginess
I hang heavy on everyone’s time
promise me an encore in another lifetime
’tis time to finally rest.

Written for Sadje’s wdys and Eugi’s weekly prompt.


I try to read the clouds
the angry, roiling, dark ones
obscuring the opalescence of the skies
no answer forthcoming!

my fossilized pain spills over
dangling over the edge
aghast and immobilised I watch
as it coalesces and drops in a puddle.

purged but now a hollow, scorched husk
I dither, unprepared to face the empty chaos
then rain starts to fall gently
the crevices slowly begin to fill.

Written for Sadje’s wdys and Eugi’s weekly prompt.

My story

(There are) many stories which are not on paper, they are written in the bodies and minds of women.
                       Amrita Pritam

his, “will you cook for me forever!” 
that had seemed the most romantic question then, was my undoing
as I happily immersed myself in pots and pans,
tied to the invisible post of domesticity; I lost my true ‘self’

my turmeric stained fingers had no time to stain paper
measuring lentils and rice, I forgot to weigh in my views
relegated to the background
I became a mere prop; useful but useless

every night i braid pain, pillowing my head on it
uncoiling itself, it slithers on to my chest
humming a mournful berceuse to lull me to sleep
the moon wanes dolefully behind pewter clouds
smudging my cheeks, as i forbid the tears from falling

oblivious, uncaring and narcissistic
he sleeps deeply, purged of his angst and manliness 

i find blisters on my heart as the morning dew falls
suppurating in the dappled sunlight 
as dawn brings more unwarranted outbursts
my mind; a numb cauldron
bubbles with indignation
but is conditioned not to boil over
a tempest brews in my chest
screams suffocate routinely in my sternum
when I throttle the voice that clamours in my throat

i don’t recognise my body anymore 
bruises speckle my once smooth skin
like blooms of putrid decay; hurting but not painful
then wither away, to make place for more

i am a book written in tears and blood
my resilience keeps my spine intact 
though it would be a relief to crumble
a poem dies in my womb everyday
while waiting to tell its story

my story is intertwined with the story of every woman 
that needs retelling every generation.

Written for dVerse poetics. Today I am the guest host at the pub. For poetics we are invoking famous Punjabi writer, Amrita Pritam. We have to use one line from the five given, as an epigraph and write a poem.

  1. When a man denies the power of women, he is denying his subconscious.
  2. Like an offering at the altar of the spirit, our names slipping out of our lips, became a sacred hymn.
  3. (There are) many stories which are not on paper, they are written in the bodies and minds of women.
  4. Perhaps I will become a ray of sunshine, to be embraced by your colours. I will paint myself on your canvas.
  5. Look further on ahead, there between truth and falsehood, a little empty space.

Also written for Sadje’s wdys and linking to Eugi’s weekly prompt.