The Rocking Chair

The colours are fading, turning white my mother’s hair Seems it won’t be long before I find myself, next in the rocking chair By the window, looking out at grey skies Trying to craft memorials, out of memories. Days pass on by, thrusting the wind, and all the sawdust Into my eyes, as if to…

Gossamer Heart

Chipped yellow nails, stained from days of living off the same Indian curry Filthy disheveled hair, entangled amidst itself in frizzy curls, oily Clothes, scarce- A flimsy, gossamer tee clinging on to her emaciated structure of bone And there she stood, by the corner under the shade, daily, all alone   I smiled at her…

Grey Pursuits

I am but a little thing, A little thing with grey pursuits I think in poetry; I speak with ones that do not converse Chit-chat is for tea parties with women in formal skirts And hair puffed up too high to suit their age, stature or bling.   I am but a little thing, A…

The Two Mazes: A Reply

Perturbed he is, by this maze in his mind His thoughts wrap around him like chains; drag him behind He’s thirsty for repose, but his soul is parched The gate to his maze- unopened, and untouched. He’s all alone, and tired too, but ego still remains He’ll always say he’s doing fine, such nonchalance he…

A Collision

A very short and very graphic piece of poetry.

The Ceiling, From My Bathroom Floor.

I would say this poem is a tribute- a really short tribute for something that means much to me. If you read it slowly, and take in each word, it does have a lot of depth to it. My bathroom has seen me in my worst, and wildest, forms- when I could not go out…