Four Short Poems

She watched the red streak of the moon

trail over the lake and disappear, never to return,

leaving behind a looming shadow on the tainted waters.

Unrequited love is an orphan of silence, abandoned

to fend for itself, during the endless days

and never-ending nights.

******* xxxxx*******

Old photographs.

Faded with time.

A life in monochrome.

Another time. Another world.

Conversations tied in neat bundles.

Each word pulsating with life.


In the quantum multiverse

we would be lovers,

but here, separated

by the universes,

we are nothing but

a very complex

solitaire mystery,

thrown together

with a sprinkling of star-dust.


An invitation

 the sun is a lie,

the moon, an illusion,

the earth, a landscape

 of destruction

let us hire a spaceship,

take a flight on a

suborbital airlines,

the sky calls to us,

let us emerge from

our inner shadows,

spread our darkness

over the dark of the

unknown, let us move

to Pluto, winterized in its

spring, cold, dark and quiet

but then didn’t we always

loved winter? we could rent

a cozy little love nest for cheap,

gaze at the neatly nested orbits

of its five moons, feel the music

of  spheres, coalesces our hearts,

let us fall in love in the most

all-consuming way,

love is a slave to existence

Earth is no place for lovers

(cocreated with a special friend)


Five Poems


(photo credit Shubhang)


an illusion
the dark
is the light
and the light
just its
and in between are
the stories



the slats of the shutters
cut my shadow into strips
as you slammed that door on me
I stood there
on the sunlit sidewalk
my fragmented side

suddenly coherent




Last of the winter flowers
a carpet of crisp yellow leaves,
days filled with calls
of ravens, crows and sparrows,
Kites circling the clear skies
as squirrels scurry around
and dogs sleep in shades of
flaming Gulmohar, the Coral and Silk Cotton trees.
Soothing lavender blooms of Jacaranda,
and the glorious Amaltas (laburnum),
a blaze of yellow,with golden chandeliers hanging down.
Stark branches tipped with myriads of colors
like gigantic brushes
painting the heavens,
and it is not yet summer
in my city



A winterized spring
summer still waiting
at the threshold
Who has cast the spell
on the seasons?

If it was not for the
Autumn within me
there would be no poems.



night rain
just the quiet slithering
the smell of
tree shadows burying
themselves in the deep dark
and a
neon moon
illuminating a puddle