Friday, January 29, 2016

Scent

Tendrils arise, the scent of roses wafts
upwards. Pink ringlets dominate the air, entering
my nose, going deep into the crevices of my mind.

Old houses reside, untouched rooms,
covered by layers of dust. Rust. In the forgotten
troves of memory do they hide--needing a hand
to pull them out, a comforting smile.
Unseen photographs, unappreciated grins,
unheard stories of success--cowering at the back,
like a novice before a grand concert, like a writer
before her first release.

Daffodils, pancake batter, blue ice-cream,
lavender perfume, freshly washed clothes;
musty books and the scents that accompany--
have magic fingers, pulling out shy, uncertain
memories, bringing them to the fore. Opening up
that adamant door, letting the thoughts spill outwards,
flooding my mind. Letting me experience what I could
never find.

They have a subtle power within them, scents do. As
as I inhale deeply, I discover old pages
of my story. Torn pages, that were pieced together
by a force I cannot describe, but can only sense.
As long as I breathe, I am powerful; and as long as I
sense what I perceive, I am invincible.

Monday, January 18, 2016

Reality

Brilliant smiles seem dimmed; flashing
white pales down, a grin looks like a grimace.

Honest language, natural emotions--hidden,
under a blanket of disapproval; concealed under

an unending cover of fear. Artificiality attempts
to redeem, fails miserably, paves the path to puzzled

facades, giggling expressions. Words blur out--
true words, phrases that could make a difference,

lines that could initiate a change. A pixelated cloud
interferes, an awkward silence ensues for a second, for

the remainder of everything left. Sometimes, what we
see on screens could be real; it could be revolutionary--it

can turn the tables, roll the die, make the north
occupy the south, make a waterfall shoot toward the heavens.

Sadly, that waterfall won't rise upward
if an infinite plate of glass hovers above. But if the

shards of sunlight, with their minuscule fingers,
reach out--shatter the crystal into a million fragments,

let the droplets kiss the clouds... Let the world be free
of the hazy, disorienting shield, let the air inhaled be

fresh, unadulterated. Let the moonlight be without dust particles
that interrupt its silvered glow--so that it reaches out, bathing the

green-tinged sea. Let the viewers finally emerge free.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Elapsing Epoch

Echoes resonate, reflect off the walls,
amplified by a hundred--emotions embedded
in a baby's cry, in her teething smile.
Footsteps clatter on the floor above, trickles of sound
waft towards nostalgic ears. The scratching of a pencil,
under the fingers of a poet. A tapping toe, searching
the floor for iotas of inspiration. Slivers of wood
adorn the closed windows, shielding rustic furniture pieces
from modern wind. A rocking chair,
encasing the soul of a young girl, stirs feebly.

Stilettos step in, carrying sunlight upon her back;
golden gleams of sunlight, silver shards of moonlight,
to a darkened abode. A lipsticked face peering at the
dust-encrusted table, looking at the distorted reflection.
Music unknown to the home blares, tiny feet trample
around. The matured sun shines into the rooms,
as the spirits are forced out--forced out by the winds
of change.

The rocking chair rocks no more--it remains
motionless in the basement. Was there ever a past
in this house? Didn't ancient spirits linger about, filling
its rooms with blood, with life? But they rose into the air,
dissipating with the breeze, with the modern wind--the
wind of today. Peace disappeared, to be replaced with
a clanging, a menacing din; as the old house--into
a new era--was ushered in.


Saturday, January 2, 2016

Snowflake

A sparkle
fell from the
sky, sun-kissed,
lightly falling on
a peak--enveloped
   in a sheer layer of
snowy dots. Miniature.
indistinguishable--for how
 can a snowflake be seen in
a hilltop of snow? By rolling
into motion, like how ideas can
  escape obscurity by aspiring to
become realities. So the snowflake
charts a course down the mountain,
gathering shimmering slivers and dots
of honeydew-hued snow. Ideas are seen
around us, in little ways, without us even
noticing their silent presence.   The snowy
sphere enlarges, a powerful entity, defeating
all in its path; obstacles fail to hinder the growth
of the idea.   It reaches the bottom--a gargantuan,
 glistening orb of snowy wonder,   which emerged
   from an imperceptible speck of crystallised water.
The idea, once a speck in a vague tangle of memories,
establishes itself in the world, destined to be prime, great,
  a rugged, turbulent journey upward having sealed its fate.