I will be caught
  in the end
  and chastised
  if I write
  to be recognised
  for in that guise
  a victim I will fall
  to silly pride

a  simple stringer
of words and thoughts
through the tumble
of life
a scribbler
a dabbler
a story-teller
on the insignificant side

let the real bards sing
I'll listen in deference
in humility abide

for a small voice
am I
that truth
I shouldn't deny

My life consists of two parts-

as actor and spectator

I've to juggle in between

they don't come together

Woman behind trees

is it an apparition?

artist's fantasy

Love is a conversation incomplete
the unsaid words --they are the most sweet

Should I say this and am I correct?

There's sweetness in suffering and, if so,
suffering is to be desired and not to be escaped from.

Even Sisyphus found meaning in his suffering.

Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

distance, lost among the pages
two different people
two different places
left behind, dog eared fragments
sometimes i think it’s ok
to judge a street by its pavement

The number of followers you have on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram does not make you any better,
Jesus had only 12.
9/12/2021

a place where:

peaks and troughs of human emotions manifest

a girl drops curiosity over a fort-ledge

a boy runs with kited-wonder, away from pinned blanket dreams

a man haunts a fading, falling edge of field

a woman breathes, just breathes