My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

On an opulent curved dome
Of a proud white mushroom
An enigmatic, clear, single drop
Well formed, eager, quietly sit.

Wonder what and what it is up to now-
A tear drop shed in pain by a lonely fairy,
Or a stray drop of untimely rain, futile,
A memory lapse,a cloud somehow had?

What if it's a disillusioned universe,
Willfully collapsed,due to it's own weight,
Reduced to a miniature and still in flux,
Wanting to see a new dream altogether!

Sitting like a king on his throne, it reflects,
The limitless sky on it's upturned single  eye!

Waiting perhaps for the rising purple morning sun
to give an offer, to evaporate and be back in the cycle.

On her warm lap the cat sits
smugly without any fuss,
yet she could sense it's little secret
well concealed,  just to please her;
the expression of happiness
on it's face is a mere make -believe.
It's fluorescent eyes involuntarily dart
to the cozy corner that beacons it.
To the moonlit end of the courtyard
where her husband sits lost to the world.

She feels cheated yet again.

Time limits every single rainbow though
It's sweep binds the horizon end to end,
As the light slowly fads,this illusion dissolves,
And darkness stares the sky on it's starry eyes!

Each rainbow color is derived from the  sedate white!
If white can do this, what wouldn't be possible in colors!
But billowing darkness before long fulfills it's desire.
And the morning blush again will wash all darkness off.
Moving clouds pass  their messages to me aloud.
In cryptic script doodled  in light and rumbling sounds.
A wonderful display on the dark curtain of clouds!

Look at me, I am still here to make you see what
You have never seen before your curious eyes!
Clouds churn darkness and light to find what does emerge,
I do see specks of rainbows frothing in it's cauldron!

Life is a change continuous, like the days of torrential monsoon,
I am with the winds and water, in the chiaroscuro of clouds,
A rainbow with an illusory nearness, allowing you to touch,
As it happens it's gone, becomes one with light and darkness.

I sure miss you here,
(In the hope that
you miss me too)
And if you don't,
I don't know
where this narrow path
through dense woods
will take me at the end.
No way, I could go back
to the begining when
my hope is there in the
journey's end.

Presumptions, we think
would have no thorns to fear,
but cause  vein jumps
again and again that may prove
the grapes were sore after all.

Every wish prompting one
to hit the road, often with
no rhyme or reason, would
have underlying conditions,
though unseen from where one starts.
Why, are we afraid to speak openly
how the journey would end
even when we set out so excited?

On your wall beyond the reach
of  my eager eyes are sketches
still incomplete;
that may break or make me.
And what it does to you then
is an idea vague in my imagination.