i want to run my fingers
along rock carved
thousands of years ago.

i want to feel the same cold
that ancient hands did
under my own.

i want to stand
where history happened.

let it shiver through my body.

feel the ghosts of people
long buried.
long forgotten.

find phantoms
in cobbled streets:
old and hidden.

to listen to tales
lost and buried
beneath city stone.

She bled the day the universe was built,
walking on tissue so broken
she called it art

Broadcasting cryptic wartime stump speeches,
in the morning she picked flowers
and read the part

The tired eyes awaited their salvation,
a release into salted balms
of letting go

But she persisted into the encore,
owning the role forged over a
lifetime ago

Soup lines turned to soup cans in the fallout,
merits grew with city limits
over lost bones

While music trespassed sunken hunting grounds,
mounds of soil and debt would not rest
with plastic thrones

When a hasty destiny came to pass,
and art turned to desperate prayer
she learned to wait

And now her brazen footsteps mark the halls,
the air tastes of tales that once were
hers to make

All the little ponies
Are standing on the hill
Gaze out across the valley
Wild mustang regal and wear
Asks smallest pony to himself
Why magestic am I nere?
No wings to glide along the clouds
Refused legs lean and long?
Nor was I gifted and bestowed
sprouted horn upon my crown

Then jumps nearby a frog to he
and startles neigh a-fright
Upon which he did rear and stomp
Squashing frog among the leaves
And pony never asked again
For perspective gained release.

Step into to her world, a world where she lives,
Of colours a plenty and flavours many,
A flick of a hand, in measures she gives,
Spices that tantalise, worth every penny.
Red chillies an ounce, turmeric a pound,
Spices scarlet, yellow, in hues exotic,
Peppercorns, cardamoms, whole or ground,
Brown bay leaves, cinnamon, aromatic.
Wonders for the body that soothe and heal,
Nurturing from nature, a stoic promise,
From the choicest gardens, as senses reel,
Fragrance of flavours in sensual bliss.

Within her world, another world entices,
Her voice in sweet whispers has tales to tell,
Magic in dark eyes, the mistress of spices,
With a flick of her hand, she’ll cast a spell.

Written in 2013

( inspired by the title of the book by Chitra Divakaruni)

A harp that needs no fingers
no hand to pluck the strings
it speaks of love’s betrayal
and ****** when it sings

So Herodotus muttered marble dust into his beard,
And foretold the white clay of the mule road,
And the whiskers of Greece grew long with legend.

Oh! How I love to write my feelings for you
You're my knight who saves me for feeling blue
Feeling these butterflies were new
In my stomach, I wonder how they flew.

Oh! How I love to write tales of you
I Iove you and this feelings were true
Even there were so many battles I went through
I want to win these fights with you