i tuck in the right end
of the saree
checking for excess at the bottom,
like revising, rewording, deleting words
from a poem.
turn once,
tuck in again
make up my mind about
how i want the pallu,
like i decide the end
before writing the beginning.
then comes the folding
which i invariably get wrong
the first time
every time
much like the infinitely pressed
backspace key, followed by
almost desperate slapping of keys.
i breath a sigh of relief
as i pin the pallu, content,
before i move on
to the daunting gathers -
the middle of the poem
that looks the same for all
but i convince myself otherwise
and look in the mirror
and find a poem smiling back at me.

follow me
if you can
thru tortured paths
and wintered lands
where the sun is lost
the moon unknown
beyond this dark
encroaching gloam

follow me
if you dare
where voices speak
in whispered layers
of external wars
undeclared
where twisting turning
bodies play
on silken sails
on captured waves

follow me
if you would know
where silver rivers
sometimes flow
and flying angels
falling lay
sweetly laughing
in their gentle way

follow me
if you wish
and play in childhood's
autumn mist
where paper dragons
fill the air
and broken hearts
still beating share
a love for passion's
written snare

follow me
and I will show
how wounded heart
now mended grows
where many paths
once hidden glow
and light the way
to where I go


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storm winds howl
in fury rage
lash dark clouds
in thunder running
lightning laced
they storm across
her cool
impassive face

she answers
in silence
serene
immortal grace
her face
softly knowing
her smile
sometimes showing
in silence
radiant

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In my garden
A climber grows
From the trellised platform
It strays its way
Trespassing into others territory
Annoying the plants
Growing close

Its emerald leaves
Of bright glossy sheen
With serrated edge
And prominent veins
Trembling and timorous
When whipped by the wind
Is a real delight to view!

Close to monsoon
It is in flower
The heavy clusters
Droop down in weight
A medley of white, pink and red
Languidly swaying in the breeze
Giving off a faint aroma

Early morning I see them
Tear stained
I wonder what makes them cry
Do they lament their transient fate?
Or are they sad,
Molested by amorous bees?

I write as pen becomes brush painting
visions with stardust energies.
Words twinkle unseen to naked eye
but inviting all the same.
Verses coagulate in bloodstream
as if cells are words
destined for heart.

I write within fields of sunflowers
and below gray skies.

With intention to launch
a rocket ship of thoughts

After all I am a wandering sage poet,
meant to anoint the world with verse.