Sat on a sedan
Spiderman took her hand.

Went down on one knee
And said
Will you marry me?

I cannot face
The rest of eternity
With each generation's
Take on modernity.

It's old fashioned values
I look for and see -

Your confidence,
Common sense,
Your honesty,
Sincerity,
Your quirkiness
And peacableness.

But most of all
Your peerless take on life
Is what does it for me.

Will you be my wife?

Spiderman, Spiderman,
How you do woo!
And you have such qualities
That draw me to you -

Your patience,
Respect,
Your considerable intellect,
Your gentleness,
Strength of mind -

I could go on at length and find
You could  be my cobweb?
I could  be your fly?

Could you  be the man for me
Until the day I die?

What more can I say than
You may have concurred
That I do things my own way.

So can you guess?

Little Miss Muffet Said Yes!

And do you know what?

As they lay there
On that Le Corbusier chair
Without a care in the world -

And you know it's not novel
To be graphic -

They were not afraid at all.

“It really is,” I whispered, “It really is a beautiful world."


     “This really doesn’t feel safe,” Jamie said, her voice holding just a hint of fear. She was probably right. By anyone’s standards, this was straight up stupid, and here I had convinced her to come along with me.
     “Nah it’s totally fine. I wouldn’t do anything to put you in too much danger.” I said this without a hint of doubt in my voice, confident as usual. I had to keep the fearless and confident image or she might change her mind. I hoped the risk would be worth it in the end, but I couldn’t really be sure. How could I know unless I tried? If I didn’t try, I would just be left wondering how great it might have been.
     “We are really freaking high.” This time Jamie said it deadpan, more of an emotionless observation than anything else. Again, she was right. I looked down the long white ladder past her. It was probably 80 yards to the ground from where we were. Above us was another 20 yards of ladder, leading up to a narrow platform. We were climbing a water tower. The platform above us circled around the tower just below where it began to bulge outward into a spherical shape at the top. There was no safety cage around us, nothing to break our fall except for the climbing harnesses we wore. Each harness had two straps, each with a clip on the end. One clip would be snapped onto the first rung, then the next clip to the second, and so forth until we reached the top. It wasn’t fool proof but it was better than nothing.
     “But seriously my hands are getting tired. How much further is it?” Jamie was great, but complaining was one of her most annoying flaws. Most people wouldn’t have made it this far anyway. The fact that she had was just a testament to the athleticism and strength she had underneath all that complaining.
     “Close. Maybe fifty rungs. Hang on for another five minutes and we can sit down and rest.” Yet again she was right. My hands and forearms were burning like crazy. I had long ago learned that climbing with gloves on a slick painted surface was asking for trouble, so today we had no protection from the narrow rungs pressing into our skin.
     For the next fifty rungs, the only sound I could hear above my heavy breathing was the clink and snap as each clip was removed and replaced. It was surprisingly calm this evening, the sun not quite finished slipping below the horizon. It was late August, so the temperature was still somewhere in the 70s this time of day. The backpack on my back seemed to get heavier and heavier the higher we went. I could feel the straps digging into my shoulders and trying to tip me over backwards. This bag was far too big for what I was doing, but I needed some way to bring a sleeping bag and blanket up. Finally, my hand left the last rung and found the top of the steel platform. I unclipped from the last rung and snapped on to the hand rail that went around the outside edge before I reached down to take Jamie’s hand.
     “Thank you sir,” she said, “I see chivalry is not dead.” Her hand brushed a few loose strands of long blonde hair out of her face as she stood upright next to me, looking out over the edge.
     “Ok, you were right. This is worth it.” She said in a matter of fact tone. I laughed softly.
     “This isn’t actually what we came for,” I said with a grin, “We aren’t done climbing yet. I just didn’t think you would actually come if I told you how far we were going. But the view is really nice here.”
     “You can’t be serious. I didn’t see anything going up any further.” She sounded rather incredulous.
     “We have to follow this platform around to the other side. There is a set of stairs going up to the very top. At least it isn’t another ladder.” I tried to sound confident, like it had already been decided that we would go on, but I couldn’t stop a tiny bit of a pleading tone from leaking in. I knew there was a small chance that she would want to stop here, but I also knew that going just a bit further would be completely worth it. I had scoped this tower out from the ground several times, using my trusty binoculars that I bargained for at a neighbor’s yard sale. When I discovered the stairs going up past the platform, I used an online satellite map to take a peek at the very top of the tower. From what I had been able to tell, at the very top there was a completely level platform, twelve to fifteen feet in diameter, with a secure looking rail around it. Amazing what a person can find online.
     My hope was to spend the night on that platform, hence the sleeping bag and blanket in my massive backpack. Tonight was supposed to be the brightest and most active meteor shower of the year in North America and the weather had decided to be kind to us star gazers, leaving a clear and cloudless sky for the evening. It would be perfect. Perfect if Jamie would go along with it, that is.
     “You are the worst kind of person,” she said. She wasn’t facing me so I couldn’t really tell how she felt about it. Finally she turned around and rolled her eyes. “Ohhhkaaaay. Let’s go. We’ve already gone this far.” She was used to situations like this. I was the one who always wanted to push the limits, go a little further, risk just a bit more, and she was the one who always asked me to reconsider and then went along with it anyway. I always felt bad for a little while, but I got over it pretty quick. It’s not like she didn’t know me well.
     “You are the best kind of person,” I said with a wink and a grin, “But let’s rest for a bit. My arms are tired now.” We sat down and I took off my backpack, setting it on the platform beside me, digging through a side pocket. I pulled out two bottles of water and a box of Poptarts.
     “Poptart?” I offered, “Snack of champions. All the professional water tower climbers eat them I heard.”
     “How are you not fat,” she replied, taking a delicious cherry snack from the silver wrapper. It wasn’t a question really, it was more a running joke between her and I about how much I should actually weigh. She’d usually joke that one day all the junk I eat would hit me at once and I would wake up weighing 400 pounds. Even though she joked, she wasn’t beyond being bitter about my eating habits since she worked hard to keep a perfect physique.
     Next I pulled out two plain white pieces of paper and handed one to her. I began folding mine delicately into the perfect paper airplane, using the flat section of the water tower for some of the more delicate creases.
     “I don’t know why I hang out with you. You are literally so freaking weird. Like who the hell would bring paper up the side of a water tower just to make a paper airplane.” She laughed even as she criticized. I knew she didn’t really mind. She had on multiple occasions told me that my “quirkiness” as she put it definitely made me more interesting to be around. I guess I was a little odd, but I didn’t really think that was a bad thing. I did what I thought to be amusing or entertaining. It wasn’t my fault the rest of the world didn’t seem to feel quite the same way about life.
     “In fifty years don’t you want to be able to set your grandchild on your lap and tell them all about the time you tossed a paper airplane off the side of a water tower? Grandkids don’t want to hear boring stories. I would know. I was a grandkid once.” Jamie just shook her head with a grin and started folding her airplane. Mine was finished and ready to be launched into the great unknown.
     “This is Air Farce One to ground station Loser, requesting permission to take off.” I did my best Top Gun impression, trying to remember how cool Tom Cruise sounded when he said it.
     “This is ground station Awesome to Air Farce One. Ground station Loser could not be located but we can go ahead and give you permission to launch. Have a nice flight.” Jamie still had at least a little bit of a child left in her. I tossed my paper airplane over the side, watching it glide several hundred yards before landing in the low branches of a tree. Mission complete.
     “What perfect throwing form you have,” Jamie said sarcastically, "You were probably one of those nerds who just made paper airplanes in class all day as a kid." Ouch. Yea, that had been me. Jamie wound up and threw her airplane with all her strength. She had made more of a dart than a glider and it flew fast, eventually landing in a tree considerably further than mine had.
     “You win this round,” I said with mock disgust, only barely able to hide a smile, “Let’s keep going.” I removed my clips from the rail and began walking along the platform. The bulb at the top of the tower was much bigger than it looked from the ground. I could just imagine the thousands of gallons of water above and beside me.
     Eventually we reached the stairs. It was nice of the designers to have taken pity on the poor inspectors who had to climb this far up. A ladder going around the outside of the bulb would have been terrifying. The stairs curling around the side felt much more secure. Reaching the top, there was a narrow platform leading from the edge of the bulb where the stairs ended to the flat space in the center of the tower. There was only a handrail on the left side so Jamie and I were sure to snap our harnesses on. The sun had almost fully set by now, the last tendrils of light just enough to see by as we made our way to the center.
     “Okay this is cool. You know what we should have done? We totally should have brought an air mattress up here and slept or something,” Jamie thought aloud. “I’ll bet the stars look amazing from here. Oh and look you can already see the city lights over there!” I loved seeing her excited. She would take one hand and play with her hair while the other would point at things. It was kind of weird when I thought about it, how she always pointed at things when she was excited. But that was just Jamie being Jamie.
     “You read my mind.” I pulled the sleeping bag and blanket out of the backpack and laid them on the flat steel. I probably should have realized how cold that steel was going to be. Oh well.
     “We are so in sync right now,” Jamie laughed. “This is awesome. You were right.”
     “Wait so what did you think was in the bag?” I asked. She hadn’t mentioned it before and I never said anything about it.
     “Honestly I thought it was a parachute or some **** and you were going to try jumping off the edge,” she laughed, “I would have tried to stop you but I decided I really won’t feel guilty when you die doing something stupid.”
     “Brilliant!” I exclaimed, “I am so going to try that next time!” I wouldn’t really. I liked doing risky things, but I wasn’t suicidal. We spent the next few minutes getting the sleeping bag and blanket situated. I loved the fact that Jamie could be spontaneous sometimes and that she was totally okay with just camping out on top of a random water tower on a Wednesday night. How many people in the world would have been okay with that? I was lucky to have her as a friend.
     We had everything settled by the time darkness fell completely. The climbing harnesses had been stuffed into the backpack and the backpack had been strapped to the railing on the side of the platform. With the sleeping bag laid completely open, there was still at least five or six feet of open platform on all sides of us. It felt secure enough.
     “I also forgot to mention that tonight is a huge meteor shower.” Jamie and I were on our backs, looking up at the infinite blackness.
     “I love shooting stars.” She said softly. Her eyes were wide and I could see her making fake mustaches out of her hair. She had kicked off her shoes and socks and was wiggling her toes in the night air. There was only a sliver of moon, just bright enough that I could see the glow of it on her cheeks.
     “It makes me feel small,” Jamie whispered, “I feel like that should bother me, feeling small, but it doesn’t. It’s weird because it’s almost comforting to me. Here I am, this tiny speck of dust, floating around on a larger speck of dust in the middle of infinity.” She wasn’t usually one to enjoy philosophy, but on the rare occasions she spoke like that, her point of view and opinions usually inspired me. She had a beautiful mind. She just didn’t often care to open up and share it like this.
“It makes me feel like it can’t all be an accident. Some people say that we got here through a series of random and fortunate events, that there is no great plan or design. But I just don’t see how that can be. How can mere chance create something like this? Of all the possibilities, of the infinite infinite possibilities, I just can’t believe that people, that you and I or anyone else were put here by accident. I don’t think that life could be an accident.” She spoke softly the whole time. Her voice never raised or quickened. Words seemed to flow forth effortlessly, as if this all were prepared and practiced. She was able to speak without doubt or hesitation, with such certainty that even the greatest cynic might have stopped to listen.
     She continued on, weaving words as though spells, playing ideas as though harp strings. She talked about her life, telling me things she never had before, teaching me things even I didn’t know. Jamie didn’t seem to be Jamie for the next while. Instead, she seemed to have become a font of wisdom, ideas, and genius. At least, that is how I saw her. She was able to take a single idea, and examine it from all perspectives. It was as though she held it in her palm, slowly rotating it to peer closer. She made connections that I had never thought of, inspiring me to think even deeper, loving the moment. All the while she lay there, watching the stars, wiggling her toes, and making pretend mustaches out of that long blonde hair. Eventually, she turned silent.
     “But what if it is an accident?” I said. My voice was unusually soft. “What if it was all an accident? What if there is no plan, no fate, and no reason for anything? What if there is no beginning or end and we are just insignificant bits of space dust? The idea of it not being an accident just seems so conveniently comforting, almost too convenient.” Jamie was silent after I finished. My heart was beating fast and my mind was alive. I didn’t feel close to being tired.
     “So what if it is,” she said eventually, “What difference does it make? Even if it is all an accident. Even if there is no meaning to life at all, it seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here we are, you and I, able to share this with each other. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this great big world, all the adventure, all the excitement, and all the love that it is filled with. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this infinitely huge sky, filled with stars that are incomprehensibly far away. If this is all an accident, it is the most beautiful I can imagine.” She paused for a while longer. “I feel that whatever you believe, it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps you believe there is a supreme design and plan, or maybe you believe that life is an accident filled with chaos. It doesn’t matter. We all live in the same world. We all see the same beautiful sights, we are surrounded by it. It is only our perception of it that differs. I choose to believe that such an incredibly beautiful world cannot be an accident.”
     I was quiet for a long time. Jamie had, for all intents and purposes, rocked my world. Hers was a perspective I had never thought of before. I, who believed I had thought it through from every angle. I, who believed myself smarter than the world. I realized then, at that moment, laying on the top of a water tower in late August watching a meteor shower, that maybe I was not a genius. Maybe I did not have the world figured out like I had believed. Maybe, just maybe, I was just a cynic; a cynic blinded by the misfortunes I had seen and suffered; a cynic disappointed in a world that had not treated me well.
     Jamie took my hand in hers, interlocking her slender fingers within my larger ones. She turned her head to the side and looked at me, still sporting a fake mustache. The sliver of moon was reflected in her eyes just so that I could not really look into them. Her lips were curled into just the slightes

In June this year, designer Masaba Gupta and film producer Madhu Mantena had the quietest of civil ceremonies. It was only when she took to Twitter the next day to talk about the court registry that most people heard of it. It was a move most unorthodox, for a leading fashion designer, especially one who counts several Bollywood actors among her close friends.

At the time, she also announced “a Caribbean wedding in November”.

The destination wedding isn’t happening. But that’s not to deprive us of a grand, four-day affair, the sort that has the most coveted guest list, and is followed with the keenest interest. It will start on November 19, with the bridal showers, will continue with the mehendi on November 20, the sangeet on November 21 and a gala reception on Sunday, (November 22). Expect the works, and guest lists that boast of Bollywood A-listers (Shahid and Mira Kapoor, and Sonam Kapoor are close friends, just so you know).

In short, it sounds like any other grand Indian celebrity wedding. Except, this is Masaba Gupta we’re talking about. As we catch up with her, we get the sense that she’s approached the whole thing with the same minimalism and quirkiness with which she approaches fashion. “A lot of people are invited,” she tells us, “But I’m not going around and talking about my wedding designer or my lipstick, so on and so forth.”

Unlike most Indian brides, she’s not even fretting over the big day, or days, as it were. “When I was growing up, I always saw brides around me under tremendous stress. The pressure to dress a certain way, wear a certain amount of jewellery and make-up... I saw how uncomfortable it was. So I decided that, if I do get married, I’ll be someone who puts comfort first, and then looks at her options for cut, colour, embroidery or jewellery,” says Gupta.

So, in case you do find yourself invited (otherwise, there’s always Instagram), don’t be surprised to see the most relaxed bride, dressed so comfortably that she’d be the envy of any married Indian woman. The idea, she says, is that a bride should “dress in a way that she can interact with people and have a good time herself.”

She’s also taken charge of the whole thing, and planned a non-fussy, non-extravagant celebration. “For me, three vacations is more value-for-money than a mandap with diamonds on it.”

True to her word, for her sangeet and reception, Gupta is ditching the norm of heavily designed lehengas and saris. “I didn’t go into that heavy, couture, bridal space. And I’m the kind of designer who wears works of other designers,” she says. So, her trousseau will have outfits by several other leading designers. “There are a few people who are great at doing certain things. Anamika [Khanna] is great at reception outfits. I can do a cool, quirky mehendi outfit. For a sangeet, somebody more in the Manish Arora or Shivan and Narresh kind of space,” she says.

The designer who’s always stood apart also seems keen to set an example. By not conforming to rules, Gupta wants to make a point. “I do want it to be about comfort, but I also want to change things up a bit. I want to set an example and say that you don’t need to wear a certain colour, a certain type of maang tika; your hair doesn’t have to look a particular way,” says the young designer.

Ask her if this is the (unconventional) dream wedding come true, and she laughs. “I never had a dream wedding. I’ve never visualised anything except clothes. Certainly not an elaborate wedding setup. See, I just don’t want to starve at my wedding. So, my dream wedding is one where I get to eat a meal while everyone else enjoys themselves as well.”

Masaba’s five-point guide to a chilled-out wedding

1) Get people to help out. If you try and look at every detail, you’re going to have a hard time. You may have a great input, but get people to do it for you.

2)People think you should shop for jewellery and clothes much in advance, but I think it should be done as close to the wedding as possible. You’ll have the latest stuff, and your taste might change over time. It’s best done around the wedding, so you don’t regret what you’ve bought.

3) Shoes are important. Make sure you’re in comfortable heels or flats, so you can survive the night.

4) Always test the make-up artist. Don’t just do a demo and leave it; test it through the day. See how the make-up behaves over a few hours, then you’ll know what it will actually be like, because it takes a couple of hours for make-up to set.

5) Receptions should start becoming more informal. You shouldn’t have to have the couple on stage smiling through the evening. I’ve heard of brides getting locked jaws. It’s absolute torture.

How to be the unconventional groom

• Fusion looks work well. If you’re wearing a Jodhpuri or a bandhgala, team it up with Jodhpuri pants. For men who are slimmer, suits do wonders.

• If you wish to be quirky and know you can carry it off, team dhoti pants and a shirt with a really formal blazer and a brooch.


• I love the cropped, ankle-length formal pants men are wearing now. It’s great for a reception.

• You don’t need to wear laced up shoes. Wear a nice slip-on in patent leather or a printed pair of shoes that stand out. So, you can make the whole look black and white, and have a nice pop shoe and make that the focus.

• Don’t be afraid of colours at your wedding. Get over navy blue, black or maroon. On a darker man, a haldi yellow kurta will look fantastic when teamed with an off-white or cream churidar. Even a soft pink in raw silk — it has a silver-pink shine — looks lovely.

How to be the ‘in vogue’ bride

• We’re seeing a lot of shapewear backs. Instead of the flared lehenga, women are opting for the fishtail cuts. Girls are also wearing shararas with big flares that almost look like a lehenga.

• Brides are going minimal. Go for less embellishment, and lighter lehengas.

• The dupatta is being ditched. Either that, or it’s attached. Much easier to handle.

• The choli is becoming more modest. People are wearing longer lengths, which are more fitted; the ‘60s style kurtas with shararas are also in. There’s more focus on the body and shape.

• I’m hoping the anarkali has died. It’s the worst of the lot. And it’s not very flattering. If you’re very skinny and tall, it works for you. If you’re short, you look like you’re lost in your outfit.

• Ditch the trail. At the end of the night, it’s a rag. It’s been stepped on and is *****.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/mermaid-trumpet-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses

Late night conversations about sweet nothings,
I feel as though he is just -something,
Something so goofy and unique,
I smile from ear to ear as he speaks,
I stay up almost the entire night and day,
It would be easier if he were to be next to me and stay,
He says we practically read each others' minds -telepathy,
I can go on and on about his sympathy,
We make funny faces all the time,
He is what I call  -a dime,
Not a dime's worth nor it's size,
It's quirkiness and shine,
And to end this poem is hard - just in a few lines,
His eyes and smile fill the room with light,
There is not one thing I regret from these,
*-These sleepless nights.

He looked at her,
Her hands were caked with black inks,
Filled with words she will never utter through her mouth,
How effortlessly she twists her hair into messy bun,
How she never ever wears make-up,
Daring enough not to conceal her beautiful imperfections,
How she clung books tightly to her chest,
Like a shield defensing her,
And how she walks confidently, yet stares on the ground afraid to have any eye contact,
I can't help but get attracted more and more by her quirkiness,
Every ******* time she passes by me.

i'm deeply sorry that your childhood was tainted. it saddens me to say that your innocence was stripped from you at such a young age. no one should ever have to have their purity and innocence forcefully taken from them. but you are letting your past become a fog within you, and you are allowing it to cloud up your lungs. you keep coughing on apologies that you shouldn't be giving and all the reasons why you think it happened. nothing can justify what happened. you were a child and in no way shape or form could it have ever been your fault. when you hold these type of grudges you let them hold power over you. and no one should ever have the ability to do so. forgive them. not for their sake, but for your own.

i want to apologize to you for always apologizing to the people that never even deserved it. you shouldn't have ever had to give an apology to someone simply for telling them that they draw you to them like magnets draws in metals and how the moon draws in and out the tide. you shouldn't ever have to apologize for seeing all of their flaws as another depiction of beauty. you shouldn't ever have to apologize to someone for loving them. don’t it again.

don't beat yourself up over him. i know. i know that he was exactly the poem that you wanted to write and i know that mystery increases dopamine in the brain and that's why you enjoyed his presence. i know that he made you smile and his goofy laugh made you happy and that the butterflies that flew away for the winter so long ago came back every time he spoke your name, but you know what? he's not it. and i know. i know that it hurts that the feelings aren't reciprocated. i know it stings, that it kinda feels like someone is pouring salt right into the middle of one of your cuts knowing that another one doesn't feel the way that you do, but you can't force pieces that don’t fit and you just can't force feelings that aren't there. right now i'm apologizing on his behalf because he was blind. by what? who knows, but for whatever reason, he just couldn't see it, but i do.

i'm sorry that all you were fed your whole entire life up until now were insults. you shouldn't have had to scarf all of the toxicity down. the words didn't sit quite right with your stomach so all you did was throw them right back up. and i'm very well aware of the fact that you had to bathe yourself in self pity and wash your hair in humiliation. i mean, no one should ever have to shower with the eradication of their own self confidence. things shouldn't work like that. you clothed yourself in self hatred and slipped self doubt upon your feet because they all made you feel like you weren't good enough. that you weren’t pretty enough. that every single one of your flaws outweighed every ounce of genuinity and kindness that was stored inside of you. well **** them. all of them. because you're gold. you are gold while all they'll ever be is rusted copper. listen to me, your body is the house that you grew up in, don't you dare try to burn it down to the ground.

you've always been the one to try to help. always the sincere one, always the one who easily gave empathy and comfort to others. but always have you been the one to be taken advantage of. because people mistake your kindness and generosity, but just let it be known that you'll choke them with the same hand you fed them with. and i don't mind you helping people, but the next time you lend out your hand, and someone grabs your arm, there's going to be a problem. you are not a giving tree. you do not let me people just take and take from you simply because of the fact that you feel bad for them. not everyone is as genuine as you are. remember that.

for the love of everything good, QUIT BITING YOUR TONGUE you hold so much back when you have so much to say. your thoughts are important. your words are important. how you feel is important. you were given a tongue for a reason. please, by all means, use it. you've been biting your tongue for so long that i'm not sure if you even realize you have one anymore. silence is not always pleasant. it's one of the loudest noises anyone can constantly be surrounded by. and let me tell you, silence is extremely deafening when it's the only thing you hear. speak up.

i know that words aren't always enough and i know i can't take away what happened years ago. i can't completely take away the hurt. i can't make you forget all of the rude remarks and the taunting and the insults. i can't get inside of other people's heads and make them stop trying to take advantage of you, and i can't allow people to hear you if you don't speak.

but what i will do, i will help you to move on from the ugliness of your childhood. i will tell you time and time again that you can't say sorry for feelings because they're just that, feelings. i will tell you that someone will like your quirkiness one day just as much as you like theirs. i will tell you time and time again that you are not weak because your heart is heavy. i will tell you until my lips grow tired, until it becomes your reality. i will tell you that the only people that you should focus on making happy is yourself. because guess what? you’re not a nutella jar so therefore you can’t please everyone. i will help you become better at picking out the genuine ones and i will help you to speak up. because one day, your hands won’t tremble and your feet won’t falter at the sight of him and your voice will not rattle when you go to speak. i shall help you to realize that your words matter. just like everyone else’s. none of it will be as easy as it sounds, but you know what they say, a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.

chin up buttercup.

Rehashing the rare
Out with the new,
In with the old.
She's always had a thing
For the things that exude
A quirkiness and a bucolic charm
The smell of old books
The black and the white
Good ol' Chaplin, James Dean
And the Sound of Music
The Beatles, a tape recorder
High-waisted pants
And the gramophone
And a rustic old bar
With a gruff bartender
Who's off his rocker
But he'll double up as your therapist
And for the boy with the dark brown eyes
Who looks across the bar at her.
And smiles.
It's all black and white again
Except this time,
It isn't her favourite Casablanca scene
But a white screen
And a thousand particles
Microcosmic
A milieu of
Unfathomable numbers float
Through the atmosphere
Connecting her to him.
And she doesn't want that.
She's always had a thing for the old,
But he makes her doubt that.

All along my unconscious
has been consumed by your
beauty which is below
the threshold of my wakefulness

Yet I crave it

You're not of classical beauty
but such a timeless white Lily
whose pureness grasps the mind
And remind me that I'm alive

For its adoration, essence is not
in form but in the method
Your quirkiness captures
my infinite imagination

You keenly read the mapping
of my unrestrained tears
Your pureness lies in innocence
Mine in experience

A kind of beauty

Stability Unstable,
    Like the ocean tides,
            Connected only through the shift in seasons.
I'm tangled in the intricacies of life.
Alone, I watch the way things move;
How a smile between strangers is pure
How quirkiness is a form of building walls
      Blissfully waiting to burst at the first sign of reality
Underlying emotions shifting every second,
      Deeper into the unknown
I walk on broken steps without perception
My head held captive in the clouds
Without care of destination,
      Yet striving to arrive
Lost between here and there
Well composed
       Slowly witty
             Brightly burnt out
       Ambitiously un-motivated
Spirit trapped in body
      Body trapped by mind
An oxymoron of unconscious awareness

We named you Daisy
for your white fur, because
we liked to name our cats after flowers.
But you were not only a white cat;
you were "odd-eyed white",
one orange and one blue.
Everyone loved your beautiful quirkiness.

You lived as our other cats did,
tame house-cat in the day,
but free to come and go;
half-wild at night,
following your instincts,
even if they were dangerous at times.

Then, one sunny morning,
I saw you from the bedroom window,
running back home, across the road,
and that time it really was dangerous,
as a car came past, exceeding the speed limit,
because in a race between speeding car
and running cat,
in the event of a tie,
the cat loses.

I ran downstairs and found you
by the gate,
warm, unmarked,
but unmoving, unbreathing

Carrying you gently to the back garden,
I laid you on the ground,
preparing to dig your grave,
as Marmaduke, our tomcat, came by.
Not the father of any kittens,
but surrogate to all our females.
After a birth
he knew what to do.
He would visit briefly,
sniff the mother, sniff the kittens,
walk off, apparently unconcerned,
and a day or two later
return with a mouse for mother.
That’s what father cats do,
even surrogates.

Only that day there was no birth,
no kittens,
and this time
he sniffed at you,
sniffed at the hole I had started digging,
and walked off
in complete puzzlement.
This time he did not know what to do.

When a poem comes to me,
I see a mysterious maiden,
her presence thrills me beyond words,
my eyes, gaze deep in to hers, get electrified.

poems, a  few of them, gently lift me up,
I remember my mom and dad doing it to me,when I was a kid,
I wanted to be lifted up again and again,
the imagery transports me to an old world,
where my eyes were  curious, senses growing outwards.

And a few had hit me hard and , even hurt,
'cause I failed to hear, what needs to be heard
I reel under the impact, but when I get up,
love it, find I am not the  one before, transformed!

And this one , meditative, makes me still,
lights a gentle flame within, I feel divine.
And the fun poem regales me like nothing else-
ever did, with quirkiness and humor, without limits.

A sublime poem is the one that takes me across,
either up above my mind's sky, so vast,
or depths of  marine blue where whales navigate,


I am an unknown continent, waiting to be explored,
this poem is an oceanographic expedition mysterious,
I find myself a deep sea creature altogether-
a new species,  none has ever found or named,
and its observer at the same time,  magical!

Sometimes I wonder If we could've been
If your squinty smile and long black hair
Could've shunned the demons that always held me back
Maybe if your quirkiness could've made me less of a hack
I don't know I think to myself
You and Me, could've never been
Your perfection was on every level
From your inner
To your outer
From level 1-1
to level 8-4
it seemed like my thoughts were just a locked door
Preventing myself to take the first step
into your world

Lovely girl across the world, in my state of mind you dwell
Your feet and legs covered in sand, your hair lettered with shells
Over, under, and inside my heart, your castle wins the prize
Making up in personality what you may lack in size

I've devised a cunning plan, you see, to bring us close together
And I'll enclose all the details in the contents of this letter
Not one more day can go by with me being so far from Grace
And so I'll trek over the land and seas so see the face

Of the heavenly traces on Earth, I'd say that your the best
A mixture of both sand and sea, blood, bone, and quirkiness
Hope this letter finds you in high spirits wherever you are
And that in the night someday we'll upon the very same stars

For the one who loves you has brought up all the sheets he could find
And brought scraps of lumber together will nails that bind
Into a vessel to weather the sea that splits you and I apart
So the two piece puzzle may have a chance to link into one heart

And though I know the shore is your first love overall
I hope you will come to me if I ever dare to call
And I will hold soon enough as I peak on past the day
And know your lover boy loves you forever and always

If you stay with me, I promise to make you smile every day with my weird, silly jokes and random quirkiness.

I promise to hold your hand when you need someone to walk with you through the storm.

I promise to share my food with you, and willingly give you the last bite of my favorite ice cream, give you good massages, cook you your favorite meals, and laugh at your stupid jokes.

I will accompany you on all your adventures, road trips, food trips, and anything else you want to do.

I'll help you accomplish everything on your bucket list.
I will listen when you tell me about how horrible your day was when you came home from work.

I promise to hold you in my arms when you feel like your whole world is crashing down.

I'll make you see that there are a million reasons why I will stay. "

The sheep in the nearby pasture
Heard what the cows had done
In the building of their rocket ship
And they too wanted one

A few of them shaved for pocket change
Black market wool brings a hefty price
While some went out to Las Vegas
To try their luck at the roll of the dice

First thing they did with the money
Was to spring for Sherman's release
The only one in the family to go to Harvard
Though it was for experiments on his mind which apparently they fleeced

Right away they noticed something odd about Sherman
Something that just wasn't quite right
But passed it off as genius quirkiness
And let that idea slide by

They told Sherman what it was they wanted
Said he had a mad...um...master plan
All the sheep turned and Baaa'd together
What was that, that he just said?

For weeks all they heard was banging and clanging
From inside their farmers shed
The only activity they saw outside
The massive delivery of Dominos crazy bread

One day the shed doors flew wide open
There stood Sherman as mad as acid rain
No doubt among the sheep in the pasture
He was Bonkers, Loony, Loopy...okay Sherman's insane

As he drug his creation into the open
Not a one in the crowd uttered a word
Till little Bobby Black Sheep spoke up and said
Is that a cows udder?...is that what they think that they just herd?!

Sherman took that moment of bewilderment
To swing onto udder #4
Strapping himself inside of his contraption
And shooting off for the stars

Sherman is still up there circling the planet
Did you hear about the phenomenon in Spain?
Just the other day something amazing there happened
There was the pouring of milk instead of rain...

But we know how that miracle happened
And that it came from the udders galore
Cause when your traveling through space like Sherman
What else would udders be for

I have to wipe
the **** from
the toilet seat
before I sit down
to write this, and
outside the drunks
are drunker than I

remember.
They slur their nothingness
so that once again
I sense comfort
in an accidental,
quick death
away from it all.

There is no chance
of joining in again;
at the best of times
it is a test
of toleration.
This game is hate

filled envy
for the ignorant.
Their confidence,
quirkiness, complaints
and compliance
are the holes
in my weary armour...

For, the few occassions
when I am truly alone
I am god himself
staring down at the landscape
as if it were bare,
with a face consuming grin
as I write away

their worth
and, with it,
mine.

Love those accouterments, my eyes catch, even if hidden,
though I don't particularly pry for them in any one, such ambiguity
helps to see world as a place, cryptic messages get transacted,
some are very open even, though no one seems to notice,
like this women I go out with, a free spirit, not the type
who keeps few secrets stashed away in a dark corner of an attic.

Enormous wings she has, I was fascinated by their lasciviousness
how light she would feel, when she soars up viewing the scene
from above, blessed she is , an envied celestial being
she would be in all other's eyes."Ever fancied flying on
your own wings?"  I ask her, in a tone so matter of fact
not revealing I know her secret, as if  just to know her feeling
as a flier.But her words make me think how strange this world is!
Just imagine this, she was never aware of her wings! How strange?

Pure white, delicate, befitting to her petite figure, soft yet sturdy,
her wings weren't a reality, how can it be, when I myself am a witness
the wings never came to her notice, so they cannot exist, she argued.

Her wings were thin, white, silver petals, that shines during dawn and dusk
at a midnight moment she levitates, we fall deep in a pit of velvety clouds
but by some quirkiness of reality, quantum physics may explain perhaps,
it isn't there, her wings,though for the purpose of mathematical calculations
it is counted as a reality; in my imagination, she makes me fly with her.

If you have the expectation
you can avoid the unexpected
in life, then you will never
end up making a left turn
unbeknownst that it is right.

For it is the simple sense of you,
and the vulnerability, and the
admirable quirkiness within it.
The unquestionable understanding
of self stands atop the world.

And with wandering eyes, which
are unlike any star or moon,
and a bold heart that beats
beneath your chilled skin, you
hope to find a deserving warmth.

So you take this world by storm
and create waves that rush
and break even the smallest pebble.
A world that was not ready
for such a breathtaking force.

And this world was stunned,
ill-prepared to embrace this gift.
You threw the world off course.
Now caught in a strange situation,
he wonders what's next in store.

This world has been overcome
by a force it can't avoid.
But this force is something special
the world can't seem to deny,
so it's attempting to tempt it.

This world has been overrun
by a light that gives the blind sight,
something beauty can hardly describe,
something that is overpowering,
something that this world can't shake.

Your sight has livened this world
and made it greener in all corners.
And now whenever your bright eyes
set sight upon it's bountiful land
it is overcome by a storm of feelings.

But what this world is yet to know
is if this force is receptive.
Because this world wants to show
how it feels towards something
that is so unearthly beautiful

Inside and out.

First thing I do is check the date
Good thru two thousand eighty five
Haven't had a can this fresh
Since Calvin Coolidge was alive

You can call it quirkiness
Each time I give the top a thump
Best way to tell if it's perfectly jelled
To the consistency that I love

If you know what I'm taking about
Well right you are and yes I am
That delectable treat of mystery meat
Known around the world as A Can Of Spam

Spam only comes in one savory flavor
King of canned meat there is only one
You remember long after your dining pleasure
By the amount of film left on your tongue

Do as I do and save the lid
A smart move you would be making
Comes in handy after dining
To help along with the tongue scraping

When life deals us cards,
make everything taste like it is salt
then you come through like the sweetener you are
to bring the bitter taste to a halt.

I like the way you smile from cheek to cheek
Those deep-set brown eyes
makes me fall in love all over and over
again

Those deep-set brown eyes.

the quirkiness in your laugh
where you have no worry about the world watching,
You are free because the world is watching.

As the sun drips down your face
without a single care in the world,
and in that moment there was us.

we stared up to the sky
sang 'goodnight n go' at the
top of our lungs.

Boy, you're such a dream to me.
before you speak, don't move
because i don't want to wake up
Wake up
Wake up
Wake up
Wake up
Wake up

[...]

When life deals us cards,
make everything taste like it is salt
then you come through like the sweetener you are
to bring the bitter taste to a halt.

So many Junes and Julys
I spent watching the paint dry
on our brand new cream walls
instead of going to play football
with the other kids my age in the street.
I sat and wondered why
my shaking knees did not smile, why
my bony fingers could not disguise
their quirkiness under pretty blue eyes
like all the other girls did.

And yet many paint coats later
I now realise that these walls have not changed
anything but their colour
in the many years my parents have lived here.
My parents, who spent so many years teaching me
to be loyal and kind,
not only to others
but to myself.

I like to think that if the walls could talk, they would say:

It does not matter what colour you decide to
dye your hair (or your walls),
because those who really love you
could not care less.
We have seen you grow into the person you are today;
stubborn, passionate and genuine,
but we know that you may still need to borrow
other people’s glasses to see it.
The road to self love is difficult
but know that you must love yourself
before loving anybody else.

You may not believe it yet
because you see others as the galaxies which
you could never be, but we promise that
you are the stars, and anyone who refuses
to look through a telescope to see that
does not deserve to see you shine.
There are lakes and rivers waiting for you
with open arms, and sunrises
which will put on their best colours
just for your eyes to see.

Your body is made of stardust,
you are stronger than the trees you have grown to love,
and though you may not be perfect
you are enough.

I am the kind of person
To write love poems for someone I just met
Thinking that maybe words can make up for my lack of confidence
My quirkiness
My overwhelming insecurities
And that awkward laugh that often escapes my mouth without warning
Phrases eager to leave my lips
I compose sonnets without thinking
Sew them on to jean pockets so that
Everytime you get undressed
You think of me
I don't know if that's socially acceptable
But I'm willing to take the risk
See
I am the person
Who fears coming off as creepy
Yet still hands out lines of poetry like candy on street corners
I swear my purpose
Is not
To reel you in
Capture you between spiderwebs spun from my fingertips
My intentions are honest
I am not looking for one night stand
Meaningless
Not on a constant hunt for momentary happiness
I want something that will last longer than sweetness
Longer than saccharin
Hit harder than whiskey
Won't leave a bitter aftertaste on my tongue
I have drowned too many times in salty waters
To know that I am more likely to sink than float
I have not yet learned how to swim in the deep end
I do not know how many attempts it will take to get to the center of me
There is no sweet middle
Waiting to be divulged
I have blocked off the pathways to myself
Not very often do I open them back up
I have a sign tied around my body stating
Warning
Do not enter
You might get stuck
I have a heart that is filled with quicksand and duct tape
The longer you stay around the harder it is
For me to let go
I am not trying to trap people
But everytime they leave,
A part stays with me
I have a photo albums on the insides of my skin
Sometimes the memories flowing through my veins pile up
And it is too much
All at once
I am the kind of person
Who runs towards sharp edges of opportunity with open arms
And then complains about the bleeding
I am the kind of person
Who can't help but repeat
Repeat
Everything I feel
Until I don't feel it anymore
I have promised myself
That I will stop falling at first sight
I have hit my head relentlessly
With severity
Too many times
But has never been enough for me to stop
None of this
Has ever been enough for me to stop
I am the kind of person
To write love letters
And never send them
Keeping them behind locked doors
Keeping them
For myself
To remember every detail
I am the kind of person
That may never know
How exactly
To love
I am still learning
How to love
Myself.

i have given everything.
the veins of my heart, perfectly lined beneath you.
my insecurities full in a box of metal.
the patchy scars presented as paintings, artifacts.
my quirkiness, scribbled and doodled on many pages.
my love.
that is the sky. the grass. the birds. the taste of air.
my love cannot be confined.
or defined.
it is everywhere. and everything.
darling, i only hope it's enough.

First thing I do is check the date
Good thru two thousand eighty five
Haven't had a can this fresh
Since Calvin Coolidge was alive

You can call it quirkiness
Each time I give the top a thump
Best way to tell if it's perfectly jelled
To the consistency that I love

If you know what I'm taking about
Well right you are and yes I am
That delectable treat of mystery meat
Known around the world as A Can Of Spam

Spam only comes in one savory flavor
King of canned meat there is only one
You remember long after your dining pleasure
By the amount of film left on your tongue

Do as I do and save the lid
A smart move you would be making
Comes in handy after dining
To help along with the tongue scraping

This year was a really good one
and I have God to thank for that

I learned to focus on the process
and not on the result
to really be honest
and to never insult

I learned that people change
and feelings range
from full
to null

I learned to place my happiness
in the One and only who will never let me down
To take life's crappiness
with a smile rather than a frown

To work hard
and pray for the best
To take in regard,
with how much I'm blessed

To love myself
and my quirkiness,
To not place feelings on the shelf
for other's cleanliness

To be confident
about all of me
And to compliment
things I liked to see

To treat things
as I want them to be,
and so they shall be
within my conformity

To improve
with every minute
and to move
forward with no limit

To take each day
as it comes
rather than sway
on possibilities, tons

To love,
and to love,
and to be.

i wish i stayed inside my mother, never to come out:

i. i have never cried over spilt milk but have shed tears for the broken teacup, mug, glass, whatever receptacle was forsaken of its usefulness out of my carelessness.

ii. i'd be lying if i said i could walk on eggshells. i used to walk on tiptoe, in fact, until my mom flagged it as a mark of low self-confidence, along with the way my eyes wandered when i spoke with someone, the subtle hunching of my spine, the supposedly feminine instinctual crossing of my legs. i thought it quirkiness: heels and eyes to the skies, always eager for new, new people, new things, new stories. something uniquely mine. how many of these little badges we once wore with pride have become our downfalls, our faults?

iii. multiple times a year, my gut blisters and tears itself apart. the first image that comes to mind is the fizzy alka-seltzer tablets my grandparents used to consume daily, wreaking their minute devastation upon a tepid glass of water. the scar tissue forming over the unseen ulcers are reason enough for my body to score the natural seam once again. it’s a fire i have inherited from my father, who in turn inherited it from his mother. has my own flesh become so infatuated with pain that it has forgotten what it means to heal?

iv. i am starved of light. there is a switch within me, that when on, illuminates the night sky to oblivion, olber’s paradox impossibly fulfilled. because when the sky goes dim, when the temple curtain is torn in half, i will burn so that you may see, so that you may live. like amniotic fluid, i will envelop you, encase you, sustain you: my breaths shall be yours, my blood shall be yours, my words shall be spoken from your lips, so you will never know that starvation like i did. constellations be ******, i will always be here for you whether you like it or not. there is a switch within me, and it is at once exhilarating and terrifying that you can flip it with a single word. why do i let you have that power over me?

v. i often wonder why this body, why this time. i have loved you so long i am not sure who i am exalting anymore, whose clay feet i am choosing to be oblivious to. you are my first musing in the early morning and final contemplation at night. i always forgot than we only ever reached almost heaven. the subtle understanding that what i can give you will always be too little, too much, too late, haunts me.

vi. i could never do earbuds, the sound waves ever-close to my cochlea, rattling the fluid inside its whelk-like cavity. no, i always needed distance: over-ear aux audio jack headphones distance. and when i couldn't afford distance, i made it, making do by cupping the speaker of my phone by my ears. like a smoker setting their cigarette alight, i knew to relish this small ritual of procrastination and retribution, quietly wishing for someone to share this feeling of lungs and heart dilating and contracting with me. music is my vice and my medicine, and it hurts me that others will never know the sublimity of the way a song makes me feel.

vii. i was once told by an almost-lover that walking barefoot in hotel rooms in disgusting. as a self-proclaimed germaphobe who (rather shamefully) does this, how could i have overlooked the reality? it only occurs to me now what ****, *****, sweat, ***** has seeped into the nondescript dark carpets, trace particles clinging to my heels. but i am no stranger to disgusting things, am i? no amount of handwashing, disinfecting, abstaining, good eating, or prayer could atone for my sins, could make me feel cleanly again. you are filthy, an animal among men: for what is hedonism but survival in the crude wild? i believe in a god who will pass judgement where and when it's due. was it so wrong of me to want to make a temporary home feel permanent? to forget about the dirt and grime that has settled upon this body over the years and yearn for the innocence i've so mercilessly slaughtered?

viii. once, a woman who was jogging tripped and fell on the sloped pavement in front of our old home. many passersby came to her aid immediately, offering hands and emergency phone calls. i couldn't have been more than eight, but i saw from the office room window and knew what i had to do. i grabbed a singular tube of neosporin and a handful of band-aids, running out the side door without letting my parents know. as i came closer, i saw blood peeking behind thin tattered veils of torn skin, like the sun through woven drapery. the sight was dizzying, and empathy pain shot up my arms and legs, mirroring the crumpled woman on the ground before me. i gingerly proffered the neosporin and much-too-small bandages, hands shaking. she managed a laugh, causing the small crowd that had accumulated to laugh as well, and said she'd be okay. my parents later chastised me for approaching the stranger but commended my "heroism", also stifling laughter. i've learned now that the thought is not the only thing that matters, and while i miss that sense of resourcefulness and utility, i pity the children that are taught otherwise.

ix. the soul of a stranger i hold dear knows not its limits. the sand continues slipping through my fingers, the people run their daily races. i am estranged from being, and it prickles at the nape of my neck like embarrassment upon answering the question wrong.

x. what you see as my weakness is not my weakness. wearing my heart on my sleeve may not be my strength but it is not a ******* weakness. i will give second chances, third chances, fourth chances, hell…i will give people all the time they need to grow because i know that, one way or another, they will. real people are not book characters. there will never be a tidy box to neatly file them away like one of the peter pan collar blouses in your closet, no definitive label either of us can ever bestow upon them. i love. i get hurt. platonic, romantic, it is all the same for me. but i will return to places i’m unwanted, the forlorn puppy, mangled and bruised, i will try time and time again to work on people and help them. this is my obligation, my prerogative. for every one of your hands retracted, i will extend mine in fellowship and camaraderie, taking keepsakes of thorns or roses. i will try because people like you will not.

xi. there are so many things that i want to scream with all my soul, but i fear being written off as mediocre, crazy, or worse yet, incoherent. i fear that people will not understand my messy prose and ramblings, that i will not be seen for who i am. you are nothing. you exist on a contingency, a technicality. you think you earned your way in? you are pathetic. there is no amount of catch-up you could play that would indemnify your pitiful existence. the stars were your playground until it all came crashing down....now, there is nothing left out there for you. i'm sorry to those whose boundaries i violated, whose weary faces i smothered with what i mistook to be affection. the world did not deserve to be burdened by me.

xii: can you not be happy that i can breathe now? do you have to bleed me dry of what precious remaining energy i hoard for myself? let me be selfish, let me be vain, let me indulge the machiavellian predilections i repress. how nice, how lovely must it be to have someone to be there to give you instant attention, constant gratification, always a shoulder to lean on but never one to cherish.

xiii. it's okay, no really, it is! i understand! you don't have to acknowledge me. i know sometimes i get a little caught up in the irony, the asyndeton, the metaphors and similes and aphorisms i wear religiously, seborrheic and unnecessary. know that i am nothing without my -isms and -izations and holier-art-thou judgement. i don't think my friends understand that i feel less than human in their presence, because since childhood, i knew if nothing else, i was endowed with mediocrity as my birthright. i implore those i love to leave, stop reaching out if conversing with me ever becomes a chore. i ask in earnest because the last thing i want to be is a burden, an outstanding box to tick on a checklist...i ask but i fear their response.

xiv. ergo decedo. therefore, leave, or so the fallacy goes. i have no mind for rhetoric or satire. i had the nicest plans, but dear god does not want it that way. this is goodbye.

Nothing ever seems to work for me
The way it normally is planned
When the crowd all sits down
That is when it is I stand

When they're no longer taking questions
That is when I raise my hand
No nothing ever seems to work for me
The way  it normally is planned

Things always seem to go
A tad bit different for me
Just a tick or two off
From what they call life's normal beat

People often wonder
Exactly what it is
That continually brings about
This life of quirkiness

I can hear the whispers
There must be a cure for what I do
But ten out of ten doctors surveyed
Say they have no clue

So I'll just continue living and loving life
Exactly how I am
As long as I'm happy with the way things are
I see no need to try and understand

nothing seems to work out
the way i have it planned
when the crowd sits down
that's when i decide to stand

things always seem to go
a tad bit different for me
just a tick or two off
from what's considered life's normal beat

when they're no longer taking questions
that is when i raise my hand
when they ask for women volunteers
i stand up like a man

people often wonder
exactly what it is
that continually brings about
this life of quirkiness

my friends they ask quite often
is there a cure for what i do
9 out of 9 doctors surveyed
say they don't have a clue

guess i'll continue living life
the way it is i am
as long as i'm happy with it
i see no need to try and understand