"saris" poems
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice
Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies
Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets
Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians
Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense
Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations
Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings
Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
In the seventies
we brought back silks and saris
hot with colours
that shocked the nights
Punjabi embroidery
on cheesecloth kaftans
mirror glittered skirts
that were spun with light
Kashmiri shawls
and Afghani dancing dresses
arms full of bracelets
silver and brass
enameled and etched
and singing with ***
rings of Ivory, sapphire and jet
necklaces of jade and threaded apple seeds
rain forest timber bowls
white marble boxes from Agra
with precious inlay stones
our little Taj Mahals
we wandered the globe
like a magical village
of lovers and
and came back
with backpacks of dreaming
and hope.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
*
Dress in saris, wear ornaments in gold
Around your neck and on the *******
Be a girl; be shy; be womanish bold;
Be a wife; be a cook; be spiritually good;
Adore men, especially your husband;
Be submissive; be polite; be loyal;
Be the servant of goddess lotus!
Dwell in clay; live under the water;
Show light to sun; moon and stars!
Be soft; embrace in love; fade into water!
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
sit with me before the dance
in my little thatch hut
on a mat of yellow reeds
together we’ll string
garlands
marigolds, jasmine,
roses
to offer at His petite, azure feet
with glossy red kisses
we’ll serenade our Sri Krishna
weave peacock feathers through His
perfumed tresses
the Yamuna river is lit up with
lotus lanterns and
vrindavan incense
we have adorned ourselves
in the finest silk saris
and red *** *** dots
we are ready with
aching, ardent hearts to
dance with the Lord
come into our eager, hopeful arms
darling Giridhari
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
Your holy
Name
dances about
red, blue, pink
swirling saris
with You
my arms are
never empty
the moon is full
of silver
and the sun
pours its gold
over us
in the jhoola of
my heart
there is a permanent place
where I swing from dawn to
radiant dusk with my
Dearest Giridhari
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Did you know the East Indian Bottle Masala includes as many as 27 spices, or that an oil-free pickle served at their weddings is actually known as Wedding Pickle?
These and many such authentic East Indian masalas and pickles are available at East Indian Cozinha (Portuguese for kitchen), a food store started by Christina Kinny at Kolovery Village in Kalina, Santacruz. "I started East Indian Cozinha with an attempt to preserve and highlight our cuisine and culture," says the 24-year old, who has studied Masters in Social Work and currently, works with an enterprise that helps tribal farmers.
What’s in store?
Going back 500 years, the East Indian cuisine enjoys influences from Portuguese, British and Maharashtrian fare. The staples include rice, coconut, tamarind, fish and meats, with spices forming an integral part of the cuisine. For instance, Prawn Atola is a dry dish comprising prawns coated only with Vindaloo Masala featuring Kashmiri chilli, cumin and turmeric. "Most people from our community were farmers and would be out on field all day. So, the masalas and lemon would help preserve their food for a longer time," reasons Kinny.
At present, the store stocks six varieties of masala in 100g bottles (R150 onwards). These include Khuddi or Bottle Masala, Chinchoni (fish) Masala, Vindaloo Masala, Roast Rub, Kujit Masala and Tem Che Rose. She also offers Wedding Pickle, an oil-free variety prepared with raw papaya, carrots and dry dates. "All the recipes have been passed on from generations and are homemade," she informs.
However, making the masalas is no cakewalk. "It takes three days to dry spices under the sun. Then, we hand pound them and pack them tightly in bottles with wider openings," says Kinny. She recalls that in her grandmother’s time, the masalas were tightly stuffed in beer bottles. The bottles were darker, and hence, helped preserve the masala for at least a year, at room temperature.
Lugra love
East Indian Cozinha also stocks traditional 10-yard saris known as lugras. These are hand embroidered by Kinny’s mother, Carol. Previously made only from cotton with authentic gold borders, now, lugras are embroidered with sequins and threads. "She has been in the garment industry for the last 30 years. She also makes traditional accessories like kapotas (earrings), karis (hair pins), anklets, etc," informs Kinny.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
We are stopped for special checks
At TSA and immigration
We are murdered
In our house of worship
Six innocent lives lost
Oak Creek Gurdwara, 2012
Racial slurs hit our hearts:
Sand ******
ISIS
Towel head
Out of fear
We stop wearing our beautiful salwar kameezes, lenghas, saris, and kurta pajamas
In colors and embroidery your clothes could only ever dream of
We take off our crowns you call turbans
And replace them with baseball caps
We think twice about speaking Punjabi,
Our mother tongue,
Around those that don't recognize it
We stop packing our grandma's handmade saag and roti
To school for lunch
And start eating
Processed Lunchables
We separate into two people
Our American selves
And our Punjabi selves
Almost never does anyone meet both
All because
You don't know
The difference
Between a Sikh and a terrorist
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
Two strangers in a rickshaw in Varanasi:
Two strangers who never felt like strangers.
Two people lost and alive in the moment,
The same moment
With every sense standing, antennae bristling..
Two in a bubble
Together, held apart.
Caught up in a parade and surrounded by shy , smiling faces
Waving modestly at the fair haired strangers,
Laughing
At their surprise and joy.
Knowing that moment's awe
Delighted to share the festival.
Rickety trucks gaudily decorated blare out the tinny music and
High pitched voices distorted by the tannoy add an urgency
To the motion.
Shimmering saris glisten,
So in tune with the music that trembles with joy.
That joy spills out from the
Scents, the colours, the gleaming grins and the shy waving that marks our welcome,
Till every sense tingles
With life.
And then the sand storm
Swirling and circling the speeding rickshaw
Arrived mysteriously, magically,
Like dry ice in a theatre.
The air now tangible;
Surrounding us like the skin of a bubble
Lifting us out
Of ourselves as the scene comes and goes.
The sand screen clears to reveal
An elephant
A beautiful, smiling elephant
Dressed in splendour
Accompanying us on our magic carpet ride.
Close enough for us to touch his hide.
Bejewelled and glorious
Smiling too
And all is one in that moment
And each looks at the other and feels enchanted and wants the parade to go on forever
Just like this;
With motion
And music
And colour
And smiles
And laughter
And
An elephant.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
You want me to talk, Sir?
I’d relax and you can paint better, Sir?
Maybe, Sir…maybe, but what shall I say, Sir?
For I am not used to talking
to important people like you, Sir…
Why do you laugh, Sir?
It is true, I’m just a girl from the village, Sir
attending to Laxmi and Ganga –
those are our family cows, Sir;
and I milk them; and my father
and I bring the milk to the market
and to neighbors who can afford to pay for them…
We don’t carry them in these fancy pots Sir,
you make me pose with
but just earthen jars, Sir…
But this morning, Sir, my father said to me:
*Come, Mina – you shall pose for a famous artist;
India has never seen such an artist
and he shall pay well
and perhaps with that I shall buy a third cow;
three neighbors owe us money
and will never return them in this life;
and the old woman in the sixth house has died
owing us money for these last four years…
You just have to stand there
before the artist in your cleanest sari
and use borrowed milk pots…*
And that is what my father said, Sir…
I normally don’t dress in such clean clothes, Sir;
the saris I have are saris my mum used
but she died when I was little, Sir…
Sir? You want me to keep talking…but I am boring, Sir
and I talk simple words and I am sure you’ve heard…
Oh Sir, I’m more used to talking to cows
than important men, Sir…
All right Sir, I will tell you…I will tell you…
I do have dreams, Sir
and it is just the dream of all the
girls in my village:
I’d like new saris and jewels
and I’d like to be married
before the year ends;
Arun from the next village
always looks at me
in our town fairs
and Oh, would that he’d marry me
and we’d have a home and a farm and cows
and we’d have children
and we’d live our quiet lives
in our secluded village…
Sir, that is my dream…I have nothing more to say, Sir…
I hope you are done…
Or maybe you should talk, Sir…
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:55 PM UTC
High above the Holy River Ganges
where the water flows like Brahman itself,
is an ancient cave, a place of sacred pilgrimage.
Entering silently, our small gathering
sat together, meditating here where the great
sage himself transcended in deep samadhi.
Wrapped in warm shawls, dhotis and saris,
eyes closed gently in the stony half-light.
Early hours had seen us awake, readying
for this auspicious day, and the sleepiness
of a little child began to overtake me.
With that same innocence, a childlike feeling,
I curled down into a woolen bundle, asleep
in the inner depths of that holy, dark place.
Sleep was sleep, and not sleep,
as awareness shone within me.
Limitless akasha unfolded inside me now,
and the ground where I rested expanded
into that same unbounded, cosmic space.
From far beneath the cool, damp earth,
a radiance travelled into my small frame.
Renewing energy suffused and blessed me.
Bowing in my heart, I touch the lotus feet
of Maharishi Vashistha. His darshan
shines on into our present day, and
throughout all of Ved Bhumi Bharat.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
They call you MY ******
I have a mother; my mother
A sister; may be a daughter
Or a son.
My father, my brother, my friend, my classmate, my lover
My people.
Where do you figure?
Yet they say you are mine.
Mine.
Their impassioned pleas
Echo in courtrooms, in police stations,
On stark black letters staring out of newspapers;
Crisp saris and well-fitted suits, their accented comments
Drenched in arrogance, tumbling out of flat-screen television sets;
Smug families discussing me (and you) in bright living rooms
With unblemished walls bearing paintings of enigmatic women.
They all say
You are MY ******
I can see you.
I can see you glowing with pride.
Feel the shroud of admiring glances
Cocooning you wherever you go.
For every sigh of cuss, there are a hundred
Congratulatory nods.
They giggle
As you hold my mangled soul
Up above your head,
Like the tattered flag of an enemy country.
Why, you have silenced another of those
Who dared to rear her sad, ugly head.
Or a happy, pretty one.
What difference does it make?
You never saw
My eyes
Eyes screaming out loud, and going dry
Wide open, yet blind.
You didn’t feel
Tired, shapeless lumps of my being watching us
As my body stopped being mine,
But an amalgam of ******* ****** and a
Deep long scar across eternity.
While I no longer have a name,
You possess one more: ‘My ******
Oh yes, I invited it upon myself
I have chosen it,
I have chosen YOU.
It was predestined. A given.
Since the time I was born.
So you might as well be mine.
My ******
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
When the thieves broke in,
They broke my mother’s heart,
They broke my naiveté,
They broke my maternal lineage,
By making her closet bare,
She stood barely recognizing it,
Stared at her safe,
Her
Bulletproof
Fireproof
Apocalypse proof
Safe
Code c r a c k e d,
Deadbolt door eerily open.
“It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,
[Passed down from one generation to the next,
Dating back to an invaded India,
Surviving six hundred soldiers,
Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,
Stories etched in souvenir gold].
“At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction.
[Yet I couldn’t help but feel,
A physical furthering,
From my immigrant ancestors,
Who passed along secrets with every pendant,
Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,
Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:
Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past].
How funny
To imagine the thieves
Pricing a priceless object --
Ironically making it worthless
Because the burglary left behind
The heritage.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
The other day I was walking
Along the main road of the
Capital city of my state
I saw a Beautiful caption
“corruption is a social evil”
On the vigilance Head office itself
The devil is sitting on the roof
Nobody needs any authentic proof
Without flowers and jewellery
No wife shares her bed with her husband
Every body thinks only money makes them grand
Bribe has become the watch word in this holy land
Without liquor and a hundred note
Nobody will cast his precious vote
Even the teachers took silver glasses
And silk saris for casting their vote
Without a bribe one can’t register the land
The officer shamelessly stretches his/her hand
***** looks more like a beggar
And reminds me of a grave digger
But a few officers are very honest
Because of them a poor man gets a post
May God shed his divine light
And make their lives gorgeously bright!
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:41 AM UTC
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
We grew up in the muddy puddle
That was our coffee
In a begrimed little café.
We ate in little bites of each other,
Rolled our tongues in our mouths,
Tasted each flavor and each seasoning.
I gulped you down and digested each little mishap of you.
I undid all the sordid belongings residing in your mouth,
You were the embodiment of shame and failure,
And I made it all such a part of my gut,
That I haven’t shaken it off
Thirty years hence.
How did I make it to here?
This is such a foreign rest.
The only familiarity was that,
Which settled around the corners of your eyes,
In the crevices beneath your *******
And the clarity of your skin.
There were snacks,
And books.
You had your brown sweater on.
Your moist brow was so restless that day,
That I was reminded of all of my desperation,
All the stories I hurled at myself,
All the children I knew were all right.
Oh Nara,
Your brow vanished all that I held true,
Even you, Nara,
Your brow swallowed you whole.
Oh Nara,
You killed a part of me that day.
You exploded into chemicals,
That stuck onto my skin.
Into hot tea that surprised me every day.
It crept into the jasmine oil smell of her hair.
In the sweat of her neck,
Into our lazy evenings filtered through with years
Of careful exclusion.
Everything I owned was only me
When I was naked, and writhing,
A baby in the womb of something so desperately motherly,
That it forgot to give birth.
She noticed, Nara, she noticed me.
She noticed these hands shaking through everything they did.
And she hid.
She hid into her red, pleated saris,
Into cookbooks and cakes,
Into soft butter, and hardened cookies.
Everything has been seeking to destroy itself since, Nara,
Cigarettes would paper itself into existence.
Now it burns smoke and blindness.
The trees move in fast forward,
They are arthritic fingers
Grasping for something,
Long since out of their reach.
Acid has been running in the veins of this house since years,
The wood is out of place.
The rot in the bamboo tables is only concealed
By the tinted glass.
And sometimes, I sit at the cadaver porch,
You are a mindless zombie of a woman,
Who decides to stay with me,
And leave me alone.
Destruction had become your favourite hobby when you were that real.
When did poetry become so important to you that
You quite forgot me?
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Since its inception, Aarong has been determined to bring about effective changes in the lives of artisans and underprivileged rural women, by facilitating and advertising their handicraft. Today, it has become the foundation of independent cooperative groups and family-based artisans. Now, it is known as a contemporary life outlet, among people not only in Bangladesh, but all over the world.
This wedding season, you can adorn yourself with one of Aarong’s festive looks. On November 17, Aarong launched their latest product line – the Wedding Collection.
Aarong has introduced a series of looks and styles to try out this wedding season for brides, the bridal entourage and the wedding attendees. What’s more, they are promoting Jamdani, Muslin and Katan sarees as the choice of outfits to wear for the bride and her close ones.
The line is introducing bridal wear in some uncommon hues, moving away from the routine “red” to peach, pink, purple, blue, green and beige. These unconventional colours can also look grand on the big day, and this is the idea that the creators of Aarong are attempting to establish.
Jamdani saris will be incorporated with remarkable embroidered and printed blouses, helping ladies look regal on their special day. The wedding entourage also has a lot to look forward to. This special compilation includes Katan and Jamdani sarees, paired with embroidered blouses, ideal for any reception soiree. Katan sarees can be worn in bright or bold colours and contrasted with multi-layered pearl jewellery and complementing blouses. Furthermore, the collection also includes Jamdani saris in light shades such as light pink, peach and white, and these can be paired with frilled petticoats or dupattas.
Along with gold, the creators encourage the brides to try out silver jewellery with complementing stones, layered pearl neckpieces and hair ornaments. Hence, the looks are a mix of modern and traditional, and are not only advised for the bride, but also for the close relatives or wedding attendees.
This collection also comprises of saris, appropriate for the bridesmaids, the cousins, the sisters, and even the parents of the to-be-weds. Aarong has prepared similar ‘matching’ attires for the bride and the groom, that are perfect for particular occasions like Holud, Mehendi, Aiburo Bhaat, and so on. For the bridegroom, as well as his family and friends, there is also an exclusive range, that includes Sherwanis and Panjabis. Aarong also provides a variety of gift options such as ceramic dinner set, cushion and bed covers, as well as women’s accessories, such as bags and purses.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
Those days, Those days
in Prashanti, not a care in the world
waiting for the Lord of the Universe
Rainbow sequined saris flutter like
colorful prayer flags
in the sultry, warm breezes
Women devotees, buzzing honeybees,
breathlessly squeeze into granite window openings
outside the mandir
straining to see, hoping their adoring eyes
will be blessed by the nectarine vision of Sai Avatar
Seva Dal angels in vivid orange and yellow scarves
manage to bridle the swooning, burgeoning, euphoric
crowds with spirited "Sairam, Sairams"
O Baba
what we wouldn't give for a chance to once more
see your airborne Lotus feet floating towards us
on the golden sands of Puttaparthi
Reverently, I press my fingertips to my eyelids
taking padnamaskar
these orbs, these orbs
once gazed upon the holy sight of
Bhagavan Sri Sathya Sai Baba
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC
Designer Mandira Wirk gave actress Nimrat Kaur a regal look when she showcased her New Royals collection at Amazon India Fashion Week on Saturday.
Wirk showed 20 ensembles, including Kaur’s ivory drape concept sari with just a zipper, panelled gown with mother of pearls and dori work paired with a sheer cape.
“Her collection is so pretty and feminine,” said Kaur. “I love her clothes. This collection is called the New Royals... it’s bringing pretty back, beautifully enhancing the female body form. It makes you feel so light and pretty.”
Panelled anarkalis, jackets and capes, crop tops, jumpsuits and tapered trousers appeared alongside designer’s signature drape saris and dhoti pants.
Wirk, in a beautiful off-shoulder powder pink dress, said: “I wanted to get pretty back to the runway. It is pretty feminine, wearable and an extremely versatile collection.
“I have done lots of pastels...lot of capes, sleeves. So basically a very feminine and romantic collection.”
The range saw a heavy use modern details like wide pockets and deep waistbands paired with layers of French knots.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Our fate was written in the
folds of your mother and grandmother's saris, beautifully
intertwined with the gold patterns on
the long sheets of fabric.
It was written in the
hem of my father's hockey jersey, patriotic
to our love just as my father
is to his team and city.
And yet, not even the promises we made to
each other could hide the fact that a bindi does
not belong on my forehead, and that
you belong in a cricket field, not an arena.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
Minty mists float like saris
over the breast of low-lying hills.
Chaos is not found here,
only breezes, lovely and light.
A meadow in the foothills
where daisies and shamrocks grow
has just been liberated from
a long winter of ice and snow.
Butterflies swarm like snowflakes,
eater to begin life’s busy parade.
Nests and burrows - so much to do
before the flocks lay nest eggs.
Collage of colors is sent spinning.
All the air tastes like life and love.
Partners court each other happily
on the earth and in trees above.
Cycles and circles, this is the stuff of life.
New to replace the old, as it must be.
Dizzy dervishes of living spin around...
always something new to see.
Each season has its quantity of time
as the earth turns faithfully around.
All giving their time that life may
continue its melodic, fulfilling sound.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
Forlorn puppies hunt through the trash in search of food
Incessant honking pounds my eardrums
Putrid hints of smoke and diesel followed by the overwhelming stench of rotting trash scorches my nostrils
Uncontrollable spice followed by sour lassi irritate my tastebuds
Dirt rests in the barrier between my feet and the floor
Bejeweled saris radiate from neon lights
Quiet mantras echo off the walls of the yoga studio
Aroma of fresh baked dosa weaves up and down streets
The wetness of one pomegranate kernel refreshes my mouth
Slippery canary yellow kheer oozes out of my fingertips
I want to leave but also to stay
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 1:38 AM UTC
For many days
continuously
i seeing an
Indian woman
coming to
inside
the river for
stooling.
She had
flowery Indian
saris.
Not too fat,
not too thin.
Her boobs
were covered by
by saris and
inside cloth.
To see that
sun and i were
competing each other.
I was looking
at that time.
The sun cleverly
brought a cloud
to that area.
Everywhere there
was darkness.
It was a
surprise gift to
sleeping moon.
Moon's Alexa
already had told
about the newly
entrant beauty
to river.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 10:19 AM UTC
Dear Great Grandma,
Thank you. Thank you for the loud 4 o'clock steeler games, and the snacks that followed them. Thank you for the Saris' ice cream dates that included and eruption of chocolate sprinkles
Feb 18, 2020
Feb 18, 2020 at 11:56 AM UTC