MY FOLIAGE

How

I spend

fleeting moments

stretching to whisper, swaying

twittering through the dawn breeze

reveling in plush shades of green envy

Carving out an escape from a cloud patch

I seek to embrace a filtered sunbeam

to hide from dictated happenstances

Trembling in the morning dew

the pollen seeks new home

sprouting evolved offerings

of misgivings in landscapes

rising in sharp contours

of the day

melting

flowing

down my

spirit

I leave

footprints

cycling

through

fears of

excesses

spilling on

tomorrow

dreaming

petrichor

IF

it                   exists

another                        day

Poetics: Tree poetry

Thank you Abhra, Such a wonderful prompt! I have been running a hectic schedule and it seems it will be so for a month more or perhaps more. :) Will catch up soon with people on the trail!

I IN SELFIE - deFINeD

I got a name for ‘Who are you’?

Echoing my contours

MUCH before I learnt to see and hear

Now melanin sheaths

Wane and wax to morph

with choices, chances and discretion

Rippled views tune

broken phrases and unsung songs

as I wipe brushstrokes

of rainbow stars

in a rendezvous with the blood moon

The breeze soaks my parched dreams

cooling the pouches of tear streaks

proliferating accepted perceptions

What more could become of me?

What more could be unbecoming of me?

My catharsis
criss-crossing my palms

tickles to the touch of grass

rustles apprehensive to a dewdrop

Inconclusive, it continues - the journey

For a tint of grey for my hair, unseen

crinkle a bit of my skin - vestiges of memories

tingle the tear glands

to swallow a breath

Ambling to cuckoo calls and tweets

on cracked heels

I tick time till time ticks on me

Finding SELF

Till the soil finds me

So very meandering like me...

MeetingTheBar: Self Portraits

THE PROCESS

I listened

as she counted

the autumn leaves

crackling under her feet

and those still hanging

to the branch

painted green while

sinking into unison

with the night’s carpet

I listened

as she counted

the stars

refusing a moonbeam

exercising a choice

to wear down with time

into time

ticking, nevertheless

I listened

as she counted

the motley grains of dust

filtering inside the room

fathomed to cloak the dawn

gathering the leaves in slumber

into cycles of destined motions

I listened

as she counted

“two months, ten days”-

As the clock began to sync

with the re-defined contours

Draping her twilight

she counted

re-counted

I listened-

the least that I could do

was listen

MeetingTheBar– Emotion in poetry

COMBING YOUR DREAMS

(a pic in daughter's book; she coloured it)

Caressing the mirror

you bend your head backwards

wishing for your curled locks

kiss your knees

You wonder aloud if you could shade them

‘Barbie pink’

while I try to undo the knots

slow…

one by one…

You call out ‘Rapunzel!’

harvesting the tale in plush green shades

of your newly acquired vocabulary

Breathing azure, smiling sunflower

you weave scarlet dreams tinting the strands

spilling indigo hued dew

that shimmer fluorescent in your eyes

smiling in cherry red blushes

The vacuum in between the bristles

fills rainbow from your tresses

cocooning the shaft and me in you –

never-grey

All it takes is a brushstroke

to paint this naked journey

OpenLinkNight– March 2014

I missed the linky for the colours prompted by Abhra at Poetics last week. Though this was not the piece written for it, I am linking another one here based on the picture coloured by daughter in her book.

NOT EVERYTHING IS MORTAL

I count for folds of time

dusting old albums

blowing open sepia…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

noting the stillness, waiting

for seconds to tick the day

I cup the sunbeam

filtering in the room

through glass roof – tiles

sparrow chirps

break the noon silence…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

in semi-circle views of milieu

holding to tests of time, people

Through the bamboo blinds

I count the footsteps

pressing the sparkling grains of mud

waiting for an umbrella shadow…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

integrating me with corners

that house wrinkled journeys

Grandparent’s youth stays framed

in b & w on the old- white wall

present in seeming absence

of any acknowledgement…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

capturing the corridor miles

immeasurable in memories

Fanned by coconut leaves

the stone in the backyard remains

barred idyllic, standing with children

shuddering to grandpa’s admonition…

…The pedestal fan whirrs

seeping in a mundane routine

yet, not skyscraper(ed) pursuits

The pedestal fan whirrs

those summers noon

even today…

…That pedestal fan whirrs

no longer

For Meeting the Bar ~ Rhythm and Blank Verse 

some fond memories of my paternal ancestral home where I spent my summer vacation. Summer sets here in India and with every summer those memories kindle me with fondness.

MOTHER TONGUE

Dumb charades-

Gestures exchange with my maid

for a friend seeking a helping hand

She checks for a final call; ‘Hindi’? she shows

‘Telugu’ replies the maid -

her being and belonging in a country speaking

thirty languages and over a thousand dialects

She could never go beyond that

My friend nods in disagreement

A corporate executive travelled worldwide

Residing yet refusing to pick the local flavor

She could never grow beyond that

***************************

All of three years old

getting to know...

I prompt daughter to say a “Hello”

to the others, each hiding shy

We mothers exchanged a smile

The girls began

a word and two, more came

in language spoken at home

Smiles, giggles, cackles spoke

They listened to learn; learnt to listen

Talking broken to hold sense and substance

or cry in failed attempts, yet

Holding to each other and their conversations

in words parroted often more than not

but heard and attempted to accept

They now converse conveying ‘How are you?’:

Eppadi irukkai? Kem cho? Hegidhiya? Kaise ho?’*

Seamlessly transcending boundaries-

Physical and otherwise exist only for adults

Choosing to shut the doors on themselves!

The first is a bit from the common sight here in India. We often do not want to exit our comfort zone. *The second is a true story being scripted by my daughter whose mother tongue is Tamil with her friends who speak Gujarati, Kannada, Hindi respectively.

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ In Two or More Languages

THEY- LIVE

Caught!

the crescent-moon

in twin –waves...

Camaraderie 

with crimson-glory

Siphons out

Day – silhouettes

When a mackerel(ed) dew

Erases 
the diamond - drops

That dream-canvass

now burns

the four-chambers
Bitter-sweet

Kennings – the metaphor of Skalds – Phew!