The Healer

Like a bird that sings a melody most soulful

when no one is listening,

the writer or an artist strives to create.

When their art lulls the restless to a calm,

or revives frigid souls into vitality,

that instant morphs into a conduit

for Magic to travel and kiss reassurance

on the tear-smothered cheeks of Reality.

Poetry about how art and kindness have the power to heal both the creator and one who draws pleasure from it. Inspired by the visual of Paul Barton playing Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique many times over to Romsia, an old blind elephant in a sanctuary in Thailand marked for turning increasingly aggressive and volatile and a threat to humans and members of his own kind.
Paul played the melody part repeatedly as “he(Romsia) seemed to like it”.

The Unlikely Bard


“To play a wrong note is insignificant;
to play without passion is inexcusable.” – Ludwig van Beethoven

I sensed the weather-beaten leaves

considering their surrender

to the impending frost.

And I paused to perch among

their last flare of colors

to sing a song

of remembrance,

of nesting and flight;

of fasting and feasting

chasing squirrels and field mice.

PC: frolicsomepl from Free Photos

Colors of Farewell


Inspired by a photograph by Christopher Funk titled ‘Fallen Leaves’ on instagram and using the image with his permission

Anna always carried her umbrella;

What if she came under a cloud?

“One cannot be careful enough

to keep out a clammy chill, “

She prudently thought aloud.

She picked her shade with deliberate care,

To let the sun shine through;

So she could see the fluffy cotton drift above

But didn’t foretell turning heart wrecked blue.

The Seasons churned while Time stood still,

Her jollity froze grey in cue;

Her faithful guard had little to serve,

For she was forlorn the summer through.

Having loved and lost faith in all things past,

Anna thought to let her umbrella go,

And hung it upside down from a barren bough

In the rains and storms to blow.

The clouds bled into the desolate trench

While the breeze comforted it dry;

Then Autumn came and sprinkled her memories of Fall

Chiding, “Why! There are more colors to a farewell than tears,

When it’s time to bid goodbye…”


Photo by vjapratama on Pexels.com

The phone reminder alert sat back and quietly watched me slip.

I double check it just now and find the year had been pre-set for the following one.

The post-it note to self on the wall put up five days ago, had fallen off like a bored leaf unannounced, and got swept off during the perfunctory daily room clean up before it served its due.

I hadn’t accessed my e-mails the last couple of days and missed the reinforcement of the numerous inbox calendar alerts I had set with determined diligence.

I had all notifications on my phone muted as I was out attending a daylong event yesterday.

While I was out, the diary where I made a note in ALL CAPS and circled the designated date had got unceremoniously tucked away at the bottom of a stack at the pro-active hands of my Mom, -who decided to take charge of the perpetually busy-looking but largely idle scatter of books -taking advantage of my absence.

 I had, in fact, experienced an intermittent itch about something being amiss –my sharpness is my spot of pride- during the day; but I returned to a room that appeared way too much in order for anything to have been misplaced. Just the way one expects a well-sorted person’s space to be, I thought approvingly.

It was late and I was exhausted. I drifted off with a smug reassurance lining my mouth imagining the look on your face as I make my impression tomorrow to over-write the precedent of my callous misses in the last three successive years. My first carefully plotted manoeuvre to win your favor to get a step closer to asking you out so you will finally see me for the sensitive charmer I am.

Since the past one week, I have been patting myself on the back in secret elation for the surefire way I had got it all covered to finally join-in the league of the ‘How Can-I-Ever-Forget-Yours’ from this year on.

This morning, I make myself all shiny and dapper and make my way to your house with confident swagger as I hold onto a carefully picked gift and flowers in my hand.

As I approach your front yard, I begin to take in the signs and feel my heart sink in horrified dismay!

The remains of torn gift wrap twirling in the air;

Slowly deflating balloons still hanging at your entrance;

The cluster of tired flowers and confetti strewn on your porch from yesterday’s revelry,

 and a few late deliveries still trickling in.

I feel my fizz leave me ashore as I now find myself standing lame and tentative at your door trying to rehearse the most coherent and convincing explanation of just how I got blind-sided at my game…Again.

Until the Bubble Bursts


Truth is stronger than fiction;

Silence more potent than words;

A kiss on the brow quenching than lip-lock,

Anger weaker than chords.

A sigh hangs heavier than regret;

Regrets rise quicker than a tear;

Tears sting frozen from parting,

Reconciliation hesitant from fear.

Hope floats lighter than an eyelash,

Hurt bleeds deeper than a scar;

Life smiles hopeful as a heartbeat,

As Death moves closer than a star.

Feature Image Courtesy:


Live Another Day for Answers


I settle down with my early morning smoking cocoa swirl in a mug with a determined pen in hand and pour over the daily mind-joggers spread out in front of me:

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Q1: “Is the mounting pile of laundry a reign of chaos?

Or a precursor to the restoration of order?”

Q2: “Are the stairs leading up?

Or down?”

Q3: “Is the map getting laid out?

Or being charted by a compass without a needle?”

Q4: “Is the trail leading up to?

Or away from?”

Q5: “Is this a good time?

Or a comforting illusion?”

Q6: “Is this clarity unfolding?

Or insanity wrestling control?”

Q7: “A trick of the mind?

A sojourn of the soul?”

I chew on the pen with furrowed brows and then decide these ones are too taxing for a Sunday morning.

Eyeing the reassuring smudgy print: ‘Turn overleaf for answers’, I decide to put off my resolve to beat them at their game till tomorrow.

For now, I leave the tepid coffee unfinished and a disheveled bunch of prints on the couch and slip-on my walking shoes.

Alice drifts again…

PC: imgfave

B: So, where are you headed this time?

A: Just sailing over the moon, Bear.

B: What do they call you?

A: I got to check with old Mrs. Absenta. She is good with keeping track of these kinds of things.

B: You look like you have lost some.

A: Thanks. I knew I was missing something!

B: And just where do you think you were when it was all happening?

A: Beside myself.

B: Where did all the time go?

A: Creeping up Peter Pan’s moustache.

B: Have you lost your mind?

A: Uhhh….

B: It’s alright. Don’t lose sleep over it.                                                               

A: Thanks.  I could use some. Can you point me to my bed?                        


Nowhere Is a Place to be

PC: self-clicked

Q:  You seem all set to leave. Where are you off to?

A:  Yes, I am good to go.  Nowhere in specific.

Q:  How long will you be gone?

A: Depends on how long it takes for me to reach.

Q:  Reach where?

A: Somewhere. Will know once I get there.

Q: Will you give me a call when you do?

A: I am leaving my phone behind.  Will call if there is a pay phone. Or better still, send a postcard.

Q: How do you plan to get somewhere?

A: Just keep following the trail.

Q:  What will you do once you are there?

A:  Eat, wash and rest.

Q: And then follow the trail back?

A: That depends.

Q: On what?

A: If I have nowhere else to go…


Dining area conversation at 6am on a near freezing January dawn in a mountain surrounded wilderness just before setting out on a forest trail hike.

Me: Be done with that glass of milk already. Been nearly 10 minutes and you are holding everyone back.

Little Buddha (LB):  I will, once I have my gloves on.

Me: You can wear them later. The gloves may loosen your grip and cause the glass to slip.

LB: But the glass feels too hot against my palms and it is freezing otherwise.

Me:  I get that.  I thought of leaving my gloves behind but am changing my mind about it. I think I will wear mine as well on the hike; but only after I finish my tea. Meanwhile, I can feel my fingertips freezing.

LB:  That will teach you!

Me: I know. I learnt while there is still time.

LB:  Ha ha ha ha ha!

Me tad peeved:  That wasn’t soo funny!

LB: Yes, it was.

Me: How’s that?

LB without missing the blink of an eye: Be-cauzzze…theskyissohigh! 

(More ripples clearing up my morning-vision)

Me deliberating on the new found wisdom:  Ah, I see. Now get on with that milk.


Raising a Toast


” A state of being happy whilst travelling and everything feels great.”

Image : self-clicked

On some days I set out for a long long walk around the city with no specific destination in mind.

Today I set out early. My first stop is the Museum where I take my time reading up the tiniest detail of the exhibits; takes me a few hours.

Then I proceed to walk some more till I come upon a street musician strumming his guitar and singing country songs. Leaning against the railing around the adjacent park, I continue to listen to him perform till he decides to stop for the day and putting his instrument back in the case, walks away.

Time for me to move on as well. This time I trace the promenade along the river the city looks over. A path lined with tall trees kept alive by the humdrum of busy birds, the low murmurs of star-crossed lovers and a motivated flow of fitness enthusiasts tracking the measure of the path with their steps.

As darkness falls and the streetlights, lamps and neon signs of shops and the billboards begin to get turned on, the river turns a mystical grey throwing back the shimmering lights trying to cheer her up. She has undergone a change of mood transitioning from the earlier peaceful shades of blue. The cityscape begins to morph too.

I can feel my calf-muscles ache and stomach rumble with its fill of the sights, sounds and breeze gathered from the day’s trail.

At this time I look around to find a quaint cafe that looks to promise a quiet repose to re-fuel and settle down in a cozy corner.

I proceed to take in the surroundings feeling quiet gratitude for the generous serving of a cup brimming with all that this moment has to offer: food on the table, a steaming hot cuppa to warm the palms; twinkling lights cheering on the conversations and a thoughtful arrangement of books to browse.

To the casual on-looker, I appear to be alone at the table while I raise a toast smiling into the eyes of this moment…