strawberry tresses
perch on a fine moonflower
blooming yet grounded
born is such a wreath of charm
fondly called Thumbelina
~Poem 36
strawberry tresses
perch on a fine moonflower
blooming yet grounded
born is such a wreath of charm
fondly called Thumbelina
~Poem 36
Silver shoes can take you anywhere
Maybe even home
But silver is just a shiny grey
And the quest for emerald can leave you jaded
The yellow brick road
Only leads up to a garden path
And the golden shower trees’ flowers
Swirl up to be ruins of a safe haven
In a stale pinafore
I have never felt more stripped
In a secure mock-neck
I have never felt more strangled
The wicked witch came with her weight
But remained the keeper of the royal tank
The cowardly lion came with all his might
But became a seeker of the storm’s eye
Oh Dorothy! Didn’t anyone tell you?
You can waddle all your way home
And harbour all the wishful thinking
But these moccasins will wear out one day.
~Poem 35
Author’s Note: The imagery is based on Wizard of Oz, a famous classic written by L. Frank Baum. “Royal Tank” denotes a neighbourhood in Delhi, i.e. Hauz Khas, a place that felt like home to me at one point. As opposed to the visual adaptation, the shoes that Dorothy wears in the books are actually silver. The color of the shoes was changed to red to take advantage of the new Technicolor film process used in big-budget Hollywood films of the era.
While the woods still bear the fruits of spring,
It will be you, me and your faint cologne
With cold sweat staining our glazed bedding,
It will be you, me and my yellow teeth
Under the april sun and cottonwood trees,
It will be you, me and your growing melanin
With feverish bodies wrapped in gingham prints,
It will be you, me and my yellow teeth
On a summer evening that feels like years,
It will be you, me and your snow blue jeans
With smiles that feel like softened butter,
It will be just you, me and my yellow teeth
She stood out—
In her balcony,
Others looked up—
With a look of pity.
‘On cloud nine’
Was a baseless paradigm
‘In seventh heaven’
Was used for the sake of rhyme.
The feathers of her pillow
Flew her to a dreamy creamy world
Needless to say, once dawn awoke
There were no wings to unfurl.
The caterpillar had it better
While its days in a confined space
Were calculated, were numbered
Hers were all but a fancy lace.
Folding a satin brooch of a butterfly
And a pair of scissors as a tool
She ripped off all its embellishments
To wind it around a wooden spool.
All she ever longed for
Was to witness a free fall
But the universe and her desire
Were engaged in an eternal brawl.
So she wove herself a set of wings
By letting her quill spill and sigh,
And others couldn’t possibly fathom
How she had learnt to fly.
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“What if I fall?” “Oh but my darling, what if you fly?” -e.h (Picture credits- Unknown; Source: We heart it) |
So one fine day,
Perhaps to alter our inconvenience
But today I rack my brains thinking-
Was that your incapacity?
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I fretted, but I made it too, You didn’t even step forward, and claimed you had the flu. (Picture credits: unknown; Source: Pixabay) |
She was alerted beforehand
That setting me off
Meant putting everything at stake
But surrendering isn’t an option.
Unlike me, her only armaments
Are her dangling ornaments
That jingle as she marches
And what the enemy clan is eyeing.
As for allies
She just has her neighbours
Who again might switch sides
As part of a strategy.
She could fall prey
To their constant scheming
But I know she will rise
Like she was never pinned down.
And even if the God of War
Descends on the battlefield
To declare a truce
Victory will still prevail.
Every second of her survival
Is a tussle in itself
Because our probabilities
Can turn out to be inaccurate.
She could just be out in the garden
Watering her white roses
When the bulletin would be updated
With blood stained reports from the warfare.
She could be slipping a postcard
Through the mouth of a mailbox
When my lifeless body
Would pass her shadow.
Once the news breaks out
It will hit her like a grenade
And though she would shield herself
She’d still thrive as a worthy opponent.
If there would be a series
Of missiles shot to honour me
Give her a tribute there and then
Because she is the real warrior.
And if at all an epitaph
Would be laid in my name,
Have her sacrifices engraved too
For she is the one at war.
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Glorify her risks
(Picture credits: Gunduz Agayev)
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From bearing two left feet
To those awkward hand movements,
I have come across a long way
As now I am both tamed and free.
Look at me Honey,
See how I am dancing,
The general audience isn’t bothering me,
But I am in accordance with everything natural.
The grass is getting tickled,
The sun is beaming from arc to arc,
The wind is blowing in my favour,
While you’re in awe of your own creation.
So tell me who requires mirror walls,
When one has a muse like you?
And tell me who needs a pair of bellies,
When one is being propped up in your arms?
A feeling of freedom like never before (Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Pinterest) |
I.
A few pages come stuck,
some arrive as a misfit,
and many bear missing margins,
but they all become a hurdle,
only and only if you let it.
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Book of Life (Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it) |
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Don’t block your hope by romanticising dark hours (Picture credits: Grant Haffner) |
To feel a broken heart,
You do not require any special tool,
Glance at the victim in the eye,
And be on the lookout for the telltale spark.
To heal a broken heart,
You do not require another heart,
Wire your brain in such a manner,
That it always gains the upper hand.
To seal a broken heart,
You do not require a dozen stitches,
Just put on the suit of the Tin Man,
Without his bizarre wish of course.
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Your ideal broken heart (Picture credits: Emma Parker) |