Sunday 19 March 2017

Our Times


We run through the fields
Our hearts bursting within our rib cage
Furious panting
We are young again
Little children who know not
Of fear and loss and grief
Or passion and lust
Our feet dabble in the stream
The water runs over them and the round pebbles
Smoothed to a glossy plane
Through decades, centuries perhaps, of slow erosion
The sun reflecting off the water so bright
It hurts our eyes
But so beautiful that we cannot look away
Here we are, at the edge of a setting era
Tomorrow, you and I may be no more
But gather this, the glory of the setting sun,
The seemingly calm but powerful waters
And breathe the life back into my memories
Let them be the stories you tell your grandchildren
Stories of love, and adventure
Friendship and loyalty,
Laughter and companionship
Of betrayal and coping
Of staying together despite it all
Because the good times, the bad times
They were all our times.

Sunday 20 November 2016

Who Will Be


















Who I am, who I was,
Who I try to be,
We lie entangled in a mess.

Damnit, says Was,
Won't you learn from me?
I can save you.

WillBe chuckles,
Discreetly pulls her leg
From the chaos of egos.

Am stays quiet, as ever.
Both Was and WillBe
Shake their heads at her.

She has a plan, though.
Sweet, quiet Am,
Her head full of technicolour ideas.

She is bruised now, a misstep that hurt.
But that will be Was's burden hence.
Am is evolving. WillBe taps her foot.

I can't take both of you along,
Says Am, rising like a sea goddess
Fluid, almost terrifyingly radiant.

You will be hurt
All over again, warns Was,
Shielding her eyes.

For once in her life,
WillBe is clueless,
Agape, wondering.

But I can take parts of you both,
Says Am, reaching out,
Picking the pieces she holds dear.

Was and WillBe writhe
And gasp for air
Engulfed in Am's relentless, vivid waves.

It's always been me, says Am,
Rising to fullness,
Her Self reflected in the aura around her.

Reams of yearning


Your hands, they are what your letters first bring to mind.

Your hands, those fingers locked with mine for a stolen moment or two.

Your hands, the pressure of them on the paper, on my body, in my hair.

These letters... I hold them up and take a deep breath

hoping for a heady whiff of you, thinking of you in that moment, 
at your desk, leaning into the light of the lamp.


Or could it have been written as the warm rays of the sun
fell on you through that bay window you send me pictures of?

I like to imagine you writing during cold nights, the unbearable loneliness
driving you into my arms, open for you, many miles away.

Your hand, now,
the almost calligraphic letters curving into each other,
like us spooning on that rainy night of long ago.

You write words I read over and over again.
Some of these words you once mumbled hoarsely
into my ear, half-asleep.

I read them, and I imagine hearing them
in your throaty whisper all over again.

If there must be spaces in our togetherness,
let's fill them with reams of yearning,
of conversations never-ending,
of everything and nothing,
of the momentous and the meaningless.

These letters, now smeared with my scents as well,
fraying at the edges, silent and eloquent,
they take your place in my bed.

Saturday 27 August 2016

Rain on Me

When you're least expecting it, and
You suddenly miss someone
A cloud of gloom descends on you,
And you stand still. The world seems
To not notice and keeps rushing by.
There's a lump in your throat and
Tears pricking your eyelids
Demanding to be let out.

But then the cloud bursts
Into a shower of glorious memories.
And your parched soul is flooded
By those sweet quenching moments.
You close your eyes and go back in time.
The tears, now running unchecked, stream into a deluge
Yet you smile.

Those moments are forever yours,
Never to be taken away.
Never missed.

Sunday 21 August 2016

The Childhood Friend

She waited.
He was preoccupied, she didn't push him. She knew the stories would come. All she had to do was to wait. And be there.
The silence between them stretched out into what could be considered an uncomfortable one. But between them, there was no discomfort. Their silences were not disquieting, just as their long-drawn talks were never tedious.
Soon enough, just as she knew he would, he started talking. Of his childhood friend.
"Her soft cheeks were a shade of pink that never failed to charm me. I would repeatedly rub my fingers over them, marvelling that such tenderness existed," he said, his eyes bright with remembered wonder. His dimples deepened, and she almost raised her hand to touch them but stopped just in time. She wanted to hear the story; it wouldn't do to distract him.
"Her hair was velvety green," he said, his smile becoming an impish grin.
She rolled her eyes. Was he pulling one over on her again? She peered at him, trying to make out if he was laughing at her. He held her gaze. Does it matter, she thought. If he was tricking her, they would laugh and squabble over it. If he wasn't, this one would fit into some of his most intriguing tales yet. One day, she thought, she would set them all in a book. Or better still, she would get him to write one. She didn't yet know how, but she knew that she would. Long-term planning had always been her forte.
He picked up the story again, sensing that she was ready. "All my free moments, I spent with her in the garden. Always in that same, favourite spot. I never tired of her," he described. A pang of envy hit her, and she averted her eyes lest he read her mind and stop telling the story.
He was still smiling. "Every evening, I bid her goodbye with such a heavy heart even though I knew she was the one constant in my life. That she'd be right there when I came back the next morning," he said. Even through her envy, she realised that he was describing something that was wonderful and precious. She hoped the story wouldn't have a sad ending. On the other hand, she also never wanted to meet this special childhood friend with the soft pink cheeks and the green hair, whatever that meant.
"Every night, when I went to bed, my eyes would inevitably be drawn to the open window which looked out on to the garden," he remembered. "And if it was a clear, moonlit night, I would see her silhouette there, as if painted against the sky. Now she was no longer my friend but a scary fiend, her hair spread out like menacing tentacles, waiting there to catch my eye and to perhaps haul me out the window into her bewitched life."
An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. What little girl was allowed to step out like that at night? Now, more than ever, she wanted this story to have an ordinary ending, even if it was 'And you must meet her, you know. You'll get along great with her!'
She held his hand, and he continued, "I'd often run out of the room, fear causing my legs to knot and trip myself up. My mother soon made it a habit of just keeping the window shut. And I preferred the sweltering, stifling heat to the scary sight of her at night."
"Why didn't your mother just tell her not to do that? To not scare you like that night after night?" she burst out, annoyed now that his mother hadn't protected him enough.
The laughter rippled out of him. She was perplexed but the ends of her lips curled up in an involuntary grin when she looked at his mirth-filled face.
Finally, he brought himself to some semblance of control.
"Why didn't my mom yell at her? Because, my darling, my friend was the musanda tree at the bottom of the garden," he said, dissolving into laughter again.
She was nonplussed for a moment, before she joined him. Peals of laughter rang out, his tinged with the slight sadness of a time when friends, of the human kind, were few; and hers, coloured by the realisation that after all, she had been wildly envious of a musanda tree!

Sunday 19 March 2017

Our Times


We run through the fields
Our hearts bursting within our rib cage
Furious panting
We are young again
Little children who know not
Of fear and loss and grief
Or passion and lust
Our feet dabble in the stream
The water runs over them and the round pebbles
Smoothed to a glossy plane
Through decades, centuries perhaps, of slow erosion
The sun reflecting off the water so bright
It hurts our eyes
But so beautiful that we cannot look away
Here we are, at the edge of a setting era
Tomorrow, you and I may be no more
But gather this, the glory of the setting sun,
The seemingly calm but powerful waters
And breathe the life back into my memories
Let them be the stories you tell your grandchildren
Stories of love, and adventure
Friendship and loyalty,
Laughter and companionship
Of betrayal and coping
Of staying together despite it all
Because the good times, the bad times
They were all our times.

Sunday 20 November 2016

Who Will Be


















Who I am, who I was,
Who I try to be,
We lie entangled in a mess.

Damnit, says Was,
Won't you learn from me?
I can save you.

WillBe chuckles,
Discreetly pulls her leg
From the chaos of egos.

Am stays quiet, as ever.
Both Was and WillBe
Shake their heads at her.

She has a plan, though.
Sweet, quiet Am,
Her head full of technicolour ideas.

She is bruised now, a misstep that hurt.
But that will be Was's burden hence.
Am is evolving. WillBe taps her foot.

I can't take both of you along,
Says Am, rising like a sea goddess
Fluid, almost terrifyingly radiant.

You will be hurt
All over again, warns Was,
Shielding her eyes.

For once in her life,
WillBe is clueless,
Agape, wondering.

But I can take parts of you both,
Says Am, reaching out,
Picking the pieces she holds dear.

Was and WillBe writhe
And gasp for air
Engulfed in Am's relentless, vivid waves.

It's always been me, says Am,
Rising to fullness,
Her Self reflected in the aura around her.

Reams of yearning


Your hands, they are what your letters first bring to mind.

Your hands, those fingers locked with mine for a stolen moment or two.

Your hands, the pressure of them on the paper, on my body, in my hair.

These letters... I hold them up and take a deep breath

hoping for a heady whiff of you, thinking of you in that moment, 
at your desk, leaning into the light of the lamp.


Or could it have been written as the warm rays of the sun
fell on you through that bay window you send me pictures of?

I like to imagine you writing during cold nights, the unbearable loneliness
driving you into my arms, open for you, many miles away.

Your hand, now,
the almost calligraphic letters curving into each other,
like us spooning on that rainy night of long ago.

You write words I read over and over again.
Some of these words you once mumbled hoarsely
into my ear, half-asleep.

I read them, and I imagine hearing them
in your throaty whisper all over again.

If there must be spaces in our togetherness,
let's fill them with reams of yearning,
of conversations never-ending,
of everything and nothing,
of the momentous and the meaningless.

These letters, now smeared with my scents as well,
fraying at the edges, silent and eloquent,
they take your place in my bed.

Saturday 27 August 2016

Rain on Me

When you're least expecting it, and
You suddenly miss someone
A cloud of gloom descends on you,
And you stand still. The world seems
To not notice and keeps rushing by.
There's a lump in your throat and
Tears pricking your eyelids
Demanding to be let out.

But then the cloud bursts
Into a shower of glorious memories.
And your parched soul is flooded
By those sweet quenching moments.
You close your eyes and go back in time.
The tears, now running unchecked, stream into a deluge
Yet you smile.

Those moments are forever yours,
Never to be taken away.
Never missed.

Sunday 21 August 2016

The Childhood Friend

She waited.
He was preoccupied, she didn't push him. She knew the stories would come. All she had to do was to wait. And be there.
The silence between them stretched out into what could be considered an uncomfortable one. But between them, there was no discomfort. Their silences were not disquieting, just as their long-drawn talks were never tedious.
Soon enough, just as she knew he would, he started talking. Of his childhood friend.
"Her soft cheeks were a shade of pink that never failed to charm me. I would repeatedly rub my fingers over them, marvelling that such tenderness existed," he said, his eyes bright with remembered wonder. His dimples deepened, and she almost raised her hand to touch them but stopped just in time. She wanted to hear the story; it wouldn't do to distract him.
"Her hair was velvety green," he said, his smile becoming an impish grin.
She rolled her eyes. Was he pulling one over on her again? She peered at him, trying to make out if he was laughing at her. He held her gaze. Does it matter, she thought. If he was tricking her, they would laugh and squabble over it. If he wasn't, this one would fit into some of his most intriguing tales yet. One day, she thought, she would set them all in a book. Or better still, she would get him to write one. She didn't yet know how, but she knew that she would. Long-term planning had always been her forte.
He picked up the story again, sensing that she was ready. "All my free moments, I spent with her in the garden. Always in that same, favourite spot. I never tired of her," he described. A pang of envy hit her, and she averted her eyes lest he read her mind and stop telling the story.
He was still smiling. "Every evening, I bid her goodbye with such a heavy heart even though I knew she was the one constant in my life. That she'd be right there when I came back the next morning," he said. Even through her envy, she realised that he was describing something that was wonderful and precious. She hoped the story wouldn't have a sad ending. On the other hand, she also never wanted to meet this special childhood friend with the soft pink cheeks and the green hair, whatever that meant.
"Every night, when I went to bed, my eyes would inevitably be drawn to the open window which looked out on to the garden," he remembered. "And if it was a clear, moonlit night, I would see her silhouette there, as if painted against the sky. Now she was no longer my friend but a scary fiend, her hair spread out like menacing tentacles, waiting there to catch my eye and to perhaps haul me out the window into her bewitched life."
An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. What little girl was allowed to step out like that at night? Now, more than ever, she wanted this story to have an ordinary ending, even if it was 'And you must meet her, you know. You'll get along great with her!'
She held his hand, and he continued, "I'd often run out of the room, fear causing my legs to knot and trip myself up. My mother soon made it a habit of just keeping the window shut. And I preferred the sweltering, stifling heat to the scary sight of her at night."
"Why didn't your mother just tell her not to do that? To not scare you like that night after night?" she burst out, annoyed now that his mother hadn't protected him enough.
The laughter rippled out of him. She was perplexed but the ends of her lips curled up in an involuntary grin when she looked at his mirth-filled face.
Finally, he brought himself to some semblance of control.
"Why didn't my mom yell at her? Because, my darling, my friend was the musanda tree at the bottom of the garden," he said, dissolving into laughter again.
She was nonplussed for a moment, before she joined him. Peals of laughter rang out, his tinged with the slight sadness of a time when friends, of the human kind, were few; and hers, coloured by the realisation that after all, she had been wildly envious of a musanda tree!