tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88512639004920769292024-02-20T06:08:34.827-08:00Brown Hands on White PaperCinnamon, Gardenia and Poetry! :)Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-47612894115559496152021-06-17T22:52:00.002-07:002021-06-17T22:52:24.532-07:00A like isn’t always a like<p> Sometimes
it lets you know</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That you
are desperate for attention <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That you
have curated you feed, to get <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">An
explosion of reactions <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Sometimes
it tells you <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That you
are insecure enough <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">To need
validation<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">From a
bunch of strangers on the internet. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Sometimes
it is to discuss, behind your back <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">What a
spectacle you are, how incredibly unhinged! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">That you
should need to broadcast <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Your
happiness, your love, your perfect life to a crowd<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">You have
gathered on a virtual board. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">But at the
end of the day, after all the screenshots are taken <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">After you
get your dopamine by posting<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And I get
it, by discussing you in some group chat, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I will
stick a blue thumb on you post <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And pity you.</span>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-70085023508845357742021-06-03T23:07:00.000-07:002021-06-03T23:07:04.930-07:00SmokeI stood with her, ankle deep in snow<div>On the pavement, outside her non-smoking flat </div><div>Our noses red, our cheeks flushed, cold</div><div>Talking about life, between wisps of smoke. </div><div><br /></div><div>It made us cool, it made us bond</div><div>It was an antidote to our existential angst</div><div>We were lost, we wanted to be found </div><div>And find ourselves, in wisps of smoke </div><div><br /></div><div>Then sometimes, in spartan bedrooms </div><div>In the after-glow of oxytocin</div><div>Wondering if this is all there is, </div><div>Planning break ups, in wisps of smoke </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes lost, all alone, gazing out of the window</div><div>Watching the moonlight bounce off snow </div><div>Thinking of ending this chain of breath </div><div>And changing my mind, in wisps of smoke </div><div><br /></div><div>On the balcony among potted plants </div><div>Basil, cilantro, rosemary and thyme </div><div>With the man I call my man, in a home I call my home</div><div>Taking a break, in wisps of smoke </div><div><br /></div><div>Is this all there is to me? Have I lived it all? </div><div>Would I repeat myself, if I keep doing it over? </div><div>When love ceases to be, and the breath becomes heavy, </div><div>I'll be gone, in wisps of smoke. </div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-41900588225861377752018-08-26T23:40:00.001-07:002018-08-26T23:40:04.622-07:00The Canary Song<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Sunday
started with the usual noise<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Of
breakfast pans, and other things<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But over
the whirr of their daily life<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They all
could hear a Canary sing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Grandpa
rushed to get his Bird Book <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He always
forgets the names, you know, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dad rushed
to get his phone on portrait, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With the
smarter, older brother in tow <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Mom had
things to do,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or she
always thought so,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Why, now if
she starts watching birds, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">She’d
really have to let things go!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The three
year old, with his feathery feet <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Climbed on
the chair, without scaring it away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He watched
it flutter its yellow wings <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And heard
the song that came his way <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just moments
later, everybody was back</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But the
bird was fickle, it was on its way<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So they
thought the tiny three year old <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Must have
scared the bird away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The little
boy doesn’t know the name <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">And he is too naive to care about those things,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But every
day, he draws a little yellow bird <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">While just
like it, he tries to sing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br /></div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-146083809202933562014-02-11T12:27:00.001-08:002014-02-11T12:27:14.390-08:00Intergalactic understandingAs you lay there, ailing<br />
On my bed. <br />
And I was an Ocean <br />
And a half away<br />
My story was melted and<br />
Recrystallised for you <br />
With very little of what <br />
I had to say. <br />
<br />
It took me some time to bring it together <br />
But you were gone, With the second hand version<br />
You left at a time when<br />
I was still busy<br />
Finding an end or a conclusion<br />
<br />
It breaks my heart to think <br />
About you <br />
I would have talked then, if<br />
I could<br />
But a strange flash of insight <br />
Tells me that it is all understood. <br />
<br />
<br />
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-2518061092110357592013-12-06T06:55:00.000-08:002013-12-06T06:55:55.183-08:00Feline Fantasy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
No silver anklets, thank you!<br />
I don't need those pointy stilettos either<br />
To announce my arrival, or the music<br />
Around my being alive.<br />
<br />
Tell me more about you, or let's<br />
Just talk about the weather<br />
Don't ask me where I am going<br />
Because I may not know, or worse<br />
I may be heading where<br />
Where you don't usually let your thoughts go!<br />
<br />
After a while, even judgment loses its edge<br />
And talking about choices<br />
Turns into one of those futile<br />
Social see-saws, which you put me on,<br />
To feel good about yourself<br />
<br />
The key to feeling great is to live<br />
Like a cat; jumping off balconies,<br />
Squeezing through gaps, using<br />
Flexible ribs and whiskers<br />
Accomplishing great kills<br />
(Rats, squirrels, pigeons)<br />
Without a single, audible, footfall.<br />
</div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-38652270580644892612013-12-05T00:17:00.000-08:002013-12-05T00:17:20.457-08:00Release<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Feelings can sometimes be abandoned<div>
Just like getting out of a pair</div>
<div>
Of really tight jeans, at the end of the day.</div>
<div>
And crawling into the soothing softness</div>
<div>
Of a well-made bed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not thinking about tomorrow </div>
<div>
Not thinking about today</div>
<div>
Just taking a break before</div>
<div>
You have to get back into</div>
<div>
The same pair of pants. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Next morning, renewed, you're ready</div>
<div>
To confront them</div>
<div>
To accept them</div>
<div>
To analyze them</div>
<div>
To ignore them</div>
<div>
To deny them</div>
<div>
To change them</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Whatever. </div>
<div>
It's nice to not just have them on,</div>
<div>
Right now. </div>
</div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-26860120669557587322013-08-17T04:39:00.001-07:002013-08-17T04:39:06.731-07:00Poet KillersThe happy purr of a broken fridge<br />
That keeps a background score<br />
To the orchestra of other broken things<br />
A stressed pressure cooker, and more<br />
<br />
Time killed at the hands of clocks<br />
As alarms and cell phone reminders sing,<br />
Seconds, minutes and hours spent<br />
In making a respectable living <br />
<br />
A stable baseline, with a whiny pump<br />
Not loud enough to be annoying<br />
Happiness as absence of angst<br />
Where everything seems, just fine. <br />
<br />
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-74833701075686818092013-07-09T18:49:00.003-07:002013-07-09T18:49:55.917-07:00Love Letters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Why do your feelings speak so much better<br />
One year later?<br />
<br />
After the last box has been shipped, with my<br />
Flower vase, uncompromisingly chipped.<br />
<br />
My mailbox carefully organized, to skip<br />
Even an accidental memory trip<br />
<br />
When finally the joy of facing my fears,<br />
Trumps the reasons for recurring tears<br />
<br />
After I have carefully rewritten our past,<br />
Using only the reasons that made it not last<br />
<br />
What is the point, now, of telling me<br />
That I make such a beautiful memory?<br />
<br />
Is it because, now it can be said, with openness<br />
Without your being committed to my happiness?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-266783142758490312013-06-23T09:44:00.000-07:002013-06-23T09:44:07.132-07:00Mindfulness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It so happens at some point,<br />
That we find ourselves enmeshed,<br />
In someone else's irrevocable past,<br />
Or its careful reconstruction, with all the moments,<br />
That we chose to leave out of our version.<br />
Or carefully strewn into someone's future<br />
Fulfilling roles we were never meant to play<br />
Someone's calculation, or manipulation<br />
Someone's broken image of a best friend<br />
Someone's angry and helpless remorse<br />
Someone's regret, someone's idea of betrayal<br />
Constantly balancing on logic, that works on both sides<br />
<br />
All of this, carefully covered under the hood<br />
Of moving on; seemingly, towards future<br />
Trying to act genuinely interested,<br />
When secretly thinking of chocolate toast<br />
Zooming in and out of Venn diagrams<br />
Of social circles; getting the pleasure<br />
Of being rolling stone, a thing-doer<br />
<br />
Sometimes, all this buzzing is exhausting<br />
The same circles of friendships and falling in love<br />
Of self-evaluation and actualization; of all this noise<br />
Going back and forth between absent pasts and futures<br />
<br />
But it also happens to be,<br />
That at this very moment, right here,<br />
All of us are absolutely free.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-69331093253884581162013-05-04T04:27:00.000-07:002013-05-04T04:27:05.780-07:00Contamination<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It isn't fair that there is a little passage<br />
That connects reason and feelings<br />
Sometimes, thoughts cross over<br />
To the other side before you can capture them<br />
Then they come back contaminated<br />
With an unnecessary sense of purpose<br />
And sometimes, feelings ooze<br />
Into the other room, and come back<br />
Rationalized and diffused<br />
<br />
Shrinks spoil a good irrational depression<br />
By linking it methodically to fathers (or mothers)<br />
Reviewers dampen the claim to fame<br />
By pointing a finger at error bars<br />
Global warming interferes with long drives<br />
And love, becomes a (reversible) neurobiochemical reaction<br />
<br />
How exhausting it is to know<br />
That every single decision is going to be sound<br />
In retrospect. </div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-35591163455380827782013-05-02T09:23:00.001-07:002013-05-02T09:23:14.300-07:00Moving (on)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nothing fits in my new house <div>
Everything was custom made for the old space</div>
<div>
The table, the couch, the bed</div>
<div>
The curtains and the lamp shade</div>
<div>
All of them scream salvation</div>
<div>
But I insist on remixing them, in the new place</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's not too bad actually. I repainted the ugly bits</div>
<div>
Changed the sequence and the mood</div>
<div>
Threw in a little gypsy on the librarian</div>
<div>
And then I was quite proud</div>
<div>
Of refitting my dreams to this new present</div>
<div>
I don't have to start over, entirely. </div>
<div>
I could at least build on my mistakes? </div>
<div>
(That asymmetric flower vase?)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then there comes a thirsty night</div>
<div>
And the walk from the bed to the fridge</div>
<div>
Brings about this traumatic collision </div>
<div>
Of a knee and a table from the past..</div>
<div>
Blue-green bruises, beckon more than chilled water,</div>
<div>
Ice packs, in the middle of the night</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That one moment is enough for a complete meltdown. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-65161455272491759142013-03-28T19:54:00.001-07:002013-03-28T19:54:34.053-07:00Proof by eliminationSudden clarity is so confusing <br />
You shake it to see<br />
If it is denial<br />
You shine light wondering,<br />
If it is defeat in a hoodie <br />
Scan it to verify if <br />
It is confusion on a break<br />
Discuss it to find cracks<br />
Test it on the tear point <br />
Resulting in bewilderment<br />
Revisit the times when you felt<br />
Oppressed by confusion and fear <br />
Wasn't this the time in your future then<br />
That is now turning into you clear present<br />
The scariest bit of your past? <br />
And then just like that<br />
By using elimination<br />
We prove, that this is clarity. <br />
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-70732780348642631802013-01-22T00:36:00.003-08:002013-01-22T00:36:53.762-08:00Shoe bites<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was a victim of terrible shoe bites<br />
For a long span of time, which seemed like eternity then,<br />
To my tired, woebegone feet<br />
My big toes squished and the little ones inflamed<br />
I walked around gingerly, to avoid all conflict<br />
Between the shoe and its unfortunate contents<br />
<br />
I just bought them, for almost two hundred dollars,<br />
I would say to myself,<br />
I am sure, my feet are going to get used to being in them<br />
But rainbows and unicorns would flash in front of my eyes<br />
Every time I took them off. <br />
<br />
I would cross my ankles pretty, and stare at the grass<br />
Outside the glass window<br />
And fantasize about walking barefoot on it<br />
Or the next best thing -- flat sneakers<br />
I would spend a lot of time, from my life back then<br />
Wondering what would happen if I really <br />
Revolt against these persistent shoe bites<br />
<br />
But they looked good on me, they made me look taller<br />
They tightened my calves and my self esteem<br />
They were well received, even applauded, socially<br />
And women who wore them in pictures, looked very happy<br />
All this being said, they were devouring my feet (and my happiness)<br />
<br />
One Saturday, I woke up and stepped out barefoot<br />
On the grass outside. <br />
Then I called the nice lady at the nail spa<br />
And took my feet for a relaxing pedicure<br />
Lavender, mint and chocolate butter<br />
Tenderly soaked all the blisters and abrasions<br />
I covered the wounds with mickey mouse band aids<br />
And bought the softest pair of socks and sneakers. <br />
<br />
I came home and saw the monsters on the shoe rack<br />
I could sense my big toes choking up <br />
With the burden of the upcoming Monday morning..<br />
I picked them up and threw them out. <br />
Because, none of my worldly rationalizing <br />
Was worth spending all my life, <br />
Enduring those happiness destroying shoe bites.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-30400392287893322422012-11-01T12:35:00.001-07:002012-11-01T12:35:48.913-07:00Nothing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the end this means nothing!<br />
Ecstasy turns to happiness and then fades off<br />
Into an empty void, that longs for more<br />
Or a piercing heartbreak, shakes us to the core<br />
And then turns into a memory, that makes us weep for a while<br />
And then just turns to that physically untraceable moment in the past<br />
Getting blunt under the weight of all the new ones..<br />
<br />
Why do we have to go to the romantic explanation<br />
Of the very cliched kind, that everything, yes!<br />
Everything happens for a reason.<br />
Sometimes, the reason is just the fact that we are here<br />
In this space and time, partly by choice and in part<br />
Due to the helplessness that arises from being born.<br />
<br />
</div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-59016936522017251272012-09-12T08:46:00.000-07:002012-09-12T08:46:39.444-07:00Best Friends<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
In the middle of all this chaos<br />
Of putting together broken fragments<br />
Of stories that decided to tell themselves<br />
Quite differently than what we would've liked,<br />
Without changing our role as the protagonist!<br />
<br />
Of all the revolutions and rebellions<br />
Of trying to get into shoes that just didn't fit,<br />
Or were too pretty to be comfortable,<br />
And walking around with blisters for weeks<br />
Of getting on the scale every single morning<br />
Hungry, sore and obsessed.<br />
<br />
Of endless comparisons, with ourselves, with others<br />
With them, who have never walked with us<br />
Or stood by us, with their shoulders ready for our tears<br />
Or their arms, ready for a hug.<br />
<br />
Of the often misguided thought, of being too important<br />
Or the equally pointless assumption<br />
That we are not important at all<br />
Then, sinking into the couch with a bowl of ice cream<br />
Just accepting that we are, and that is all there is to it!<br />
<br />
Of all the frogs and the imposter princes<br />
The lost patronizers, always eager<br />
To help us find our way in life!<br />
Men showing up late,<br />
And men who have met more books than people,<br />
In their sad, solitary lives.<br />
<br />
In this constant evaluation and sorting<br />
Of people and situations, successes and failures,<br />
How often, and how consciously<br />
Do we celebrate,<br />
Having a friend by our side?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-87900461998527543682012-09-04T09:33:00.000-07:002012-09-04T09:35:26.304-07:00Michigan Sunsets<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
First, the sky turns pink and blue<br />
Then, the descent begins<br />
Smearing the horizon with an orange hue<br />
Turning an awkward broccoli shaped <i>cumulus</i><br />
Into a magical glow cloud!<br />
<br />
Making his way through a bunch of<br />
Confused and scrambled <i>cirruses </i><br />
The Sun leaves for India<br />
Leaving us, with this sky to deal with<br />
<br />
Maybe it is because the land is so flat<br />
And there is nothing distracting about the fields of corn <br />
No mountain to compete with the horizon,<br />
That gets an endless mirror of a lake!<br />
Or maybe, there is just more sky over Michigan<br />
<br />
For the sunsets seem to have more color, more canvas<br />
More soul and more melancholy<br />
Whether it is a line of geese, against the blushing sky<br />
Or an intrepid bald eagle returning home<br />
It is really difficult, to just get used to the sunsets here. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-35203158381392222722012-08-08T09:05:00.003-07:002012-08-08T09:05:59.740-07:00Press Skip?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hey there, little song!<br />
What on earth are you doing in Michigan?<br />
You are clearly lost, you are not supposed to be here..<br />
You belong to the Jacaranda lined streets of Queensland..<br />
That shine shiny black, after a tropical storm<br />
With lavender carpets on either side, to welcome me home!<br />
You belong to the golden beach, the hot, helpless sand<br />
With turquoise waves dancing to all your <i>sitar</i> and <i>tabla</i><br />
<br />
You belong to the time when I was ten pounds lighter<br />
And undoubtedly lost, in an extensive soul search<br />
The time I used to match my fantasies<br />
With the songs on my play list (What a juvenile thing to do!)<br />
You don't go well with the pale ales here<br />
Neither do I like your sudden appearance in my Yoga lesson<br />
Distracting me, taking me back to the place where we first met<br />
<br />
Not that you make be nostalgic (You wish! You little imp)<br />
I have met new songs here (And I am still struggling with fantasies)<br />
They are all red and pretty in fall and walk with a crunch in their step<br />
And then, shiver happily in their mittens and snow boots<br />
They chase paranoid squirrels to the top of trees<br />
And they remind me of the worst kind of coffee, that I have come to like..<br />
<br />
It would be too much of an effort, to get used to having you here<br />
So, no hard feelings, my friend,<br />
But I am just going to have to<br />
Skip you! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-9374753221940721692012-08-03T11:04:00.001-07:002012-08-03T11:04:56.594-07:00In Transit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Between the paranoia over security</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the head rush of take off</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lies a fragrant corridor, of tax free scents </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where breathing suddenly becomes easy</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like clouds after precipitation, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We look fluffy and light</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Old ladies, with wrinkled hands </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(How do you fit three rings on one finger?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Open paper backs with mascara eyes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bored dads with empty strollers</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People sitting around power points</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like baited fish, giving me odd looks</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I write with my ball point </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a totally organic, three dimensional notebook</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyes everywhere, locking and unlocking </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, predictably, turning into a brilliant smile</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is easy to make friends in transit </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps because we all share that feeling</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of a deliciously suspended and utterly aimless moment!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-92188937860415272322012-03-08T08:19:00.000-08:002012-03-08T08:21:09.651-08:00Facebook and self esteem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Oh how she is always smiling<br />
Sometimes by a picturesque river bank<br />
Sometimes engulfed in overflowing hugs<br />
Sometimes a bit demure, in what looks like<br />
A quaint little bookshop that also sells coffee<br />
She is always, always smiling in her pictures<br />
And you flip through them one after the other<br />
Caught in a little eddy of bored procrastination<br />
<br />
How come some people have these smiling lives?<br />
What am I doing wrong?<br />
I wish I could see my life like that<br />
A series of smiling pictures. Taken all over the world.<br />
Some people just get it all *sigh*<br />
Albums from everywhere..Paris to Rajasthan..<br />
<br />
Somewhere, on the other side of the world,<br />
Someone is going through an exact same loop<br />
Looking at your pictures.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0Lansing, MI, USA42.732535 -84.555534742.6392295 -84.713463199999993 42.8258405 -84.3976062tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-34529765012684846012012-02-19T16:35:00.000-08:002012-02-19T16:37:46.223-08:00Storytelling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Storytelling begins when the story is over<br />
It is always accomplished by turning around and crossing your<br />
Nerve embellished hands behind your hips<br />
With a deep sigh, after the once-upon-a-time.<br />
<br />
Try looking at your story before it ends<br />
It never makes sense<br />
You never see the long conveyor belt<br />
On which you were placed as a baby<br />
Winding down a long, tedious assembly line<br />
You can never identify the age when you were<br />
Ready to be packaged and stamped..<br />
<br />
And to make things worse, when you try to look forward,<br />
Everyone on the belt seems to get ahead of you<br />
But don't worry. All of them are equally confused<br />
And everyone is relatively successful<br />
Or relatively retarded.<br />
<br />
If you are doing something unusual, be prepared<br />
To become one of those examples (I told you so!)<br />
Depending upon how your story ends<br />
(Or how your chapters conclude)<br />
It is inescapable. Utterly inevitable.<br />
<br />
Your journeys would never reach<br />
The people on the conveyor belt<br />
You would only be judged by the standard milestones<br />
The miles in between are all yours to cherish<br />
Don't bother translating your joy into any other language<br />
<br />
No matter what you do, you will have a neat little story too<br />
You will be able to turn around and then,<br />
Draw a belt for yourself in retrospect. It would be funny.<br />
Because you will realize that no matter how different you are,<br />
You can still tell a very standard story with your life.<br />
<br />
But that is not important.<br />
What is important is whether you are happy<br />
And that has nothing to do with the belt, the miles<br />
Or the milestones or even your story! <br />
<br /></div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-16655797912566521432011-10-16T15:11:00.000-07:002011-10-16T15:12:35.353-07:00The Emancipated Woman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am grateful I have a choice<br />
I am grateful to the shoulders I stand on..<br />
I am grateful that I don't have to be grateful..<br />
All the time!<br />
<br />
I choose education, I choose liberation<br />
I choose doing exactly what I want<br />
In exactly the way I like..<br />
I choose flippant romances when I am bored<br />
I turn down men, and they accept it<br />
Without batting an eyelid..<br />
I go out with my girlfriends in dark little by lanes<br />
With overcrowded nightclubs<br />
I wake up not entirely aware of what happened<br />
The night before..<br />
I choose this all and I seldom regret anything..<br />
<br />
But sometimes, when I want to choose<br />
What my instinct nudges me to choose..<br />
A lifetime built on cooperation, perhaps compromises even<br />
A long lasting friendship, with more of us to it<br />
Than all of me. Of the gaps between milestones and achievements<br />
That are not as pleasant as the medals that come at the end<br />
Stretches of time that can be folded away<br />
Only with a lot of patience<br />
Of that latent strength that can only be active<br />
When it is obviously passive<br />
Knowing that sometimes, to win, in a true sense<br />
You have to lose little battles and quietly dismantle your ego..<br />
With all of these, I find myself oddly without choice..<br />
<br />
Had I not been given the choice,<br />
I would have probably learned to deal with it..<br />
But the fact that I have a choice, throws me into a strange dilemma<br />
Then sometimes, unknowingly, I wear those shiny stilettoes<br />
And make my way to the busiest nightclub..<br />
For an entirely new, yet sufficiently overacted iteration <br />
<br />
It is one of those great ironies of life<br />
When your freedom ties you down..<br />
<br /></div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0Lansing, MI, USA42.732535 -84.555534742.6392295 -84.713463199999993 42.8258405 -84.3976062tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-37055472685631447532011-10-13T06:15:00.000-07:002011-10-13T06:15:27.580-07:00Retrace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have walked this path before<br />
I can see myself here, my very first time..<br />
How I took the wrong turn and had to walk back<br />
And start, all over again<br />
That stub of a tree by that curve -- I used it as a chair<br />
And wept, thinking I will never make it<br />
I sat by the lake and forgot where I was going<br />
Only to be rushed by the urgency of my goal<br />
Sometimes, in moments of utter embitterment,<br />
I swore that I would never come back here<br />
But by the time it all ended, my feelings of hate and love did too..<br />
I don't know if that is good or bad, but that is how it is!<br />
<br />
Now that I walk again, with you, I feel a bit concerned<br />
A bit constrained to be honest, with this iteration<br />
But it is so refreshing to know that it ends<br />
The crunching of maple leaves under our footsteps..<br />
I want to hug you when you want to give up<br />
I want to tell you that I have been there<br />
Exactly on that stub of a tree of a chair!<br />
I can see where you could make mistakes, well..<br />
I prefer just to see it and smile, not stop you from it<br />
For however painful it is now, I know you will own it next time<br />
You will be eager to walk; for the familiarity and nostalgia<br />
You will be confident, cautious and eager to teach..<br />
And I don't want to rob you of that beautiful Retrace. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-88400386934330945542011-09-29T12:08:00.000-07:002011-09-29T12:36:18.398-07:00Grumpy Grandpa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My anger is getting old now<br />
He is not as sharp as he used to be..<br />
Sometimes, he spends too much time thinking<br />
Whether he is really needed..<br />
And before he crosses that shaky bridge, the waters recede..<br />
Sometimes he knows he needs to speak up<br />
But is unsure whether it would be welcome..<br />
Sometimes he is renewed with a new vigour<br />
To act against the Unfair..<br />
But he chooses beer over another futility<br />
He doesn't like to go out and get noticed<br />
And he is rather grumpy about having too many visitors <br />
He would just prefer avoiding all the provocation<br />
Fights tire him now and Patience is getting too good at it. <br />
He doesn't mind the calmness, he doesn't miss the restlessness..<br />
My Anger, is certainly an old man now.</div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-54112632602325061452011-08-07T14:53:00.000-07:002011-08-07T14:53:53.981-07:00In my kitchen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">In my kitchen, no two coffee mugs<br />
Would look alike..<br />
Earthy ceramics, shiny metal and pretty polka dots<br />
Would grace the shelves hand in hand, side by side.<br />
Just like the people in my life.<br />
<br />
No two plates would carry the burden of staying together<br />
Until an exhausted late night crash makes them part<br />
They would all come in a group that is together<br />
Because each one of them is unique and beautiful..<br />
Not because they have to maintain the harmony<br />
Of subtly dictated artistic uniformity.<br />
<br />
Between cups of <i>chai</i>, green tea<br />
And awful American coffee,<br />
And bites of <i>tikka masala</i>, apple pie,<br />
Pumpkin soup and spaghetti<br />
My kitchen would quietly celebrate<br />
My life and its diversity.<br />
<br />
The doorbell will ring; the oven will sing<br />
The yellow lights shall stay on till late,<br />
And despite the fragility of too much diversity,<br />
In my kitchen, no one will fret over a broken plate. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8851263900492076929.post-20705036006310386832011-03-07T02:03:00.000-08:002011-03-07T02:03:05.988-08:00Victims of Gravity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The roots of the giant Banyan tree<br />
How they turn from uncertain shoots<br />
Unaware of any purpose or direction;<br />
Unaware of the larger scheme, the bigger theme..<br />
Unaware of the existence of so many others<br />
Who began as an aimless sprout..<br />
And turned into the old, magnificent<br />
Grandpa of a tree..<br />
Wise, calm and full of sympathy<br />
For impatience, haste and the fear of uncertainty..<br />
<br />
Or the neatly queued Pines on a cold, crunchy slope,<br />
Hiding cones and squirrels,<br />
Bestowing their host with added dignity..<br />
The meandering roads through Eucalypti<br />
Making up with fragrance for their lack of destiny..<br />
Perms of twisted, young tendrils<br />
Bending gracefully with a fat Pumpkin..<br />
Unaware perhaps hence perfectly able..<br />
Of such prolific agility..<br />
<br />
Should we then group them all<br />
As fortunate victims of Gravity? <br />
<br />
</div>Saeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494844880445422552noreply@blogger.com1