White Elephant

Succinct verses decaying, dissolving,
like footprints of time fading o’er melting ice caps,
evanescing lyrical utterances of a dead ink
spilled over into a green lake,
while language vanishes like white plumes of breath.
A textual history lying deceased,
nebulous rumors now inanimate,
a careless contempt of pain,
a mishmash of conflicting rules:
all withering like adamantine – cautiously slow.
Soft margarine bodies lying buried underground,
growing hard and brittle, like a handful
of shriveled leaves, 
once pliant, docile, now dry:

hard’s the companion of death.
The lubricity of things dear, firmly grasped

but slipping through fingers;
old earth absorbs it all in necrophiliac love,
scattering everything to dust, while you sit there
sipping life’s gall, 
waiting for your turn. 

#an old poem re-shared
#Apology for not reading your posts (if I used to)! Things have kept me busy!
#A new side-blog: rishuscribbles



Wet Junes

warm summer mists douse
peachy suns dangling high, like
melons in the sky!

#This one’s for you, Orange, will make you smile. lol. Get well soon!

A figure in the rain

A vintage hourglass silhouette, a warp and weft
of timeless existence, sweeping waves — of the incessant
susurrus of hushed voices, and 
almond sands oozing,
from that hyper-feminine, elegant visage — granular,
proceeding in bits, an opium to senses, like a mushed
sonata, or an intoxicating poison —  which she wields, 
unintentionally. A thermometer heats up, but it’s raining
cold below the olive 
clouds of trees, and the lush
foliage that strains, 
and filters, bloated raindrops
to something pure, 
as they glide through exuberant lengths
of fabrics that line, and ruffle her skin, 
dappled in
mirthful colors, a tangling of lighthearted prints, un-weaving
dreams that fall gently all around, binding me with her,
and that which billow like wet paint brushes – or, like bristling thistles,
moving, pricking — making everything come alive, back from sleep.



Get well soon

wind-tossed poppies waft,
scribe wishes on clouds adrift,
of warm “Get-well-soon”s.

#A Haiku for my sweet, and kind friend, N.


A sea swell of fondness slipped in through
the happy window, as the daybreak cast nets
of the marine haze, o’er sunken, sagging rooftops,
and the listless apathy that blinds her face.
She’d grown older, but muter — an ugly wreckage
— with each passing storm — this rosy girl of twenty-six,
cloaked in the brilliance of a carcass
from head to toe; she saw slavery in everything,
where he saw love;
she saw the cottages in dirty tones: in shades
of black, some vibrant, some dark, while he tried
to bear her petulance, and acrimony,
in a milk of human benevolence, indulgently, as one bears
the caprices of a sullen child. She never felt at home
for as long as he could remember, but he’d seen her
shoot rainbows, once, with her winsome laughter, that’d sliced
the blues crashing against the infinite,

capsizing the sea and the vernal sky, but those rainbows
now lay burning like wartime bridges — charred,
ashen in monochromes that blent with the darkness
inside of her. It’s not enough to cover despair
with colors when there are no rainy days.

#Random Fiction
#Word-prompt by M

Losing to time

He wipes away the dust from her freckled face, as she smiles
lovingly at him — like always, coaxing him to sleep on her lap,
where time also slept, as it does in all photographs. He found her
between the pages of an ancient album, imprisoned
in silver bromide — apocryphal memoirs of time — a haze of nostalgia
that cushions the relics of past. These photographs of her, of roses,
of damp tea-stalls, where frisky, old chaps trotted, around the old-age home,
and dim lanterns hung, playing with shadows from the east’s receding veil,
lay silent like a patient Saharan afternoon.

A vacuity swooned upon him, as a world formed in his head, and he lost 
tracks of people who’d faded away, their scent-spoors drifting — hushed —
like contrails hanging in the blue, merging slowly with winds
that scrape and tittle-tattle secrets of sullen back-alleys
with blood-stained pavements where old scores’re scrupulously settled,
of scented candle wicks snuffed with a spittle — inside sacrosanct war rooms
— that foster cataclysm, and reek of stuffy rumors of realpolitik that brew
holocausts of greed, — and where history’s re-imagined, — everyday.
He felt the blankness stretching ahead, stretching on all sides; the leaves
of his pages seemed to have blown away. 

#Random Fiction

A spiritual Sunday

6 years it took to the meeting.
Today, my paths crossed again, with a lost friend of mine — a city — a city more familiar to me than my home town , a city where I turned an adult from a teen, a city where I cultivated the street smarts, and where I learned life-truths that hound me still. I will try sharing three pictures, out of the many captured during the trip, to convey the emotions of how the place made me feel. As for the name – I don’t think it matters. (It’s never really about the name, ain’t it! ;))


Phone camera used – Huawei Honor 6x

An evening on an island

Lines as slight as hairs, of rumors, and of inks
— hatching shades of blues, and grays, on story-less pages, 

on drunken thoughts — ever flowing — like wavering shadows
of burnished,
feminine laundry hung dazzling in the window
– glistening in the late noon sun, trying to confine

a lover’s absence to those empty bedroom walls
that’d witnessed a candlelight tale hummed last night.
Faint tunes of violin, and feline purrs, bring down
the mellow evening, invading the sanctum, as drafts of wind
blow in the sand — the same color as her irises, as his left palm
finds its way to his heart — warm, sea-dark, vast.

#Random fiction

Her frangrance

sunlight embers warm
glacial winds about me into
fragrances of you

#To the weirdest, yet the sweetest thing to happen to me
#Some things are best left uncertain

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