Iridescent Kites

Instead of slumber ,
she mends nouns and interjections,
weaving in conjunctions.


Phrases crochet’d at seams;

her similies aren’t what they seem.


Few moths bicker.

As the street lights flicker .


Dappled light on her notepad.

Ink smudges ‘tween her fingers. (one stray spot beside her chapped rose lips)
Lips pressed tight ,
Brow furrowed on her right .
She writes about iridescent Kites .


Flying high ,

(Way above little girls and fireflies )
Zipping past strips of cirri.
(Irked by a sun that will never rise)


Brushes and blotches

Of a hazy grey
Large looming masses
Of purple and clay
Gather at horizon.( near, but not too close )



for now the the little kite
flies happy cartwheels;
(A sun that will never rise )
Just like a little girl
who rubs her cold brittle feet.


Few moths bicker.

As the street lights flicker .



my feet ,

like puppets                                                 with cut strings ,

dead men and dreams .

bullets of steel

rang his *Knell.

*A death knell is the ringing of a bell to announce a death. This is also called tolling the bell.
** The ” beneath your feet ” can signify leaders of countries at war. They sit in their ivory towers waging wars which affect the lives of millions .
*** Should I stop writing these author’s notes ?

Crowds and Mediocrity

Some follow the crowd; and become imitations .
Their voices and ambitions muffled by inhibitions .
Some break free from their shackles .
And produce oh! so many miracles .


Both paths carry risks .
But its upto you to remise.


Which path do YOU choose ?
Time’s runnin out, your life’s on the noose.


Break norms or embrace mediocrity.
Remember , in the end you are your own crtic.



Sound and fury ;
Will you be my jury ?

Time and tide ;
Will you wash away my trials ?

Kites of hope
Soar into the yonder .

Filled with hope ,
I wonder

Many don’t want to provide refuge to Syrians after the Paris attacks . Hence , the misdirected sound and fury(anger) of the world is a refugee’s jury. Trials, tribulations and hope are other themes in this poem.


I fall,

Onto a bed of jagged rocks and broken sea shells.

Wisps of melancholy follow my yells.

Darkness encompasses everything nice.

My mouth feels like husks of rice.

Moth to a flame;

I fly to the fridge.

Follow the incandescent light,

to end my fight.

Warmth fills my insides.

I go where Nutella resides.