I've only read and
and written about
You see,
I've never seen an ocean
in my life, in person.

I've just seen ponds and lakes
or fountains and waterfalls
even drafted in a river once.
And I thought I know water
- what it looks and feels like in
stream, stagnation and cascades
both inside my body and
outside in the real world.

And as I write another poem
about the deep vast ocean
I wonder if it'd ever be complete
without me having witnessed one.

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destroy the planet...
Is what they'd say to
reason the bird flue outbreak

The people who tried to
justify a pandemic by
pinning blame on those
who suffer under it's grasp

"Humans were killing mother earth,
coronavirus is nature's vengeance"

What'd the bird do now?

-

made of twists and turns
you can't often figure out

But it is the knots you aren't
able to quite de-tangle
that give you the warmth
you feel in their embrace

-

Not every hole that
life poked in you
needs to be restored.

Afterall, what is a house
without a few windows?

-

getting their share of hurt

Band-aids aren't zippers
that can close a wound
as you slide it up or down
But a layer of protection
that offers time and help
to restore it back to health

-

isn't just born out of
the writers' subconscious
but is controlled by them
like a magician of the
realm of unconscious

-

loners and raging lovers to
make metaphors out of it

A gigantic body of stone and gases
just hanging light years away
and yet we seem to connect
our feelings with it like
joining dots of a constellation

-

He is like an elaborate nap
under the blazing sun
on a chilly winter afternoon
in the city we call home

-

are subtext best left hidden.

Like an anxious artist backstage with
racing heart, broken props & sweaty shoes
who you'd swear was born to perform
as she sets the stage on fire

-

like fresh morning dew
on petals of a flower
don't try to grasp in hurry
or shake it off vigorously
instead let it stay, maybe drip
under the sun when rays
go through the droplets
and scatter into a rainbow
a scenery of its own

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