A Different Type of Jubilee

Photo by Jill Wellington on Pexels.com

Moments that meant something

Even when I thought they didn’t — then.

A practice in mindfulness never endeavored,

Only memories as evidenced by my trusty pen.

And I know limerence flitted somewhere in my mind

So painful but oh look, how I’ll respond in kind!


I lunged through early morning shadow woods

High on life, or as the hicks say, “tripping on acid.”

And that’s with nary a wink or shuteye or sleep

My revolutionary ideas — none too placid.

A scheme! A scheme! On how to confess a lover

‘Tis my breadth of life, ’tis my ultimate fodder.


And when I bantered with my friend into the night

The cards and psychedelic music meant — game on!

And sometimes in my absurdist state

I’d stare at her ceiling and catch whereupon,

A whiff of the air that for once isn’t home

But in someone else’s where my soul will roam.


So, right…that staring contest with the ceiling?

I did that too, in days lovelorn’d.

Till I remembered there existed a world outside me

While I lie and lay, sat and scorned.

All these unprecedented jubilees — what is the scope of their power?

But they’re all I have, and they I revisit in my darkest hour.


Photo by Nita on Pexels.com

Vanished! she did

assimilating into depths of time

leaving nary a reminder of her presence

except shards of memories as ambiguous

and muddled as my assumptions.

How do I regain a livelihood that was

already lived for me?

I needed that closure, you see,

so I can fail myself more…gracefully

while summershine’s powder puffs

stay their season’s stay.


Poof, she did,

like how the goddess of spring

dissipates into the air leaving none but

a few wafting cherry blossom petals

adorning the warm wind.

Ruminations of you — wonder no more! —

came to a halt in your sudden absence

and fueled instead the song of a crying piano

while the powder puffs arrived

to prolong their stay.


Anon, I am,

falling in love with myself so that

I despair again, because I vested into a

cheap mimicry of myself, yet so

enshrined in stars that ne’er held

a light to their original inspriation.

Meanwhile, the powder puffs,

whispy whirlwind powderpuffs,

suspended like time itself,

came to stay their leave…

Manifest Secret

woman s index finger on her lips
Photo by Mochammad Algi on Pexels.com

As I tell us my story of you,

The tension of your omnipresence spills

All over the tangible world

Like a child splattering its wholesome glory

Over a ripe canvas.

Everywhere I am,

You are —

For the trees to breathe in,

For my father to hear my giddy delight,

To guffaw with my friends,

For you to oust my secret stories

Out of the woodworks.

For the mountain-tops

To rejuvenate the air

And draw a portrait

Of you.

The ripple has ceased,

Longing has eased —

One of those dilly-dallying days

If I think of you again,

I need only spread my tendrils

And grin.

Lavender Poodle

First, some news. I am taking a Poetry course at my college, and the prompt was to write about an ordinary object that transformed in some way. And is has to be free verse. Now knowing me (and all my poems on here so far), I don’t write free verse very often because it’s not my favorite poetry style to write in. But so much contemporary American poetry is free verse. Crazy! I much prefer rhyming scenes, but okay then. So I wrote Lavender Poodle based on the prompt.

Second: I’ve written my first guest post! I found lifesfinewine when she liked one of my posts. She writes inspirational quotes, issues on psychological health and positivity, and promotes guest bloggers. So I offered to write a guest post. And guess what? It seems that some people really seem to like it… ;). Check it out here!


She was the the color of her scent

when Mom popped her in for introductions;

she was stuffed full of lavender fragrances

when she crowned my bedside that night;

and one whiff takes me take to Zen zone

intro a headspace I long…forgot.





I spilled all

the night I cradled my poodle

as though I cradled my long-lost love…

I breathed in the scent

and I forgot all

because I just…



I lost my little poodle one day

I know not where,

all I have is

her heart —

her bean-bag, lavender heart

filled with my love and pain,

and it still pulses

with lavender residue

when I microwave it

and cradle it

like I cradle a long-lost love.

Is It You?

Image result for house at night
Courtesy of: Niklas Agevik

This week in:  a lonely stargazer finds comfort in the littlest things.


“Is it you?” I asked an ancient oak of green

The trees bowed their cloaks to the wind

I thought I heard them sigh

When to the sky they grinned

And gave me no reply


“It it you?” I queried of Garbage Cat

He was busy playing Master of Diguise

Till Twolegs witnessed his nocturnal play

He looked on with beady eyes

Before he snuck, skipped and scampered away


“Is it you?” I entreated one of my own

Warm was their homely circle of light

That enclosed them here and nigh

Together! Laughter! Love! Such was the sight

I almost waved and said hi


Nature and Night, they brought an ear to lend

From lamppost sidewalks to the mango grove

They had a voice, and I a friend

God help me, I’ll find the one I love

And I WILL find the one I love…


This might have to be revised some. We’ll see, though.


Barren Beauty



Hand crossed over her bosom unabashed,

The full-fledged figure

Was clothed in ivory unmasked


He posed steely and strong

All his muscles glowed a-brazen

In throes of calm victory you bask and belong


Artwork incarnate…


It must stay hidden, for it’s never free

All bargain for one, two, their share

While from it — I flee

Artificial Clouds


Clouds. Sometimes so beautiful and perfect they look…well, artificial.





Rinsed-out pieces of chunk

Suspended in mid-air on puppet strings.


White Clouds:



Sun-shone against a sky-blue background screen

Are there even such things?


Sublime are they,

Seem those unseemly puffs without a trace of bland

But I assure you,

Such ethereal beauty indeed comes from Mother Nature’s hands.

Sun, Rise and Set


I wrote this one a while back, before my perspective of the world became more complex. The main idea of this poem is relatively simple: A rising sun is a metaphor for good times, and a setting one for the bad. Still, I thought I’d put this here because a lot of the poems I wrote so far are meant to be a timeline of how my ideas developed.

Subject change. There was a time in my life when I was suffering from an internal demon. It was disguised as a thought, a passion, and it gave me false feelings of elation and  warmth. But I knew the deceptino behind those feelings, and just knowing the evil behind it left me upset. It left me with mixed feelings, which I didn’t know how to resolve. Then once during a run, while I stopped to catch my breath, I could observe a beautiful sunset ahead of me. And in a metaphorical sense, I saw a correlation between that sunset and my current struggle…and at that moment, I knew just what to write about.


When the sun rises,

My world is full of surprises

The foremost infant rays peep out

Bold and true, spreading the faith and joy

For us to enjoy.


At that, my soul yearns a smile

Spreading my utmost ecstasy, from mile to mile!

Flying like an arrow does my loving laughter

I want to live on this earth forever after!

Skip, laugh, the world may leap;

I’m soaking in all the beauty I can seep!


These are the good days, the ones

That shine on us like a million suns

Prove the world your reasons to grin

Your hope shall fully win

That’s how my world consists of surprises

When the sun rises.


When the sun sets

My world is full of regrets

Creatures of the air tuck in their wings; good night!

The fading sun hides out of sight

Luck isn’t here to shine on me

Pitch-black is all I see.


My mood dips down to the bottom slide

There is naught a smile so wide

This ere clammy gloom infects everyone

For gone out of our lives is that essential sun.

My world eclipses,

Those gloomy days — they leave a scar, a mark!


Some days are like that one,

Some of us need a sunny bliss to come.

Yet — days do need rest, to sleep.

All the world is still, not even a peep.

That’s how my world consists of sunsets,

How we sometimes have regrets.