A Scintilla of Thoughts

the cat’s pajamas



Sawed and shaped, gnawed and nailed,
The Broken Bench stands haughty and frail.
Without purpose ;
Which hikers back would it comfort?
Which mothers distress would it guide?

As a futile life – sinking in parched sand ;
It finally rests as it fools a sadistic sun ;
Underneath some soon to be demolished futile wooden planks.



The yearn for sunlight in a dull and dingy corner or the first drop of rain in vast seas of sand?

Is it really the fulfilment of your needs ; your greed ;
What you have – or have not?

Or is it when
On an empty stomach
You step back and gaze at
how perfectly,
lapped up in a dull and dingy corner
a dainty peacock sobs for a shower

Or is it when
On a ragged beach
You choose the most uncomfortable rock
but it is a perfect spot
to catch a crow spread it’s wings
a contrasting silhouette
on the cherries added in by spring

Pastels put forth by who knows who
interlocking perfectly
creating life
magically devastating even the smartest
of human minds –

– or is it a cold glass of water after a hard day of work?


They say nothing is permanent.

Forgetting the sapling which once took shelter in the green,

Now a sturdy tree.

Which stands there

Watching two silly lovers
Stumble silently in a silly fashion,
As they hide between their devious passion.


Watching an old man who isn’t silly
Take a stroll
and miss his darling with whom he hid
When he was young
And felt whole.


Watching a fiery bird
Build twig by twig,
A nest for her tiny eggs
A home gigantic.


Watching the wind destroy
everything weak and sick
Like a humble bunch of sticks on its branch, holding a newborn chick.


Watching bricks drop to create,
Blocks of revenue, buildings to satisfy
Greed, and leave impressions great.


Watching the displeased nature
Shaking hard to throw off and display.
The large load of cemented stone
On the ground
Where it is supposed to lay.


They say nothing is permanent.

At least not the green.
At least not what it has seen.


You picked an alluring flower, because you wanted to steal, and gift to her, the joy of all other passers-by.

She read you from end to end, without letting anyone else know what you held in between, and then kept you at the back of a dusty shelf.

You couldn’t pity the plant, then why, at the thought of her, does your throat dry?

This land is now mine,  the Grand man exclaimed,  borrowing from the Mother a piece of her soil. He cleared it of the helpless trees and bushes. He had worked hard for it,  and this was a product of his toil.

The first brick was laid, a foundation. The first stroke you paint on your canvas, which will remain still after layers of paint have been added to create a masterpiece.

The first wall, a humble barrier of red, was then built. The first line of the poem which could mean anything, but would hold strongly the poems lyrical beauty.

Nights later, a modest four walled hut put together to cover the purchased part of nature, and protect it from its own. A roof, a door, a window. A luxury.

Grand men need more than luxury, because they have worked so hard for it. So the Grand man did not stop.

Another storey, upon the first, and then another. When I stand up on the terrace, I’d like to touch the sky, instructed the Grand man. And so bricks were piled and cement spread.

And then it was complete,  his beauty. For him,  it wasn’t bricks, but his sweat that held his twenty storied home together.

But the Mother, she disagreed. Sweat doesn’t pain your brothers. Sweat doesn’t kill green trees. Sweat doesn’t exclude those meant to coexist.

So she shook.

The Grand man, and his grand creation, now returned to the ground, where they belonged.

A sapling begun to grow between two fallen bricks.

How high will you go before you come back?



I was the wind and I, I brushed past you. You seized to notice, crying inside the beautiful bubble formed by the strings of your withered perception. I stayed for a moment, taking hostage in the trees, whispering to you, whining to you and you’d look at me with rose-tinted glasses and sigh, for I wasn’t yours to breathe. Or so you’d believe.

I was the peacock with a tapestry for wings, and when it would rain, I would hide my tears with an upward gaze and shadow my face with the brilliance of vivid pastel shades. They had been carefully embroidered to please – and distract. You’d look on from a distance and lament, for my joy was not yours to share, my beauty not yours to feel. You’d go  back to sleep in the warmth of your covers while I, I’d pretend to dance in the rain for a glimpse of your glazed, lonely smile.

You were someone who would never find the white daisy in a field of swamp, a daisy which yearned to be plucked by you from the dirt.


A faded spark of silver
That is all you see
A passing poetic moment
As you lay on the tender green,
on blades that are larger to you than
I will ever be.
Oh what a shame that so much I bother
To make an ephemeral moment so serene

 Physics would fret Day and Night
There is no day and night where I am from
But your esteemed self will ask for a measure
I know.

To unite silly clouds of gases gracious.
With made up forces, only to light
Me up for the solace of your
Gullible poetic mind
Creating a rift amongst
My ferocious insides which struggle
As I pull a face
So calm and subtle.

Full of fervour, I die, I replenish,
Wishes I grant
I guide those who wander,
Illuminate those in the dark
Noticed but unseen like
A crying leaf at dawn
Or a singing lark

In your daily journal
Or a Physics book
I’ll convince you
To write about me.
I’ll try.

“A star is a luminous sphere of plasma held together by its own gravity. It makes me want to cry sometimes, because it makes all that I deem important
look redundant.”


There are muddy foot marks on the road as he has walked a lonesome walk. The raindrops will gently slip by his ignored wrinkles. He carries an orange umbrella, an umbrella of a colour which clashes with the gloomy monsoon, almost questioning it’s existence. As he opens the umbrella, he blocks much of the water, hiding his tired and experienced body from any who might stop and ask. No one does, as headlights of cars appear and disappear one after the other. Some slow down at the sight of orange held by a tiny figure in the shadows, but moving ahead is more important than a silly man who will probably wake up with a cold tomorrow.

When salt and rainwater mix, it demands to be written about. He has flashes of all he has done and what he has not, his ups and his downs, the people he has met, the games he has played in the rain and the hands that have held his and left. He would go back if he could, but memories are as fresh and helpful to bring back pangs of joy and sorrow. With a childish impulse he takes a plunge, into a lonesome puddle. Splashing water all around him, a sight for all to see, a lonely old man dancing in the rain.


A canopy of green and brown protects the tender ground from the penetrating sun. Creatures, big and small, live a life they were meant to live in these lands untouched by the creative hands of mankind. Some prance from branch to branch, some lazily lie in the uncemented soil. A stream of water stealthily slithers through the rocks, unforgiving to the obstacles, and fooling the rising heat. When it rains, water droplets seep through untroubled mud, a fortune their city-brothers seldom seem to have. There is survival, there is life, and there is experience. An experience clouded to man by towering blocks of commercialisation, which he proudly calls his building. Barren, yet built.

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