The Sun shines hotly–

A white tulip’s petals droop,

Seeking cool refuge.


Thanks for this award!

For the next poet rally, I nominate Rashmi!

Have a great week, everyone 🙂




Glancing into the pondwater,

I see not the water beneath

bursting with slippery life;

Nor the dark grey rocks

glistening with moss.

I see instead

an exquisite face!

Looking coyly out from its watery throne,

amused slightly;

deep brown curls roll splendidly

past two perfectly pink cheeks.

Full lips — like petals —

crown a smooth chin, shaped

by the gods.


But strange, isn’t it?


how a single drop of dew

from a lone leaf above,

falls brave and graceful

onto this proud beauty;

Dismembering it into ugly ripples

like welts and lacerations —

each more terrifying than the last.

The beauty flees.

And stillness reigns.

Why such tight constraints?

Just seventeen syllables

Can’t possibly work.


— — —


Haikus, in my opinion, are one of the best ways to write a poem. It’s short, it’s simple, it’s pure genius! The best part is having to express your poetic thoughts in only seventeen syllables and the intense brainstorming that follows as a result. When I first learned to write poems, I used to question the seventeen-syllable-rule; I didn’t like being restrained in this way — I found it stingy and difficult. Rules are meant to broken, yes, but sometimes rules like these make poetry such a joy to write and read.

Vain efforts


How do we stop

a biting criticism

before it bursts through

the doors of our mind?


How do we stop

that murderous feeling

of jealousy, hate,



How do we keep

these frail, pale cheeks

from turning a

weak and bashful red?


How do we withdraw

those brimming tears;

can we bridle them,

pull on their reins?


How do we snatch

our spiralling heart

pushed to its demise

by a mere Glimpse?


How do we seize

such careless words

spoken in a fury

like stripe on bare back?

Like traffic, the busy fumes

of a clogged heart do not

seek solace.

The many earthly loves do not help,

The world in all it offers is


and it fills none; it



But like key into lock, some

Great Wind,

strange and compelling, strikes you

into a known whirlwind,

strong and solid;

a phenomenon

of epiphany

and it is realised!

It is felt from your depths,


This is what the beginning was.

This is what it always will be.

Now you’re probably wondering why

I am the worst poem in the world.

I am about to tell you.


Because I am literal. I am shallow.

I have no beautiful inner meanings.

You can’t,  “read between my lines.”

I don’t use big words.

I have speling misteaks.


I have no form or interesting structure.

No rhythm, and no rhyme.

I’m not a “sonnet”, or a “haiku”.

Not even a limerick. I am nothing.


I wasn’t written by anyone famous.

I never graced the pages of any anthology,

just hastily scribbled on some newspaper.

I am a careless thought.

I have already been forgotten.


I wish I could pull heartstrings,

I wish I had advice.

I also wish I had inspiration to give out,

Or just touch a few hearts.

Cause some tears to fall

And they’d be all because of me.


But I never will.

Because I am not acceptable.

I don’t meet people’s requirements.

I just don’t work, no.




I bought a doll

with bubbled cheeks

and silken lips

and hair like dust in sunshine.


clothed in plain cotton

smudges on its shoes

and its soul

shined through its porcelain eyes.


we play together

like friends from birth

soul mates





I bought a new doll

with eyes like mating butterflies

and a head of black velvet

rosy cheeks and rouged lips.


clothed in white silk

and a hat of ribbon

a secret smile

dances across its face.

and we play together

like strangers on a park bench

with nervous flutters

of our lashes.


but I think of my first doll

the doll I first loved

lying somewhere, unattended




and I weep.