My Taste For Rain Has Changed (Poetry)

My Taste For Rain Has Changed (Poetry)

WORDS (My Taste For Rain Has Changed):

my taste for rain has changed
I no longer cry storms.
my taste for thunder begun,
when my feet vowed to return.

my taste for rain on arid soil,
the dawn begun
and with the weather I was over
i vowed my storm will return.

Under the faint sky,
my taste for rain evolved.
Grew into a wildfire of monsoons
I returned with hailstones under my feet
Storm in my weathered eyes;
Hurricanes in the palm of my hands .
I sing hemisphere their lullabies
I sting hemispheres with ache

When the taste for rain swelled
I delivered harmattan in rage
Dry, arid, cool, fever of hot and warm.
I refrained from bringing my weathered storm.

My taste for rain has brewed.
I poured the temper warm and stewed.
Under the eeriness of the night
I grew the rain and plucked the storm
Then I threw the waning sun.

My taste for rain has changed
I bought the heat with my auburn tresses
And winter stares I wore like lavalieres.
I gathered ice from stony places
I spewed when it melted
Because my taste for rain has changed.

I change my taste for rain; or has rain changed my taste.

Silver soothing in the sky
I changed my songs of thunder.
Let no stars open the sky asunder.

My taste for rain has changed
Not for now, today, tomorrow but decades.
My taste for rain has changed.

Inject my world with dust so I can rain in August
My taste for rain has changed.
I bury the tears now on my discovered rage
My taste for rain has changed.

Black Sheep (Poetry)

Black Sheep (Poetry)

WORDS:
clearing out the truths in my closet
i find another.
amidst the chaos and the calm,
there drapes the dark woollen coat.
persistently promising to always be in vogue.
its length smiles at my older self
its warmth laughs at my latter days
its style larks at the former self
its size beams in my early age
telling me its elegance is grasped
at a certain stage.
yet we are sheared
from the same black sheep.
spun from the same yarn.
cut from the same cloth. Continue reading “Black Sheep (Poetry)”

Ask (Poetry)

Ask (Poetry)

WORDS:

she asks herself and asks again. as her voice breaks like floral porcelains, she picks up the pieces. it hurts, it takes time. for the little pieces perforates and sinks into the hands like the painful memories. there she pulls the shards and plaster the wound. silence reminds her that she has been here before and how the plates has a habit of wilting on the kitchen floor.

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Arson (Poetry)

Arson (Poetry)
 

WORDS:
at the dark red dusk, the monsoon flooded
raining kerosene and paraffin
trickles of oil lashed like lightning
leaving imprint on wooden windows
the flames upraising like an anthem
and we asked our bloodshot eyes to stop chanting
with smoke engraved in our parched coughing
we watch the arid commodities burn with the heat.
red spices and brown sugar turn to black ash
no matches, no lighters but lulled flames
the black ash swallowing red sand and brown water.
the insatiable wild fire left us no choice
but to watch its blaze soothe our wounds
neighbours whisper like the cackling fire.
omitting the etymology of the flames.
at the dark red dusk, the monsoon flooded
raining kerosene and paraffin
and once it swallowed the house
the desertion of debris and black ashes
heaved like the husks of mangoes.

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Lesson From A Paper Crane (Poetry)

Lesson From A Paper Crane (Poetry)
 

WORDS:

Examine the flailing weeks fold itself like paper;
as it cuts the days, tucks in the minutes and creases the seconds.
cocooning into an origami of the things it strives for
till it calls into the calmest crane.
forgetting a thousand cranes brings luck
but this one is troubled; creased by a thousand
yet it doesn’t sink in its despondence

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The Heron Across The Black Lake (Poetry)

The Heron Across The Black Lake (Poetry)

i.
my word is a heron trying to swallow its fish
but the bare bones spike against the bitter bills.
across the hill over the black lake
drowns the words that i cannot say.

ii.
so i find solace in echoes of the sky
but do not seek the lineage call
for the clouds swallow softly
when they bellow into new form.

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3 AM (Poetry)

3 AM (Poetry)

WORDS:

at 3.am the news wades
on the white Calla- lily porch
each held breath prays
probing for the serenity
of the things that yesterday cannot change.

the opulent ivory door laments
for the two pulsating hearts
denying rational thoughts
as silence slays the hope
of going back to sleep whole.

no longer wading
its presence satiates the room
and consciously it slices the truth
leaving scratches on the marble tops
with residues of tea in the porcelain cups

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