2026: One Life To Live

Tuesday, April 14, 2026

When the Sun Dances

A dawn chorus serenades the day to be

With koels, robins, and sparrows' song in glee

Crepuscular rays coyly wake up the sky

With pearl-scented purple clouds smiling shy

Scintillating rays of calmness seek the trees

Wisdom of liquid gold weaving with ease

Ripples of gold and gray linger and dissolve

Ensouls komorebi with rooted resolve

A day's worth of prayers, moments of gifted grace

The sun glides by, leaving Venus' rosy trace

Night in binds, it glissades in waves of greens and reds

With an airy ballon, charm of aurora spreads

Power of grace and calm of depth intertwine,

Life breathes when the sun dances divine.

/ 14

: 111

[ 33 27 36 15 ]

Monday, April 13, 2026

Sunflower Shadows

Who knows where the sun is

In the lawns of the sky,

Deep in those distances,

Imperceptible miles away.

Look closer, as the sunflowers steer,

I lie near the roots, sinfully near.

There's a promise of love's warmth,

But the test of longing stands true.

I, the slender Shadows*, notice the miles dissolve,

Even when the mood's bright or blue.

Let there be dream, let it be real,

For the Love that the flowers hold.

I bear witness to the sun's existence,

Let that savory truth be told.

I am the darkness that you will never face,

Left behind, near the nut-scented dust.

What was, is past, never leaving a trace,

Rested to embrace the green earth's crust.

On days when the clouds lurk,

Or the sun has journeyed to the other side,

I will still be there, faint, or along with night,

Letting peace find you, in Life's every stride.

/ 22

: 171

* "Shadows" is a collective term for the shadows of all the sunflowers. It is used as a persona here, as a singular entity.

Sunday, April 12, 2026

The Fence of De(f)viance

You asked me to build a beautiful fence.

But they told me,

to carve woods that should never be perfect.

I a̶d̶j̶u̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ improvised...

Perfection is a state of mind.

I would find an eclectic ornament.

The fence was taking shape...

But they told me,

to avoid openings and never make a gate.

I s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶a̶d̶j̶u̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶ transmuted...

Openings are a matter of choice.

I would still find another way.

The fence still had its signature...

They took away my freedom to choose colors.

Colors that spell life onto emotions...

Restricted me to shades of rust,

sordid gray, morbid metal, and dust-tasting ochre,

that were already chosen and set.

I s̶t̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶a̶d̶j̶u̶s̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶ transcended...

Colors can be mixed and matched.

I would still find a hue of silver in there.

And now, you ask me

To stop using wood or bamboo

And even nails.

The jaundiced yellow you choose,

Is not of hope.

It's a trap.

For a muted race of non-humans.

And you expect me to agree this time too.

But mind you.

If I do, that wouldn't be a fence I make.

It would be an ensemble of bars,

That wouldn't captivate or capture.

But bind in chains of dreaded iron bars,

Where only fools survive.

Would it be too much iron-y at some point?

If it does, build a grave instead

Where humanity would r̶e̶s̶t̶ lie still.

Stuck.

/ 39

: 228

====================================

A Little Something:

Prompt: Words Lost To Emojis

This piece is based upon two ideas, viz. the usage of emojis to replace words, and how the unintellectual usage and interpretation of artificial intelligence.

Emojis, which were created to add on the emotion factor to plain text, have completely taken over words and even emotions themselves. They have defeated the very purpose of their creation — to add warmth. Anyway, I had an article written on this but never posted it, thinking it might add to the coldness that emojis have already become.

Just because a few blatantly use artificial intelligence — again, defeating its very purpose — new guidelines (though informal) are being issued for any kind of writing that requires creativity. These may range from avoiding em-dashes and Oxford commas to even the use of metaphors! And yet, this piece uses them all — unapologetically. Compromising on proper grammar and literary devices can only mean one thing.

====================================

Saturday, April 11, 2026

Purple Path

The wait of wintered night is done

A burgundy dawn begins its run

The reverie chimes me in its talk

Upon the purple path I walk

Path so unbidden, royal, and rare

With a wise power and a mystical flair

A seminal magic that spring has spun

Upon the purple path I run

Path paved by blissful transcendence

Stellar begetters in innocent effulgence

Exalted beyond the amsel sky

Upon the purple path I fly

/ 12

: 74

Friday, April 10, 2026

Cadence by Turquoise Waters

Turquoise silk waters and golden rhinestones rays,

Beige velvet lace sands, shells embellished.

Gray and green palm pillars of whispery breath,

A salt-freshened aroma the zephyr relished.

Unfolding the wrinkles in time with grace,

Far in the skies, the sole cloud ambled on.

The small stretch of once-green grass swayed and rustled,

As the adolescent sun giggled and breezed on.

Dubious horizon let her wander in rippling memories,

Still as air, peace glimmered in her eyes.

Eyes fixed firm on the lulling waves,

Stories of her spring-kissed lips, the misty foam craves.

The shadows glided on, and moved to the other half.

The air too wavered, fusing from cold to willful warm.

The moon was in the day's foyer awaiting the sun,

She sauntered in her thoughts, her feet held firm.

On a wispy whim, or with a serene resolve,

She walked on, her feet leaving traces of her presence.

Waters and sands pondered for longing days

Of the smile in her eyes and her lingering essence...

The twilight now reminiscent of her cadence.

/ 21

: 174

Prompt: A Day Near The Sea

Thursday, April 9, 2026

Crumbs of L'Heure Bleue

Neither of day nor of night

A fleeting grace, ephemeral delight

A savory seed, in sweetness grown

An abode in a luscious cream tone

Spoons of flavors from Alice's world

A subtle whisper yet drastically bold

Imagination of the Mad Hatter,

Sweet wisdom of liquid gold

Colors from galaxies near and far

Landscapes of clouds and mythical lands

Aroma from the worlds unknown

A universe in a cookie or a scone

A tiny portion with nostalgia within

The evening snack sizzles, never meant to quite fit in.

/ 14

: 87

Alternate Title: Twilight Crumbs.

L'Heure Bleue (or 'The Blue Hour', as it is famously known in France) is the perfect time for an evening snack, which happens to be the prompt for today.

Wednesday, April 8, 2026

Breathing Cosmos

Easy to not notice

Easy to not realize

A concept so mundane

Yet beyond everything

Anything but plain

In millions of stars

Zillions of planets

And bodies

Beyond perceptions

There is or there is not

In "maybe"s even

An entity

Simple and complex

Is it dark or is it light

Or beyond these terms

Does it exist or

Does it not

Can binary even have

The audacity to categorize

If it is, where is it

And if not, then

What even is all this

Existentialism they term it

But then who's to know

Like this piece

Without rhymes or reasons

Without patterns or meters

Without rhythms and meanings

But is it with Life?

Life is a 1000 meters away

And some 3000 miles far

Not near my lungs or heart

Among the cuddles of a mind

That my soul calls its own

It identifies, it knows

As if that tiny thing

Is its entire cosmos

What even is cosmos?

Those breathing beings?

/ 39

: 162

Tuesday, April 7, 2026

Rooted Memories

Flying high

Leaping bounds

In the skies

Of the grounds

Across oceans

Pits of fire

Winged winds

Dainty desire

In whiffs of warm cocoa

Wafting through stores

Lotus and fresh linens

Redolent of Yours

In Sandalwood incense

Freshly mowed lawns

Nectarous Mango blossoms

During dewy spring dawns

In hues of yellow

And carnation pinks

Tints of clouds at dusk

In shades of inks

Here in satin sheets

Serenely muted

There in eternal depths

Memories rooted

/ 24

: 75

Monday, April 6, 2026

Sweet Blue Fire

Dormant wishes

In a cradle of smiles

That eyes sense

Yet the heart sees

The miles

Dimensions were held

In grasps of those

Who had some or none

While the fourth one

Travelled in steps

Around the milky way

Searching for a core

The roads were taken

With leaves that burnt

In orange and yellow

Deprived of oxygen

In enough molecules

A slothed standard

Was set in sand to follow

Of remnants, sauntering

In linear hollow

One soul of dreams

Glints stored in silk

Wrapped in whispers

Dew of pearly glitters

Irises in iridiscent glee

Sent Love of cerulean blue

Waiting to aflame at cue

Decades of memories

With centuries of passion

In an ocean of heat

And fuel to outweigh all air

Burns now; our sweet blue fire

/ 33

: 129

/5/7/9/7/5

Sunday, April 5, 2026

Raining Rainbows

In a land of wonders and silver springs

The sky reflected clouds with fluffy golden wings

Rows of crystal glistened in stages of rapture

Elysium in glimpses, the breeze did capture

But there too were roads of asphalt

That would never once break or be tempted to swerve

Even in moments and matters of clamour

It wouldn't let go and hassle every nerve

The Lifes* were happy in wired routine

Glassy armour with a ruptured grass screen

Air of lavender smelled of sulphur and some ore

Fragrance of breath distilled with metal of gore

But on a day like any other, a slant leaf fluttered

A peachy day of change, as cloud of gems muttered

Pearly drops of tiny prisms colored the thirsty air

Like a million stained glass sheets of iridescent flair

The managed sky broke into a downpour of liquid light

Not muddied or muddled brown gray of hidden plight

The sun awakened the colors that one could ever see

Not peeking behind fluff clouds anymore, it melted with glee

For days and days of chaos and peace that mattered

The earth bathed in rainbows, with plastic rules shattered

It breathed of fresh flowers and trees that swayed

A little raw, a little flawed, like a star remade

/ 24

: 210

* Lifes is intentional. Though the plural of lifes is lives, here (with a uppercase L) it is meant to be Lifes.

Saturday, April 4, 2026

Thus Spoke the Parchment

Decades or days...

Of winds and snow

Weight of stories

That I have seen and known.

I lived through days of spring

And summer nights

Beaten, drowned, and dried

A thousand lifetimes in plight.

I carry the memory

Of the forests and sun

Ready for words and art

With ink, well-spun

Every stroke of brush, a lightning bolt

Struck before, and will again too,

Perhaps with a sharper jolt.

Unafraid of the ink that stains me

And of the shadow that turns into art

Washed a thousand lives in the river

A thousand times from heart.

Awaiting a truth, gold-etched and fierce

That till eternity, will be signed "once more!",

A Great Noon of words

That Life would always adore.

Not merely a surface

I am a net of thousand deaths

Still a sacred beginning I claim

For I am the laughter of the stream

Captured in a frame.

Write on...

Of light and let the essence roll

I would never hide

But transmute it into something whole

Delicate as I am,

I let the world shine through

But tough enough

To not let the ink pierce my soul.

/ 36

: 189

====================================

A Little Something:

This piece tells the story of a parchment, Washi or Artisan Parchment, to be specific. The parchment is made from the Kozo plant, and involves a process rich in art and dedication that is truly inspiring.

This piece has inclusions that are allusions to Friedrich Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The "Once More!", for example, is a deliberate allusion to Nietzsche's "Noch Einmal!" in English.

====================================

Friday, April 3, 2026

Prism

The room with the solo window brooded

The weight of the curtains and heavy blinds

Were deafening enough for the air, it alluded

It complained to the soul in voices of all kinds

The star's gone; it urged to let go of the binds

A little glimmer, a tiny beam it craved

A mild chance for the blank to be braved

The next day,

It saw a tiny prism on the window sill

Victory for light at last,

The air let out a humming shrill

The light ray found it at the break of dawn

An array of colors from the rainbow it did spawn

It danced around the reflections

That were frayed, grayed, and brittle

Entered the untouched water-cup

Coaxed to move and break a little

The light was promised an air

That smelled of daisies in bloom

A room of yellow and cinnamon

And of exuberance in the loom

But the eclipsed pair of eyes there

Had their sight behind bars

Oh, they could see things around

But their vision, stolen by stars,

Nowhere to be found

Tricked into the walls that smelled of heart

Light has nowhere to escape or dart

Bouncing off broken mirrors

That lay without a sound

It still kept trying to dance around

But without a complete soul...

no music was found

/ 33

: 219

Thursday, April 2, 2026

Harmony in Contrasts: Wreathing Duality

The fire launches the LV* with a mighty embrace to kiss space

And the smoke, as its memory, smells the dust with a grey grace

The capsule in its journey, still... in the vast space of dark

Holds remnants of the ashy entropy, left among light and spark

The spark speaks of tales to the mighty ground, as it burns and soothes

The sky splashes ambrosia, veiled in hope and despair of youths

They search and find, explore and hide, the box Pandora** once had

Confusion and clarity aside, Hope-Fairy the mad box did add

In those hopes, they dwelled among feisty forests and witty waters

Mystics in cerulean depth and virid mane beyond authors

They led and followed, the light and dark of glassy bodies and souls

Unbeknownst to common knowledge, they mend and end old and new roles

For a festooned embrace of this and that is the way, spelt in writs

Intertwined in crests and troughs, dwells every life in blinking qubits

/ 14

: 165

* LV refers to the Launch Vehicles (or rockets)

** Pandora and Pandora's box is a reference to the Greek mythological character and the story of the box she had.

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

The Seed: Bliss in Beginnings

There once was a wide-eyed curious seed,

In a vase of pebbles and flowers, a tiny, quiet bead.

It smiled at the flowers and wondered with awe,

It spoke with the pebbles and thought of its flaw.

It heard of the sounds of air and roars of the sky,

And tales by the rays about dust that go awry.

The liquid silver from the skies would calm it down,

Cold as it may seem, they still had a colorful crown.

There was the shiver of the dew, when the flowers seemed to sleep.

The pebbles went silent, the sunlight... too precious to keep.

How often does the world change in the world outside its own?

The seed wondered, was it worthy to venture out and be s(h)own?

The dust ichor did taste of dark earth and a muddied loom,

But the gold-scented dawn caressed it, as leaves began to bloom.

/ 14

: 150

Thursday, February 19, 2026

Who's the Alien?

The tracing finger on the glass tracing it the wrong way,

The bobbing head to the jazz in an exclusively odd way,

The rhythm of the unfelt conversations moving in an unmoving way,

There were more wrongs done than the number present in that wasted hay.

And yet, they all fit in a hundred different ways,

Like emulsifying oil to make unzesty mayonnaise.

Words blurted in a glimmer of pride: semantics on a run,

Sentences spelt with blank ideas: memories of syntax gone,

Were they answers, to non-existent questions: mirrors undone,

Voices mimicing voices, passion lost in groundless tone.

And yet, they speak in a language, to them: seemingly known,

Like new hieroglyphics, with each figure their own clone.

Oh! but wait. If every other thing fits in an unfitting way,

Am I the human or an alien, as fitters would say?

==========================================

A Little Something:

Though written in a traditional 14-line structure, this piece breaks the norms that we generally associate with a traditional structure: the rhyme scheme, the unravelling conflict (rather than a resolution), the binary sonnet, most things, in short.

Apart from the symbolism in the words (that I so love), this piece has phonetic symbolism as well. It won't be revealed here, of course. Because I hope there must be a heart which would love to find it by (and for) themselves rather than being elaborated here.

==========================================

Thursday, January 29, 2026

Unwoven Dawns

Completion — was just what has always been aimed for.

Though paths went on, dwellings were always onshore.

A desire to perfect things beyond perfection,

Was stitched into every sweater in her collection.

The winter that existed once, is nowhere to be seen,

Every cashmere strand there, still preserved, holds its sheen.

They smell of fresh sea and lavender of the yesteryears,

Treasured in the oak chest of drawers, in neat tiers.

The spring now— jubilant in bursts of blossoms and blooms,

Dances to tunes of velvet and songs of colorful plumes.

But there's still a teal scarf for the yellow-scented autumn breeze,

Left imperfect (knowingly unfinished) for the salt of distant seas.

The unwoven thread has been a solace for the breathing heart,

In aches of unendings, beats promise of a dawning start.

/ 14

: 133

Monday, January 26, 2026

The Cheese No One is Looking For

For as long as I can remember, I have been inclined to visit museums and galleries over almost any other attraction. Whether traveling alone or with family, I always prioritize art galleries, museums, and local eateries. While the latter two categories typically enjoy high footfall, galleries are almost always devoid of a human presence. Although history museums, science centers, or specialized pop-up attractions attract considerable crowds, art museums remain sparsely visited, often hosting no more than ten people at any given time.

Generally, galleries are the least successful crowd-pullers. People do turn up for opening or closing events when a specific exhibition (by an individual artist or a curated group of artists) is launched. However, the days in between witness few visitors. In this beautiful (yet risky) calm, a profound silence resonates, shaped by the communication among the displayed art pieces and the dance of light and shadow on polished floors and textured walls.

Recently, I visited one such exhibition during peak hours on a holiday. It was saddening to see no one there — and mind you, the entry was free. I have never seen more than five people in any gallery I have visited, and I have been to many over the years.

I usually spend anywhere from two to five hours in a gallery, depending on the scale of the space and breadth of the collection. Only twice have I been the lone person in a gallery during my time wandering the halls—once in India and once abroad—but those instances occurred when no active exhibition was running. This time, just three days into a new show, the silence was a first. While I am not suggesting that no one else ever visits, or visited this particular exhibition, the sparse nature of the audience is often deafening.

I wondered how the curator must be feeling, how the artist must be feeling. Standing there, I felt a wave of shame and found myself hesitant to make eye contact. I wanted to ask the curator if there was anything I could do to help pique interest in the exhibition, but I just couldn't find the words.

I rarely take photographs, but I did this time to help publicize the event, even though my reach on social media is extremely limited, laughable at best. Even friends and acquaintances are not particularly inclined toward visiting galleries and rarely accompany me, even when invited. I wish I could have done more, or at least had some idea of how to bridge this gap. Perhaps only then could I visit an art museum or gallery with a sense of happiness and pride, rather than guilt and shame.

Friday, January 23, 2026

ANTIDOTE: a whisper

So many lifetimes forged

into a glimpse of lines,

a mere encounter with words,

and a whisper of souls,

that existed

beyond today

and what is known

of yesterday

or tomorrow...

possibly even more...

Yet not a single heartbeat glances,

never a breath wasted.

/ 12

: 44

====================================

A Little Something:

A "whisper", though not a literary category per se, is somewhat of an ontological state, that might fit an essence (or soul) into any form of literary category, be it a poem, an aphorism, a fragment,or anything else for that matter.

====================================

Still

A thousand storms rage in the soul,

Yet not a single hair shall stir;

Among the greys of howling wind,

A single blossom begins to bloom.

/ 4

: 26

Thursday, January 1, 2026

Blooming Bliss

A dew-kissed blade of morning grass,

Embellished in shiny drops of liquid glass,

In the field of earth-scented golden daisies,

Opened up to the shimmering misty skies,

Unravelling hope as the sunrays dance.

There are glimpses of paints from distant lands,

That have color of sands from the brighter strands,

The sweet sublime fragrance now fills up the air,

Scintillating glory so radiant and rare,

And sings of the bliss across seas and the sands.

/ 10

: 75

Pages

Tuesday, April 14, 2026

When the Sun Dances

Monday, April 13, 2026

Sunflower Shadows

Sunday, April 12, 2026

The Fence of De(f)viance

Saturday, April 11, 2026

Purple Path

Friday, April 10, 2026

Cadence by Turquoise Waters

Thursday, April 9, 2026

Crumbs of L'Heure Bleue

Wednesday, April 8, 2026

Breathing Cosmos

Tuesday, April 7, 2026

Rooted Memories

Monday, April 6, 2026

Sweet Blue Fire

Sunday, April 5, 2026

Raining Rainbows

Saturday, April 4, 2026

Thus Spoke the Parchment

Friday, April 3, 2026

Prism

Thursday, April 2, 2026

Harmony in Contrasts: Wreathing Duality

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

The Seed: Bliss in Beginnings

Thursday, February 19, 2026

Who's the Alien?

Thursday, January 29, 2026

Unwoven Dawns

Monday, January 26, 2026

The Cheese No One is Looking For

Friday, January 23, 2026

Still

Thursday, January 1, 2026

Blooming Bliss

About Me