Poem: Mused, amused. 

Musing, amusing, where you are?

Been days, an age, you gone too far?

How is the journey, bumpy bars?

Across the meadow, is the land too far?

Briefly, some grief, hopped over,

now the time is bright, some even say right,

so come on now, why don’t you come over?

We will play once more the wordy war

feeble be the story no more. 

Mused, amused, where you are?

Time’s a wasting, time’s awaiting 

all for your whim, your glory.

Muse, my muse, why so weary?

It’s only pen and paper I carry. 

(Going off the recent affinity to comic scripts, here’s a dip if the toe quite flamboyant indeed. You like? Any thoughts?)

Poem: Zombie Love

I have a habit of writing small pieces onto the ‘notes’ app on my phone whenever the mood strikes and I don’t feel like whipping out my note pad and pen. I was rifling through all the different pieces on the app and discovered an old one I hadn’t blogged yet. So here is the odd titled ‘Zombie Love’.
Whatchya think? 🙂

Zombie Love
I’d rather hold you
even if it were for a moment
a moment brief as a blink
than to go through life
never having touched you
even the lightest of touch
till the end of my days
for those days would be without meaning
like land to sea-life
or a human without essence
that is kept safe by a beating heart
I’d be a zombie
forever walking a path
hidden and dark
eternal unaware
that you bring the dead back to life
if I never got to love you
even if it was for one breath
the last breath I could take
it would be worth all the minutes on Earth.

Poem: Scribble Boy

There was once a boy
bony and frail
alone in the corners of the pages
he’d sit and wave
when by chance he’d come across another
live and vibrant and free.
He’d feel the pages flip one by one
and held on for the moment to feel air on his own fibrous skin
as they’d flip him along with another page.
His home was on the corner of Page 102
and he’d seen what they’d done to 101 and 103
dog-eared and worn over the years.
He knew not if he felt lucky
that nothing of importance was on his address.
All he yearned for was to be real for a minute.
Was it irony, he was part of a fairy tale collection,
and his companion on 102 was another Boy made of wood
whose wish was the same:
To be a real Boy?!
So came one day, he was borrowed once again
along with the book,
and so he waited once more to be flipped
to feel the air under his wings.
Instead he heard rip-rip
distant and drowned, till it came to 102.
The page was ripped, by a boy who cared little.
And scared he sent the scribble who hung onto the dear page for life.
The world turned upside down and inside out and dark and light
till he came to find himself on a paper boat
on whose side sat he, flying through the air
And land it did, drifting on the glistening pond surface
with wind sending it forward, once,
and after all free, from pages, from pages.

The Scribble Boy smiled,
he may not be real but he was now free
to move where he pleased.
Until it was that the evening fell
darkness swept and no more real world remained
as waves of rain pitter pattered, soaking the boat
till nothing of it remained.
No more Scribble boy,
no more dream
of a magical life for he.

Poem: Gaggle of Bloggers

Cubby, cubby, she’s gone all a hiding suddenly
and there sits on the window Buffalo Tom Peabody
with a pal Kitten in a Kaboodle
trying to ‘stinkometer’ the joint,
all the while Conrad be pouring his wine
with Stevie running amuck in his Elvis pants
and there be in the corner,
staring at the amusement
Kaufman with his Kavalkade
of crews and besties,
beware, there even be someone from MI6
her name be Vic, for Victory?
And what have we here,
it’s a paper trail of wonderful souls
whose presence are felt as soon as the mouse goes ‘click’
you know who you are,
but let me do the introductory.
He be Ashi, who never falters to support my poetry
be they petty or big,
and from her labyrinth peeks out Cupitonian
and Oloriel, she favor fairies and mythology
and gave ‘Lil Sil’ a chance to be.
Amongst you, there are many more faces I see,
Paul, you do some dandy poetry,
while Kaligrafi quietly observes
and reminds me of calligraphy,
it’s a fine art too,
and in Public transit is lost a chronicle or two,
and I don’t know how to say this
dual nationality of NepaliAustralian
has also been featuring.
If I were to go on
including the bloggers who are there
everyday and every post
if I were to count this community,
I’ll definitely run out of all my digits.
(Beware, I might have to borrow thees’)
So I bid you adieu
for now
let you seize the day
with a flitting thought
that someone out there
in this round, blue world
has thought of you with gratitude.
in this animated
digital corner.

Poetic story: Sunshine and Pail

At the crack of dawn
in the pale light of the antique waterhole
he stirred
awakened by the chirps of birds
and the rumble of cicadas,
by the cool water lapping
against the crumbling old stones
upon which lay a carpet of moss
green and luscious
despite the dark gloom he felt.
No longer the Sun shone like the old days
where he had been of use
pulled up from rope still tied for water
a source of life
it had been something to be so revered
to hear the mumbled speeches of village women
or children playing nearby
the gush of water as he emptied himself onto the ground with a splash.
An age it’s been now
you can tell by the weed that grew
like a halo around the well’s mouth
the lowered water that plunged him deeper and deeper down
and since that night long ago
when the rope had slipped off
leaving him falling in a panic
to the cool embrace of water, doomed.
None retrieved, they knew not how
instead one morning he heard another splash
hoping some how it had been himself
but upon inspection he was still rope-less
and beside him plunged into the water’s depth
a shiny new metal bucket
gleaming and gloating
his rope thicker and knottier than ever seen.
However, even those jealous days were gone now
for the old wooden Pail waterlogged and drowning
in his own sorrows and memories
of fresh air, and tall swaying grasses
or the laughter of children of men
what he’d give to see that beloved sunrise again
the happy colours of the past.
As the storm overheard thundered and rumbled
through cracks of lightning and torrential rain,
poor old Pail turned on his belly
he’d rather look at the green of moss
than the darker clouds.
So ignore he did the pattering rain and fell asleep.
In the clear morning when he woke
he almost jumped in surprise
for upon a flooded field of talk grasses lay he
with dawn creeping up the sky.
The rain had filled the well
and released him of his solitude.
Water, his old friend.
So there, in waist deep he stood
gleefully watched the day rise
bringing back colours in his life.

Poem: Thief

Come to me
in the silence of the night,
haunting the spaces of the dwelling,
like a lingering perfume from flowers long gone,
or the first light of the full moon casting.

Come to me in the quite of the night,
like soft crunching of leaves in autumn,
or the heavy fall of rain in spring,
rustling up emotions violently,
or the whisper of the wind that speaks in voices unbeknownst.

Come once all are asleep,
treading as light as a thief,
with your perfume enticing,
trick the mind with charms,
uttering words that weave a tale seducing,
and have me write,
your word per word,
as if without them I’m dying.

Come like a thief,
come duly,
make a habit of stealing,
my hours away from me.
…,your word per word
as if without them I’m dying…

Trouble writing? Here’s what you need to know.

I don’t know about most of you, but I know I’m struggling to write at the current moment. If you have been following me over the last few months, you’ll have noticed that I’ve been doing more Poetry recently rather than the short stories and articles. I was never really a fan of poetry, simply because I never really understood the differences from one to the next. However, the last couple of months has seen me write somewhere along the line of hundred or more poems across all sorts of genres/topics. Yet you wonder why I’m claiming I’ve been having trouble writing?!

Well, this is why.

… I’m trying to do so many things all at once, because, let’s face it, whether by default or not, we writers and other artists are pretty much made to feel like we haven’t achieved anything in our respective realms of art until we hit the big stage.

It’s draining!

… Knowing that there is this added pressure to prove ourselves to not only others, but ourselves. We have got to let go of this grand self-criticism. It’s doing us more harm that good, occupying our brain space with junk, and hence we find time slips by without much notice, and before we know it, we are anxious, and this anxiety renders us helpless.

Hence the trouble writing!

…Too much junk taking valuable space in the head. But I can offer some hope, ointment to use at times of overwhelming sense of pressure; a little ray of sunshine in knowing this:


(“Every writer I know has trouble writing.” – Joseph Heller)

I’d totally go and give late Mr Heller a big fat hug and a rigorous hand-shake for saying something like this out to the public, if I could, but writing about this is the next best thing I can do.

Funnily enough, this satirical writer is greatly known for his book, Catch-22, which is undeniably a situation most people in the creative field find themselves. Joseph Heller is the father of the phrase now in constant use: catch-22.

So, if you haven’t already, then take a moment, and let the quote sink in. Rather, let the meaning of it sink in. You are not alone, I and every other person out there who tries to write meaningfully has the same issue.

But here is what you should ultimately keep in mind: it’s only trouble, it’s not permanent! You will write, I will write, hell, we all will write!

In fact, after two months of not being able to write stories, here is a little peek into one that I began two days ago…


Fingers crossed that the next time you come across, ‘Love Letter’, it won’t be in a photo, but actually be reading it here on the blog. 🙂 yes, I still write by hand!

…Fingers crossed!


One by one
we all fall
some while young
others in their age, as matured as wine
we see eventually life as a walk
alongside someone holding our hand
through the heavy, cool fog
dazzled by light and dark
and laughter and love
some pain and joy
each making their mark
on the soul that loves
without limits set by age and ability.
One by one
we fall.

Odd celebrated

It’s been a day
full of celebrations
feasts and wines
gobbled and drunk
as if nectar for life
to flourish like a caterpillar
into a beautiful butterfly
that flutters lost yet beautiful
amongst flower bushes
which thrive
around the hives
tended and pruned
a garden of delight
maintained by jolly humans.

Travel bug tunes

I’m leaving, on a jet plane
I know when I’ll be back again
as I walk through a pile of clothes
and other tidbits on the floor
I begin to wonder
just how big the bag will grow?
Will it be little, will it be big?
here’s what my Mum said to me,
Ke sera sera, what will fit, will fit,
and so I go on my own,
tackling the debris of some clothes
and some soap
as I sway to music on the floor
others dancers may be jealous
that I’ll be off, to see land new
singing aplenty tunes
(off key, mind you).
Ah, travel bug, you!
Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to packing I go!