Poetry

Doing yoga in my living room the teacher and I, oceans apart (Literally, she is in Cambodia, Showing miles of beach and castles of foam) I struggle...

A small poem about how tiring resistance can be.

I wrote this poem a couple of weeks ago during one of my blah days. Today I thought I'd share it: it is another blah day. Also, another day when the fact that my hair is clean and going swish is one of my few joys.

My grandma passed away last Friday. She was 99 and died peacefully in her bed after withering away slowly for the past two or three years. She had survived herself, and there was relief that she was free at last. However, we all feel older, lonelier, more vulnerable now. This, however tiny, is for her. And for my dad.

Sometimes the most mundane things can inspire poetry. In this case, it was a quince gone bad. The rot had a heart shape and I could not resist.

Sometimes metaphors can create communication problems.

The streetlight casts rainbows on my window And our neighbour irritated me yesterday The daffodils, my soul's winter knights, pierce the grey Blades...

An attempt at a haibun that went in a completely different direction from what I expected.