The seams of us unraveled moment by moment,

The stitching giving way to each vulnerable thread

And I was left staring at the tapestry of us,


Wondering what could have happened,

but didn’t.


An Ode to Thee



It has been 20 years since your passing and everything I write about you seems painfully inadequate. There is no way to summarise the man that you were, but I feel the only way to honour you is with words- something which you cherished and something that is our family’s heirloom.  I love you.


“When was the last time you spoke to him?” She asked

Casting my mind back to a white washed hospital room

Where a poet of the minds lay,

Stripped of his words and voice,

Tethered to a life support machine.

I still recall the way the words evaporated into the still air,

Emptiness recognising emptiness,

Taking up permanent residence in our lives.


If I spoke to him now, there would only be three words I would want to say.

I would whisper them into the Jasmine scented breeze, his favourite flower,

And shout them over the crashing of the waves.

I would speak them unabashedly to the full moon,

And spell each burnished letter out with the night stars.


My memories of him are the salt of my wounds,

Both needed and resisted.

And on some days, I find myself assembling the remnants like a blind man with broken pieces of glass,

Painfully constructing an idea of who my father was.

I know that time will determine how long I remember the cadence of his voice and his wry smile.

The way he would always welcome me into the crook of his arms at dawn, after yet another nightmare.

The texture of his favourite flannelette pyjamas and the course ridges of his palm in mine.

I treasure the vague thumbnails and brief snapshots, knowing they will become prey to dust and decay.

Because memories become fractured too,

Broken in time, and weathered, like the humans they inhabit.


And I think of the 20 years of memories left for my conjecture

Bearing the shape and weight of my limited imagination,

I fantasize about all the creative ways I could have said thank you,

And I realise the only way is with my words and my actions,

In this here pocket of time, I can be a legacy of his truth.

A Quiet Whisper: Let me In..

Tell me about your wounds.

I want to know about the sinews of the scars that have made you,

And the skeleton of your truth.

I want to learn of the DNA of your soul’s longing

And the pulse of your rumbling desire.

Tell me about your unique history of blood shed,

And the callouses that have defined your consciousness.

I want to learn about your weaponry

Even those that might one day come back to hurt me.

I will trace the bruises of your existence with my fingers

In order to see the world as you do.

I want to know what makes your cells sing,

And what brings you closer to home.


I was already in love with the phantom of you

Long before you arrived in your patchwork form

Your hems frayed and your shapes incongruous; in a guise I couldn’t recognise.

You were long overdue, not even fashionably late

having ignored the trail of breadcrumbs I had diligently left for you.

Your archaic cartography refuted the way my imagination had mapped you,

But I knew I couldn’t will you into existence until I was truly ready for you to emerge.

Until then you would live in the corners of my mind and only speak when spoken to.

Satya = Truth

It comes to me as a wry smile

and a glimmer of recognition.

A bubble in the mud

A watery epiphany that emerges from steamy soap suds.

In the language of light of an orange dusk, satiated.

In the sunbeams that dance in my hands.

It comes to me in the orchestra of silence

Of a nocturnal overture

When the blood pulsating in my veins

Translates to the ink on the page

And I am able to paint my discords

And appreciate the asymmetry

This is the only truth I know.


You hitchhiked your way into my heart

You, intruder with a velvet tongue and a knapsack of second hand promises.

You recognized the creases in my face

And your wounds were all too familiar.

We shared the same scars.

But your nomadic existence made me one guiding star in your night sky;

You were only trying to find your way back home.

And I knew, straight away, that you would feed my ego but not my soul.

“What you seek, is seeking you” – Rumi

It hung in the air suspended by its own gravity

Followed me into the coffee shop

Cut in front of me in the supermarket queue

When I got home, no doubt about it, it was there at the table,

Waiting patiently, cradling a question mark

Yearning to be accepted in all its jagged edges

Insecure about its clichéd origins

But certain of its innate swagger

Its syllabic wrap resounding in my ears

Rolling around on my tongue

Pondering connotations, associations, discerning choices

Compelling me to inscribe

Breathe air into it.

Poetic Musings continued

It was abandoned

Like the book unread

The tea gone cold

The crumpled newspaper at a bus stand left to the mercy of the wind.

Awkward, self conscious letters

Indecipherable chicken scratchings,

A long forgotten tag etched into a lonely wooden bench

Palpable silence and absence,

The anti-climactic quest doomed before it started.



Micro deaths

Mini explosions

Diminutive earthquakes that throw you off balance

Make you unsteady on your feet

Lose your centre of gravity and all reason and rationality

Shedding of layers and realities that were not meant for you

Then the silent mourning and the soft ache

And the visceral emptiness that pervades the crevices of the room

and brings me to my knees.