Productive Days

Weekly Cleaning

Mother, sis once said
you will always be
standing in a corner
of my room after
you are gone.

I wonder which piece
of my memories you will
take with you.

Or will my vacuum
cleaner hit unexpected
empty air each time
I do my weekly cleaning.

Still, mother, I promise
I will do my weekly cleaning.

P.S.: Took leave today from work - an escape from the busy office due to some incompetent IT issue branded carelessly as "teething" problem; some big teeth they have, I must say. Wrote this in a cafe. Some sort of confessional piece this is.

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Hooked

Like a gentle rain
pit-pattering. Burning
soles. The body is                            ladder.
                                              Jacob's
a thousand rivers.              up
Flower puffs curl to climb

Trees and facades smear like
thinning black ink in the wind
slow to catch the feet.

A finishing line unseen.

P.S.: Wrote this as an assignment for a short creative writing course. The "step-up" is a suggestion from my lecturer / teacher.

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Home

I break
           a small twig
hanging from
           a low tree.
It clicks
           like a key.
and a wound
           opens somewhere,
and to somewhere
           in the heart
a cry escapes,
           a little one,
soft as a wind
           once lost in trees
and now has found
           a place warm enough
to be
           home.

P.S.: Another experiment this is...after editing and editing.

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Still Clouds / Wild Winds

Still clouds in the sky.
Only the trees stir to heed
the call of wild winds.

Silent Afternoon

A withered sun falls
on roof window after rain
silent afternoon

P.S. They say that a poet is like a whore. But I only write for myself; and these two are something I would like to have read.