my muse

Clutched up when outdoors
Or let down when in;
Her tresses seldom face the pressure
Of putting up with those million grooming options.
She prefers no lip gloss that makes her lips glossy.
Nor words to sugar coat her thoughts.
She seldom mutes her eyes with eyeliner
Because her eyes mostly speak for her.
Sometimes, a dab of twilight woods
And sometimes cherry blossom;
To make the breeze our messenger.
No masquerade,
No fairness cream or blush
Only sunscreen to keep the uv rays away.
No ornaments too junky
Nor gold that’s too glittery.
Even her soles seldom feign
by posing in stilettos;
But it's always comfy in a pair of
flats, heels or peep toes.
Never draped in bright colours,
Or wrapped in camouflage.
Nothing about her is too evident
neither is it too faint.
She’s subtlety with exquisiteness
She is exquisite in being subtle.
Perhaps, that's what makes her what she is.
Perhaps, that's what makes her my muse.

Grey

Reeds and keys;
Together,
make a serene melody.


Pepper and salt;
Blend
to liven up a bland recipe.


Dawn and dark;
Completes
a day as its beginning and end.


Black and white;
Contrasts,
Yet they unite when it comes to human clay.

Let go…

Well, has it ever 
occurred to you
when you peer
at the rear view mirror
on those moments
from the past
which passed you by?
Be it sweet,
bitter
or bittersweet.
And, when you did,
How often have you
Given a pat on your back
or praised yourself.
Looked up to you
at that full length mirror;
When you thought no one
could have pulled it off
Like you just did.
But, how often did you
cuss, bluntly blame yourself,
felt helpless, hopeless,
were remorseful, guilty
and thought you did
all that you possibly could
But the outcome wasn’t
what you thought it would be.
Or your prayers
didn’t match
the Master’s plan.
Well, it’s during such moments
does it rarely occur
that this is when
you got to let go.
This when you got to
let GOD be.

Call

Now, imagine
you’re on one end of the phone.
Tapping digits from memory.
Or just scrolling up and down
to find them in your phonebook. 
There; Stop.
You just found them,
neatly tucked;
between your
old irksome boss
and a comforting confidante.   

Now, you dial
to reach them
over the phone.
Possibilities are:
You get them
at the first ring,
Or after a couple of rings.
You hang up
before the last ring;
and they pick right
when you’ve dropped the call.
 
Now, what if…
The automated voice reverberates
The line or the route is busy
Or, you’ve gotten through.
But all you hear is the white noise.
There’s this stillness in between
Or your voice echoes back at you.
Perhaps, they’ve switched off.
Or in no mood to respond;
But this is an important call for you.
Yet there’s no response.

Now, would you
stop calling?
Even if this call could
trade in a miracle;
Or would you still call
if you missed the miracle?
Now, imagine if…
 this call
is nothing more, nothing less
but a prayer
to the Supernatural.

Garden of Grace

In His garden of grace

that's on the banks
of perennial streams
of love and friendship;
Even a Touch-me-not can
lend its shade to a mighty Banyan; 

I see the unseen in thee

I quiver not when I peer
into the dark, eye of the storm.
For I see and hope in the unseen;
Seasons of sun kissed, caramel morns.

Snooze

At half past seven,
she arose, half asleep.
Only to push the alarm clock
back to deep sleep;