February 12, 2016



She always loved,
The loud scars, imperfections,
In people, in herself,
Thought it ties the tales.
Stronger forever.

Started to immerse,
Her unversed heart,
So in the dark, she,
filled it with evil,
Left no place,
For obscure affairs.

She knew,
as she stared,
Across the black void.
The wrong in her,
and others in her world.
Vague, indifferent.

A thought,
In disguise,
Tiptoed, into her
ever-reigning psyche.
Rustled to lose control.


February 10, 2016



words have aged not a day
the winters voice
so charming
of agonies, lies and fay

above the heads of many
a few lonely letters

Fairy tale for the night

March 25, 2015

A long walk
Down the shore,
Bright sun
Lonely crowd.

Watching our shadow
Moving along side,
Your hand in mine
Distant yet loud.

Collecting stones
Coloured brown,
Dipped in sand.

Flying birds
Watch us move,
High above the land.

Rest our bodies
Against the rock,
Now we
Move our eyes.

Sun starts
Swaying away,
Sweet old lies.


November 13, 2014

hollyanne gets poetic

She doesn’t notice when it leaves her;
it’s always been there – maybe it steals
from her bed like a cowardly
lover before dawn.

Could it not wait to escape?
She didn’t know to sew
it tight to her heels; couldn’t bear
to take a needle to it, but she will
happily spill a polka dot rush
of her own blood.

She isn’t scared of it – never:
a constant her whole life, in step
like a sister, mute and matching
her every trip-toe and lurch.

She knows she must find it:
paste posters on lampposts,
put cards in shop windows.
Have you seen this…?
It’s nothing without her

and now she has nothing
binding her to the ground.

View original post

English Vinglish

August 4, 2014


 In a recent turn of events, I traded an over-cluttered life in Bombay for a school on a hill to teach English to grade seven and eight students. I was as untrained as they come, but I knew one thing. I had always been thrilled about words coming alive on paper. I figured teaching would involve spreading a bit of that disease.

On day one, in an attempt to “know my audience”, I asked the students to share their favourite word and say why they liked it. They quickly came up with words like music, joy, peace, love, happy and others. My heart sank. It felt frugal. This is not going to be fun, I thought. Was this what they meant by the economy of language, I wondered.

Then I told them I was making word soup and needed something chunkier – words with more gravitas, more texture…

View original post 581 more words

Took a photo while re-reading this.


Right Kind of Regrets

July 30, 2014

As the sun sets,
Near the highest cliff.
Wind lost within mist clad ebony.
Louder, the sound of thoughts.

Climbing up the dreaded mountain,
Above the city of so-called joy.
Part immersed with light,
Other with horizon you can touch.

She withstood,
With all the right kind of regrets.

Distant Dream

July 25, 2014


I heard a voice.
Impeccable diamond rain.
Gentle, from behind.

Followed a trail,
To the origin.
Diverted by the wind.

I travelled so,
All senses disabled.
Dragonfly in the town.

Flowers of paper,
Shivering earth.
Coloured pale brown.

I saw a tree,
Stopping by me.
Sun coated gold.

Often closed window.
World enacting peace,
With songs untold.

I looked at sky,
Lone on an island.
Stars now fade.

Fire never met ocean.
Couldn’t breathe the vibe,
Under their crusade.

I found the wild.
In the distant moon,
Scar of a rift.

Few more letters.
Lost elucidation,
In a dream adrift.

The Classic Valentines

hollyanne gets poetic

Yep, posted last year and probably the year before, but I like to think of it as an antidote to all that excess slop that’s out there right now… Yes, I actually consider myself quite a romantic in “real” life, but not in the icky commercialised way of things…

Bear Arses for Valentines

Give me £4.99 supermarket roses
wobbling on the point of wilt.
Or two for eight quid. A snip!
Cellophane-strangled, thornless
and fake scented.
Force-grown, dip-dyed,
red to prove passion.
Or something.

Give me a “personalized” card
bought online, just for me.
Send off a gurning snapshot
and they’ll do the rest:
sign it and lick the envelope
and post it to S.W.A.L.K. through
my door, forensic without
your fingerprints.
Once you’ve paid them.

Give me a big pink teddy bear
yanked from a furry squash
of identical card-shop bears.
Stitched on smile, paws sewn
to cushions saying…

View original post 25 more words

The Last Shine

November 27, 2013

Cave Painting by Charles R. KnightCave Painting by Charles R. Knight

Oh golden sun,
And the last shine.
Snow covered fortress, that broken
Once nurtured in your shrine.
Flows the wind from north,
Tears their flesh apart, killing
A thousand souls divine.

Oh golden rays,
Hidden behind the mountain, so far
Clans, those dejected,
Hiding tears with their scar.
Painted on the lands, undivided
Holds the untold truth.
On the trail leading no-justice,
Walks the crumbling youth.

To save our sons and women,
The wars they began.
The time has yet to come,
For our glory,
And those lives we lost for our clan.

A replica of the sun,
Burning down it’s own hope.
A Billion years at the blink of an eye,
Carved sharp on the mountain slope.

To find answers those hidden,
By the river,
Buried below the ocean bed.
Paths closed for ages,
To stars, we must turn our head.

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