2012. Four years! And when I look back, most of the last rumblings of my quill were to bemoan the silence of it. What is easier, starting or remaining started?

It is snowing outside my window and life is framed for those short seconds. My mind grapples to comprehend fleeting beauty. Should I look at the flurry of giggling snowflakes? Should I look at the amused trees, wizened by many a winter? Should I look at the orchids on my windowsill, who stare in frank disdain of the cold?

It is what we choose to see that makes us who we are. How does it matter, you wonder. Wouldn’t life be made of the big decisions, the big choices? When the layers of textbook happiness are peeled away, sparkling moments come floating by. These small, seemingly innocuous droplets of time come back to us with such intensity that we are forced to travel back with them. Each moment is magnified and cherished to bloom into the flowers of love. That’s all I remember of a week ago. That’s all I remember of six years ago.

When I write such into nothingness, it bounces right back. An echo of love. An echo of moments treasured. And if this can be an echo, there is no such thing as unrecruited love. There are no endings, only bright beginnings and endless, endless togetherness.

Perhaps that is what the snowflake does. Gives herself to be the best she can be in this very moment. It matters not that she was a molten mess before and it matters not that she will be drunk by the famished earth after. All that matters is now.

At this moment, she is at her most beautiful. At this moment, all I can see is her. And before either of us realizes it, we have become two halves of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I choose to see beauty in this moment, she chooses to exude beauty in this moment, and finally, the moment is as beautiful as it always should have been.

And if you are very, very quiet, you can almost hear Merton muttering in his grave about our utter destruction of his definition of self-fulfilling prophecies.. ah well, every moment has its man.

Caïssa: The Goddess of Chess

In white,
Knock on my glass door
Peer within, for you I cannot trace without
The hundred worlds on the marble floor

White, white my walls
White, white my silk
For isn’t white on white
The ubiquitous new black?

Ink black,
Bold stains called words
Voicing silence
Crossing swords

That black of kohl
Corset of the eclipse
For when black bleeds black
Wouldn’t white be its cry?

Erase the lines
Knight the Pawn
Redraw the board
Check-Mate dusk with dawn

For when you move to be
Halo white to my black in light
I become, in stolen time-
Black night to shadow your white.

It’s only a Game’                                                                   Alexander McQueen SS 2005, Paris Fashion Week

Für Elise in Satin Meadows

The simple things in life are often the most beautiful.

Like the Fur Elise piano version playing in the background as my keys move in rhythym to the melody. Like waking up sans alarm to chirping birds and mist gently kissing the tree-tops. Like the song in my heart which never ceases to play, which fills me with unending sensitivity. Like Enya’s Fairytale. Like reading The Name of the Rose over honey and baguette.

The Nutcraker. Mad laughter and a skip in my step- how much pure pleasure a job well done can bring! My evening was bashful, like the young bride who discovers the new entrant in her life has eyes only for her. Satisfaction in the pursuit of perfection comes when I realize that perfection is not a goal, but a lifestyle.

Waltz of the Flowers. I love you like the windswept cuckoo which sways with the storm yet dances with the boughs. My soul waltzes in my dreams with you and I know not how else I can describe incomparable bliss. You’re the dewdrop on the most exquisite petal I hold, one I never knew existed.

And amid this lush richness of music, I want to write..write, speak, paint, write of love and the sublime power of dreams, of damsels in villages, waiting for their long-gone love. Let me take you to her so that you can look into her eyes and find a dark room with a single ray of distant light showing the way into her soul. Look past her rosy cheeks, feel her eyelashes, feel beneath her chin. Talk of her beloved and watch her dimples bloom and eyes sparkle amid the gentle clinking of her bangles as she hides her blush in her veil. She is the embodiment of the shadows of hope, which grow shorter with the day, longer by evening and disappear by night. A night with him, one night to explain what really happened..

You, me, and he- three is indeed company, for neither of us know the secrets she wants to confide in us. The wind, he seems to know. Can you feel him whisper a word and scream another? But why trust the wind, that dispenser of rumors and pollen, when there she stands, behind a delicate mulsin curtain- the one in our minds. The light shines on the stray strands of hair on her face as she waits with words on her lips the pink of a new-born babe.

Words unsaid, but felt. Stories untold, as yet. Would you like to know what happens next?

And then.. I discover this collage of beautiful music and my day is made before it has begun. And then.. beyond the rivers braiding the hills, I hear the moors of England call out to me..


My Warrior, heed, hark ye
My fondest wish for thee

She holds an ocean in her mind
A song of centuries in her soul
When she steps into your world, feel
Naught but Cupid’s bittersweet arrow
Flowing silk- is it what she wears?
Or nay, is it who she is?
Nymph of twilight, queen of darkness
While the moon fades away, envious of her beauty
Deck her molten tresses with stars
While kohl-lined oceans gaze into you
Let elfin fireflies borrow her sparkle
When a corner of the universe breaks away
A shooting star sights her,
Makes a wish and streaks past time
When she steps into ripples of dew
She becomes a lily of delicate hue
She is the chime of anklets silver
The whisper of leaves in the rain
A celestial secret does she know
When the moon shines bright
Or the sun is in the sky
It is both day and night

Breathe her in
Hold her close
Breathe her in
Hold her close

Aurora! Aurora!

She crossed the skies
For you, Warrior
So when dawn beckons
Lend the skies her colors

Her Warrior, heed, hark ye
My fondest wish for thee

Aurora! Aurora!

May she be yours, I pray,
For ever, ever- and a day. .

Ophelia’s Muse

It feels so real
When I dream of you
That I wonder if reality
Might be a dream too

And if this is a dream
May it be the sweetest you
With eyes wide open
Have ever lived through

If this is a dream
Within it may dreams you
Hold close to your heart
Unfold anew and come true

But if this is reality
May it be the clay you
Mould into desires like
Moonlight on dew

If this is reality
May it be the dream you
Never want to awaken from
On a bed of posies blue

It feels like a dream
When I am with you
That I wonder if dreams
Might become real too

Crickets on the Porch


She’s the Belle of the Boulevard
Bougainvillea in her silky earth mane
Country songs on her lips nude
Oh she makes you want to turn, look again!

She’s the Belle of the Boulevard
Tumultuous ocean tides in her eyes deep
Ships-in-bottles travelling by postcard
Oh she makes you want to drown yet leap!

She’s the Belle of the Boulevard
Winds directed by her ruffling skirts
Chiming bells, cowrie shells hard
Oh she makes you want to swim in sherbets!

She’s the Belle of the Boulevard
Swirling in a field of butterflies
Bare feet on grass, dew her bard
Oh she makes you want to sketch in the skies!

She’s the Belle of the Boulevard
Story-spinning firefly in the dark
Night sky her playground, sans dockyard
Oh she makes you want to fly like a lark!

She’s the Belle of the Boulevard
Beware her yarn, she creates yet cuts
For a rose without thorns is a lying shard
Oh she makes you want to liberate your portraits!

Juliet’s Tiara

Little did I know, that gazing
Into your eyes would melt away
My world, my being, me
Leaving behind scents of blooming
Buds in the first showers of May

Little did I know, that you being
In a crowd means just you and
My world, my being, me
Blending spirits, electric static buzzing
Streaking across dark skies unplanned

Little did I know, that hearing
Your voice wonder about
My world, my being, me
Would be the urgent, rhythmic merging
Of drops on a soil of cracked drought

Little did I know, that singing
What you could be with
My world, my being, me
Would paint the sky with colors bowing
Into the arched illusion of a myth

Little did I know, that feeling
Your hand in mine would make
My world, my being, me
A quaint paper boat floating
Towards auroras at daybreak

Little did I know, that loving
You with all shades of
My world, my being, me
Would lead to four-leaved clovers drying
With the start of our spring in mauve

 ‘We were both young when I first saw you..’