As the morning sun struggled to rise up,

fighting to break free from the clouds,

to unwrap itself from the heavy blanket of cold wind,

struggling up from the valley floor,

the clouds pulled the wind up with them,

the wind pulled the clouds up with it,

ssshh. It hissed. And Roared. SSSHHHH

Windy Day (image taken via a Google search)

Windy Day (image taken via a Google search)


(up) rooted

A bird flapped its wings and they moved,

the air moved to become the breeze,

the breeze shook the leaves,

which flapped and flew away, like birds,

and there I was, rooted in self.


અજાણ્યા અને ઓળખીતાં

વર્ષો ના ગાળા પછી મળેલા વર્ષો થી
જાણીતાં દોસ્તારો અજાણ્યા લાગે છે;
ઈ હિસાબે ડુંગર દરિયા જંગલ આકાશ માં
કાંઈક તો ખાસ હશેજ..

Fractals of Life

A rose bud awaited bloom
in excitement of Life itself,
To stretch her petals
and play with the wind,
to exchange scents with her fellows
and kisses with the rain.

A tumbler of water
was all that stood
between spring and winter,
between Life and Death.

They came and spilt it.
She gasped in shock

They laughed.

Their joyful laughter
numbed her pain
And she waited, silent.
Awaiting not her death,
But her Life.

You see ,
the thing about Seasons is ,
like Karma,
they work in cycles.
And the thing about evil is,
it’s Foolish
Foolish to think Silence is weak.

She knew her Seasons
She knew her Freedom
They were her Friends.
And so her roots she kept working,
stretching and holding,
till they reached all the water
they’d so joyously spilt.

Her source of life
SHE has become,
Be it drought , flood or malice,
She will never succumb.


Acrylic color on paper – Thread art

The Sculptor , The Sculpted

At the feet of cloud-kissed hills, I sit holding clay on a wheel
as the flow of a nascent stream, steadies slowly my flooding thoughts
and the sound of it’s fierce fall, breaks steadily my rigid hold ,
on all things known, unknown.
My ears echo softly, this new-found calm – sun to my mist
and I wait for the clay to respond to this new touch.

My hands soon lust a form – alas too eager, impatient
I falter once more .
But the gentle clay , innocence unguarded yet aware,
has faith in the sculptor and forms to come
and the tireless wheel moves, in wisdom of
its endless timeless motion.

Slowly in glimpses I begin to understand
the sculptor and the sculpted .

Of Gorges and Falls

It all seems surreal, each time we meet,
fellow travelers , familiar strangers;
She , with all the miles behind her,
I , a lost soul in-search of direction.

Our paths meet often, almost fated,
just as I get anxious, afraid;
She greets me gently, with a smile,
as if she was waiting, for me to arrive.

Awe-struck at first, I follow her around,
she lets me, a little amused;
And eventually a conversation ensues,
in a wordless flow begins her story.

Born off what she breathes through now,
mountains shape her like she shapes them;
For her no beginning, nor an end,
just an ever-changing her, an eroding them .

My thoughts explore her struggle now,
ups and downs that come her way;
And almost as if reading my mind,
she laughingly , shows her way.

Neither proud nor clueless of this form,
she was at peace with her soul;
For never have I known a fall so bright,
falling not with fear , but with roar.

A roar so loud , it silences noise,
A roar so bold , it scares all fear;
A fall so free, it makes you fly,
A fall so deep, it breaks barriers.

And with this force of the fall,
I see her climb up, wiser, stronger;
Rounding off all that’s sharp,
flowing over all that’s not.

And up there , she stays a while,
A pool of emerald, and gems in light;
Giving life to all around her,
free of bondage, any kind.