I am a housewife from India, mother of two boys, aged 12 and 11.

I have a master’s degree in English literature.

Till my boys were born I worked in various sectors of BPOs as motor claims and health insurance handler and was also content writer for simulation management entrance examination papers in the field of deductive logic and reasoning in English.

I have also worked for a short term in the hospitality industry as a receptionist at a five-star hotel, while awaiting results of my English honours examination.

 I love life, like tumbling headfirst into it, and then doing a double take to step back and observe it.

I have written over a thousand poems on genres including, Love, Spirituality, Family, Religion, Current affairs, Human Rights, short stories, humorous pieces, essays as well as funny poems and tales for my children.

I love collecting rocks on my day trips to hills, photographing nature and natural moods. Indulge in taking selfies and decorating them with punk art.

Teaching my children how to tell jokes with a dead pan face for maximum impact.

All poems dedicated to the memory of Steve Cawte, a mentor, friend and guide beyond
compare.

November Skies

Cups of Earl Grey
Hot.
Soot speckled mottled sky
Bloodshot with sun’s death rays
Dragons and meringues
Strange candy floss
Form woolly macaroon clouds
My doubts double,
Then dissipate.
Allayed.
Or not.
Hunters and hunted
Forever shape shifting
Mobius strips, surreal surface
Reality
Inversions.
Invasions. Of hope and fear
Admixed.
It is late, but
Never too late.

November Late-Stage Fecundity

Desire to write
Outpaces creativity
Whirr of ceiling fan
Noisy intrusion
Peace and benediction.
White noise is serene.
Chill air fencing mercurial
Mood swings
Memories of November
Rain
Sweet November pain
Slaying me in slow motion
I am all done in.

Not done.
Over and over again
Soft and grim spectres
Assault my senses
Flaying flakes and flaps
Of my pretences
Denuded of absurdity
I am unabashedly me.
That is why
I will write recount and narrate
Nuances of this sentient
Insanity.

November Dreams

I was about to…
State intention
Or cause.
The raison d’être
Of accidental being.
But my dream dust
Wafted, escaping
My dimension.
November portals
Hallows of high realms,
Ephemeral month
Winnowing, threshing
Honing my soul
Ripe for the reaping.
Will wintry December
Overwhelm?
Goodbye transition
Goodbye metamorphosis
December is cerebral
Mon cerveau alerted
Cerebrus guards
The doorway is
Death.