An idea, a thought, an anecdote, a story or a poem a day!

 It’s always rain that brings nature so close, for me to feel, to see, to touch, to hear, to taste,  filling all my sensory needs, making me wonder,  Is this real or just a dream, It is raining, it is pouring it feels like silver, it feels like gold It is raining it’s pouring lets hold hands and sing,  Rain, rain go away  come back soon another day!!  Rain is not golden, but it feels like that to me.  It has always felt romantic to me, even when I didn’t even know, what romance meant, and till today, when I’m still not sure, what romance means.  When it rains, I get all gooey and dreamy as the touch the feel of rain, or just the anticipation of getting wet under a drizzle gives me almost a sensual tingling feeling, and sensuous sensation, a shivering that feels romantic. Romance according to the dictionary definition is “something mysterious, exciting, a feeling of remoteness”. And that’s exactly what rain means to me, it takes me far away from the daily mundane life, giving me a feeli

  I can make a long list of things starting with what I want more of, more love, more sleep, more hours in my day, more time, more money, may be, more space, more hands, and it goes on*.  The poem that I am thinking today is about leisure time, a type of time that seems to have shrunk or almost disappeared from our lives, I mean the time for  doing nothing , just thinking, day dreaming, idling.  Yes, that’s what I want, time to idle, with nothing to do, and more of it! I want more  Fursat (Carefree, idling, day dreaming time) Yes, dil dhoondta hei vahi fursat ke raat din (Gulzar) Simple translation of this line would be “I miss those carefree days and nights, when we just idled around!  This idling time, which was our own free time, when we did nothing, but  spent  time, is gone from this society that we live in.  No one has such ‘carefree/idle time anymore!*  We are all so busy!  Don’t start me on mobile phones which have highjacked this one thing from our life, that was our own.  Our

 Time: the Chairman of the Board song “ Give Me Just a Little More Time ”, may be about winning someone’s love, but here, I’m talking about time, in the retail sense, in loose change, minutes, hours or days. Lets see how: You miss the bus, by a couple of minutes. yeh, just a couple of minutes more, you’d have caught the bus! You miss the deadline (as I do), by just one day, a few hours. Your holidays, could’ve been so good, only if you had, just two more days, one more week, …. I think, you get the idea, what I’m talking about, and it is the same with space.  You are packing for a holiday (pre- Covid, nostalgic days), you are coming back from your overseas trip, unless you are travelling first class, what is the most pressing issue, troubling you?  The worry, of fitting everything you need to take, in your luggage. Only if you had just a bit bigger suitcase, or a couple of kilos more allowance, you could have taken that extra pair of shoes with you, or brought back that brass Buddha wi

 Write songs and listen to poems of love soaking with tears reflecting images in mirrors, where smiling like a Cheshire cat, It is life, pointing at the things,  that exist just there for me, within my reach to enhance my experiences, and to teach. It is a jungle of possibilities there, Where asking for directions is no use, as these paths of possibilities remain untrodden ones. New vistas As I travel through life,  I play with possibilities finding friends, and chances to see fairies discovering new stories with white rabbits hopping along, on the paths full of holes of surprises. roses, knives or pens or playing cards. It is life, pointing at the things, that exist just there within my reach to enhance my experiences, and to teach. It is a jungle of possibilities, where asking for directions is no use, as these paths of possibilities are untrodden ones. Though there is always the expectation,  an anticipation, of something interesting  just at the next corner. Life tells me to keep

a string   of pearls and d ried   rose pe tals Memories Today, I found in my pocket, some dried leaves and rose petals, hadn’t we picked these together that season? Memories of your smile just like the rose petals and a string of pearls the remnants of the spring That I had forgotten!! Memories of your eyes Today, I cried buckets, the tears that had been absent Or did it rain without season? Memories of your fragrance Today I saw the flowers, tossing in the wind, Or was it the fragrance, permeating my self from within? Memories of you It must be the season When we had met, years ago, As nothing happens without reason. 813 8 Memories Today, I found in my pocket, some dried leaves and rose petals, hadn’t we picked these together that season?

  Resistance and hope  a Haiku The last leaf. Photo credit Author  The moving finger  wipes signs of the last season,  the last leaf persists! My first Haiku, finally, I dared to eat the peach!  I had read a few Haikus on medium, and learned about the 5/7/5 rule (five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five again in the third). However, still not sure of the “cutting word”, or a kareji, that needs to create contrast, where it needs to be. Thanks to Apra whose poem/Haiku inspired me today, or was it yesterday! Her Haiku rat race, was just wonderfully pithy, short and meaningful. 

  The Lost Sense of Being* The unanswered questions of existence — a poem Neera Handa Dr Jan 8  · 1 min read Photo by  Mehdi-Thomas BOUTDARINE  on  Unsplash That sense of being, which makes you bloom like a flower, If that is your  dharma  as a sapling; then you can’t help, but grow up to be a tre e ! That existence consciousness which illuminates every man and woman with the bliss of humanity, if that exists in you too, then your  dharma  of being a human should make you human. And if it is not the  breath of life , that fills you with divine love, sympathy, and kindness, then  what is it that makes you human? That is the question, every child, caught up in war, violence, and abuse, asks of humanity! And humanity, ashamed, can’t even answer a simple question, Why every child, as is its  dharma  to grow up, does not grow up! Dharma  — one’s duty or nature to be The Lark The Lark shares fictional short stories and poetry Following Sign up for Write Poetry and Fiction for The Lark By The