A bird circumambulates a cloud
in the distant sky,
like a solemn pilgrim
with obscure prayers

Noises become limpid, like those of
the vehicles clattering on the road, or
the air swooshing between flimsy curtains
and the adjacent window pane

I put my high-heeled shoes back
into the drawer,
withdrawing myself from becoming
and repose into being

The mind marvels at the flawlessness
of the blank page-
unblemished by the words and
sketches of past or future

Noises grow into a pious silence
May be, every moment is an epiphany,
if lived in the present



In a day, I swivel into spring
from autumn and summer from winter

When happiness tills the mind,
flowers and fruits grow on me

Sorrows snow into tears, turning
every possibility pale and white

Faith cloaks within gossamer,
wobbling away in heavy winds

It is autumn now, but I haven’t
moved an inch from the last winter


You made me a necklace,
weaving every word,
like pearls in a string

It glinted like diamonds
and ornamented my being

And then came the silence,
a silence so eternal
that it broke the string

I may have lost the pearls,
but I still hold the string



What invokes an irresistible
stupefaction in you, is
nothing but small cavities
in the seemingly closed
tunnels flowing between
your mind and heart

The rocks you’ve been
hurling into yourself
will soon collapse these
dilapidated tunnels, flooding
your soul with everything
that acknowledges existence


How to build sandcastles

The sand should be slightly moist,
like the remnants of the innocence
in your heart

and every touch of your hand
maneuvering between grip and tenderness,
just as those words that become
whispers in the acts of love

Do not care for the weather,
care for what you can do;
weather only loves to play

Pray for mind to imbibe endurance,
the task loses track of time
and toil; as for I can tell you
not all sandcastles are built on the beach

Some gets built in the dreams,
while others on the claimed or
unclaimed bodies of the people


I am accused of tending to the past
as if I made it,
as if I sculpted it
with my own hands. I did not.
this past was waiting for me
when I came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and I with my mother’s itch
took it to breast
and named it
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.


~I am accused of tending to the past; Lucille Clifton



it rained all night.

there remained a desert
of breaths and voices
and their sentiments, thereof.

The distance to the window
becomes irreconcilable;
some rains can’t get you