First Rain

When the first rain of monsoon whispers low,
And city skies grow heavy, ready to bestow,
I step outside my urban nest,
To feel the first cool drops against my chest.

The scent of earth rises through the street,
Mingling with the hum of life’s heartbeat,
Pavements slick and gutters flow,
As the city drinks the rain’s sweet glow.

I watch the world awaken from its haze,
As rain begins its city maze,
From rooftops high to gullies deep,
Life stirs and starts its rain-soaked sweep.

Children rush from buildings tall,
Their laughter echoes, bounces off the wall,
Puddles form on asphalt veins,
In this concrete world, the monsoon reigns.

The banyan in the park drinks deep and long,
The fruit vendor hums a rain-soaked song,
Every drop, a note of cheer,
In the urban jungle I hold dear.

I breathe the fragrance of the city’s earth,
A scent that speaks of life’s rebirth,
My heart lifts with each falling bead,
As nature answers every need.

A Night of Jazz

Daily writing prompt

What was the last live performance you saw?

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The stage was small, a cozy little scene,
But the music—oh, it was the queen!
A brilliant vocalist took the lead,
Her voice a powerful, soulful steed.

She had been away, they said, for a time,
Battling storms, climbing mountains to climb.
But here she stood, in the spotlight’s glow,
Her voice richer, deeper, a warm alto.

A four-piece band was her loyal crew,
On drums, bass, and piano they flew.
Their notes were tight, yet wildly free,
Crafting waves in a musical sea.

As the night unfolded, guest stars took the stage,
Each one adding a story to the page.
Classic blues and jazz songs filled the air,
Songs of love, of life, of despair.

But it was she, the woman with the mic,
Who held us all in her melodic dike.
Her comeback was not merely a return,
But a lesson in how music can burn.

In the quiet that followed, I felt anew,
How music, like morning, can renew.
And as I walked out into the night,
The stars above seemed to burn more bright.

Fortune’s Leash

Daily writing prompt

Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.

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While playing in the street, one day,
With a dog as white as milk,
A stranger paused to say,
“That mutt will bring luck your way.”

Her words, light as a feather’s touch,
Left me pondering, oh so much,
Could a dog, so merry and such,
Really bring luck with every nuzz?

I laughed, the thought quite droll,
That luck could be on a stroll,
In fur as white as coal is black,
Leading fortune on its track.

Yet since that day, I must confess,
Life’s shown a bit more, not less,
Of abundance, in its fine address.
Perhaps the stranger knew, God bless.

Whispers on the Wind

Daily writing prompt

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

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A thought drifts,
a leaf on the stream of my mind,
twirling, unfixed,
where does it begin? Where does it end?
Or does it simply flow,
a river of light and shadow,
touched by the sun, swallowed by the canyon.

I hear a clock ticking somewhere,
or is it just the tapping of a branch against the window,
the world outside reaching in,
or is it my heart, beating a steady rhythm
against the ribcage of routine?

Coffee steams on the table,
curls up like a cat in the morning light,
its scent a memory,
a morning years ago, or was it just yesterday,
when the rain fell in sheets,
thick as the curtains in an old movie theater,
muffling the world into a hush?

Words hover like hummingbirds,
eager, elusive,
dipping into the bright flowers of ideas,
never quite landing,
never quite still,
each a burst of colour,
vibrant and fleeting,
a heartbeat captured in mid-flight.

Laughter bubbles up,
a wellspring from the depths,
why did it come? From a joke, a memory?
It fades before I grasp it,
but leaves a warmth,
a lingering glow that paints the world gold.

The pages of a book lie open,
each word a stepping stone across a stream,
I wander across them,
lose my way,
find it again in the plot,
a character’s sigh, a twist of fate,
like walking through a forest,
every tree familiar, mysterious.

Ode to a Future Harvest

Daily writing prompt

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

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I saw myself, in 10 years’ time, on a stretch of land where the old world whispers,
in the tranquility of a European village, where the earth holds deep secrets and the air is thick with the past.
There, amidst the rolling fields kissed by the soft sun,
I build my sanctuary, a farm, where time slows its relentless march and simplicity breathes.

With cats that slink and curl between beams of sunlight,
with dogs that bound, their joy uncontainable, across the expanse of open land,
with the humble company of farm animals, each a character, a companion,
in this workshop of living, I weave my days.

I plant my roots deep in the soil, fertile and rich, a foundation of centuries,
where vegetables and flowers bloom like a painter’s palette splashed across the canvas of green,
each season cycles like verses in a long, lyrical poem penned by the earth itself.
Here, the quiet hum of the village life sings a gentle lullaby.

The barn, a cathedral of rustic, aged wood, stands solemn, sacred,
a monument to the pastoral life long dreamed of in the restless city nights.
Here, peace is not just a concept, but something palpable, as real as the dirt under my fingernails,
as the smell of rain on wind, as the warmth of the sun on my face.

I trade the blaring horns and the clatter of machines for the morning calls of roosters,
the twilight whispers of the wind through the trees,
for the celestial quiet of the countryside and the rhythmic chant of cicadas as dusk falls.
This is where my soul finds its pause, its deep, fulfilling breath.

Freedom here is not solitary, it’s a chorus of life, of interconnection,
a daily dialogue with nature, with the creatures that share my slice of paradise.
In this envisioned future, my spirit dances with the infinite, where every leaf, every cloud, every star is a poem,
where the land itself writes stanzas on the sky.

In this future, I am not just a keeper of land, but a seeker of truths,
taught by the steady growth of oak, the resilience of pine,
the eternal wisdom of the earth beneath, the expansive teachings of the open sky above,
in a village that cradles my existence like a timeless hymn.

This is where I see myself, not just surviving, but thriving,
in a communion with the earth, a pact with the simplicity of life,
where the frenzy of the ‘now’ yields to the profound pulse of the ‘eternal’,
in the heart of a village, my home, a sanctuary not just made, but deeply, truly lived.

The Park Behind My Apartment

Beneath the shadow of my urban cell,
Lies a slice of Eden amidst this concrete hell,
A park whispers, behind the apartment’s looming swell,
A place where nature and my spirit dwell.

Here, in the quietude beneath the city’s blight,
I find a stage for the day’s soft light,
Playing through branches, a ballet of might,
Dancing alone, away from the night.

The trees, they speak in tongues so old,
Of secrets within the bark, fold by fold,
In whispers, they echo the tales I’ve told,
To the open air, bold and cold.

In this garden of solace, I shed my skin,
The digital shroud, worn thin,
Amongst the green, I begin
To breathe, to live, to spin.

A lone bench bears witness to my rebirth,
In the lap of earth, I find what I’m worth,
Away from the screens, the artificial mirth,
Here, I’m tethered to the dirt, the hearth.

The juxtaposition of life and decay,
Mirrors my own poetic fray,
In the decay, life; in life, decay,
A cycle that whispers, “It’s okay.”

For in this park, behind walls built high,
I touch the sky, I do not die,
But live in the limbo, where I can fly,
Between the ground and the open sky.

Coachella, a Mirage in the Desert

[A villanelle about that popular music festival]

In the desert, a façade unfurled,
Where fashion reigns with empty smiles so wide.
The hype, a banner, flamboyantly twirled.

With neon lights, the sandy stage is pearled,
False voices echo, where true art has died.
In the desert, a façade unfurled.

On Instagram, the perfect world is swirled,
A gallery of poses, tried and tried.
The hype, a banner, flamboyantly twirled.

Beneath wide brims, the glossy curls are twirled,
The lip-sync battles, artistry denied.
Amidst the desert, a façade unfurled.

The crowds in borrowed plumes are tightly curled,
In garments costing more than justified.
The hype, a banner, flamboyantly twirled.

Yet still they dance, their shallow dreams are hurled
Into the night, where deeper truths reside.
In the desert, a façade unfurled,
The hype, a banner, flamboyantly twirled.

Student Visa Agent’s Diary

In my cubicle, where dreams and visas blend,
Parents and their wards, on me depend.
“Harvard, Stanford, Oxford,” they aspire,
For a price that’s soaring ever higher.

Three crores! A sum so grand it makes them wince,
But prestige, they believe, is worth every pence.
“Will they land a job, in lands so broad?
Or return to run the family’s sales squad?”

They ask with hope, in their eyes a gleam,
Of Silicon Valley and Wall Street dreams.
Yet, I’ve seen the cycle, oh, so well,
A tale that countless families compellingly tell.

“Abroad” they fly, with ambitions vast,
Yet back they come, to the roots that last.
“Investment in prestige,” they proudly declare,
While managing the shop with nary a care.