To text or … not.

Fingers twitching, I hold my phone
He is but a touch away,

Yet such will the distance be in the tone

Of his voice, itching for my presence in a way.

In way, I wish I could believe.

This feeling ,like my heartbeat, is all too familiar.

It’s a play performance where, in a swish, a moment we receive.

The ceiling stands still and we become a memorabilia.

But do I miss him?-his personality a raging fire

With his flaws, dismissable like a drop in the ocean.

Or is it to hiss at him that fuels my desire

To open all doors, allowing our hearts to be miscible in rhythmic motion.

My fingers tire of their charade 

of bouncing and tossing from one key to the next.

The message they wire scream at me like a parade!

It goes without announcing or fussing that I still wished him to remain an ex.


life, profession, prose, teacher

The World’s Heartbeat

Most of us- those who are deliberating on a career or have already chosen a career- blacklist being a
Teacher like it is a crime to shovel priceless knowledge into the chambers of the human brain. And

those of us who are teachers suffer at the lashing tongues of those who belittle this profession.

Teachers almost always have to answer the vile question “why did you become a teacher?” that is

spat like the venom from a Black Mamba from innocent mouths of pupils.

Sure, doctors save many lives every day and farmers feed people by the millions. Without the doctor

I would have probably died from Malaria. Without the farmers, you would have most likely been

murdered by Starvation. Furthermore without bankers, who knows if we would even have a cent to

our names?

At the end of the day when the world is healthily snug in their blankets with a full stomach as money

accumulates in the bank, it only makes sense to wonder. To wonder who taught the doctor how to

save and the farmer how to farm and the banker how to count and save? Only too soon, like a wave

of fresh air rushing in on a windy morning, do we realise that it was the teacher. To count the banker

owes his kindergarten school teachers who were the first to make him sing the numbers one to one

hundred- even if he learnt his numbers faster than everyone else. To cure the doctors owe their

noble prizes to their high school teacher beckoning them to study for that biology test comprising of

cell structure- a topic as dreadful as death itself. Last but not least, the farmer owes all his applause

to all his teachers for he learnt to count population, save nutrients across acres and to cure a nation,

a world of Starvation.

In essence teachers are to the world its heart. Just like humans are non-existent without the

pounding heart, the world is non-existent without teaching teachers.

poem, rhyme

To who an apprentice to be? 

Before I had my rags removed,
I molded a man after my own

Image, as I moved 

Through the tiny stage of town.

His name was Buckley the Baker.

The sweets he made melted hearts of stone;

They turned wars in the streets into wars for the Maker,

And churned minds away from the phone.

He had a mushy beard, that

made him resemble Santa Clause. 

But I was mad I at him about what I heard

during one dark pause.

Head down, 

looking like an upside down clown

After the baker asked with his nose turned up, head shaking

“Who is that boy interested in baking?”


life, yarn

Life – when the yarn ends.

We are all born as a ball of yarn whose only detail is the brand- your name personality, what makes

you who you are. The tapestry of the sky is ours for the taking and ours for the making. Or maybe we

are the type of people who are neither overtly intricate nor grand and we much rather prefer

making the small things such as trinkets and promise rings. Maybe yet still we are inclined to string

our yarn along and see where it takes us.

Whatever we decide to do with our yarn is entirely a personal decision. This decision however must

not be deliberated upon lightly as not one soul knows the length of their yarn. Once it ends. There is

no undoing the garment at the seams.

Some of us are like the yarn unwound by a kitten. We have elaborate plans that twist and turn in all

directions. We help people here, make others happy there and listen to someone else somewhere.

For a moment life is good and like an excited kitten with yarn we drive forward, sure that we are

making a difference- and even if we are not we’ve got the drive and we are happy. Then there comes

a point when we face one failure too many, when the people we helped neglect saying “thank you”

and the ones we listened to won’t hear us out. The sun does not go to sleep in our world but stands

high in the sky reminding us of our past glory days. The steam we had with in us becomes water and

we move more slowly and deliberate like an overfilled wine glass. Our energy runs out as the kitten

tires of the yarn and walks away. What then do we do? Do we sit wallowing, drowning, suffocating

in misery until the owner of the yarn comes to realise the mess the kitten has achieved and severs

off the damaged piece of yarn? In the end all that would have amounted was a half chased dream, a

half built house or maybe even a half made sweater that does no justice to its owner.

On the contrary when the hard times hit and we have no one else but the heart in our chests

pounding for us against all odds that is when we should knit even harder. We should knit our

troubles into our yarn masterpiece. Turning a different direction, changing the pattern or even the

purpose of your yarn is neither a sin nor a problem. It only goes to show how creative an artist we

are when we’re done with our piece of yarn. Thomas Edison changed his patterns 99 times before

his piece of yarn said, “light bulb” in the right style, font and colour.

Leonardo da Vinci’s yarn probably resembled the Last Supper painting. When we look at his final at

his yarn masterpiece we smile and marvel in its beauty, majesty and grandeur. Michael Jackson’s

piece of yarn staged a singer- one who will never be forgotten. For a child already with the angels

their yarn says ballerina or judo master. For others it may say “great mother”, “loving teacher”,

“welcoming workmate” or “helpful classmate”. When the yarn ends what will yours say? Will it be

the severed piece of yarn from a displeased owner or that of a finished sweater glorifying its owner?


Disney, knackered, prose

Disney’s tales – Knackered.

Before I was even born I had dreams bigger than the world could ever imagine. Then as a three year
old I met Disney. Dear old Disney- he was a classic man dressed in a tail coat- as smooth as water in a
calm stream – and a whites dress shirt and black shoes to match. The tails floated behind him leaving
trails of candy and spices and everything nice for all the little children. He lured me in with shiny
candy disguised as Mickey Mouse and promised that I would forever be young like Peter Pan. His
words were clouds made of cotton candy upon which if floated on, deeper in to his lies or tales – as
most would call them.
For hours I, with innocent fascination, would watch him weave stories with the same characters yet
different storylines. They all had the same ending but the start would promise a different ending. I
was young and the fairy tales became my sustenance, my solace.
All the while reality went on undeterred by my lack of interest in it. Soon enough I was expected to
tie my own laces and eventually I was allowed to choose my attire. Then the training wheels were
removed from my bicycle and soon I could ride unaccompanied to the local diner for ice-cream.
Disney, however, he was good. When I asked him why my life was not like Peter Pans, why I had to
grow up, he brought about the “Looney Tunes” and the “The Fairly Odd Parents”. In these shows all
children tied their own laces and rode bicycles just like me. Disney remained my oxygen.
Reality still tried to avert my attention to itself all through my junior school. It failed. I had no
interest in the tormented life where Jerry would be caught by Tom and brutally mutilated before
being eaten. That was until Prom Year. Realty Succeeded that year.
Up until then I had absorbed like a sponge all the happly-ever-afters. Their scripts were etched onto
my heart. That night like a tire with a slow puncture everything Disney had ever taught me spilled
out, piece by piece, story by story, scene by scene.
Prince charming had no horse nor a trusty stead or even a mere sword. Prince charming was reality.
As I was yet again about to question Disney, the stars aligned themselves and everything made
sense. All my life the mouse was never caught and the cat was never thrown out for being a bad cat
and not catching the mouse. And Peter Pan- oh peter pan- he was a thief who lured a girl from her
Knackered of hearing, believing and consuming Disney’s tales, I gave him back his candy, stopped
following his intricate trail and grew up. Entering reality I will be beaten, bruised and eventually
buried by the truth and that will be my fairy tale, my happily ever after.