this haze aint purple, Jimi!


The woods are embroidered by the mist,
Mountains look like heartbreak blue.
Thinking is an antithesis of happiness
But, think she must for thoughts are dream bubbles
A bomb goes off somewhere while a heart breaks silently
T.S.Elliot believes that’s how the World will end .. . With a whimper!
A candle wick flickers, gutters out,
Mirth mutates to morbid.


Someone sent this in email:
"I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring out a window." Dean Young, excerpt from “Changing Genres”

I was flattered and saddened together. Does that happen? How does the mind have collusion to such opposites? 

I don’t realize I have been a spinning top until I play with him, giving him a time out, screaming and then squealing. Until I open the door cautiously to see him sleep, with folded hands below his chin, long lashes fanning the cheeks with their shadow. Until, I slide in next to him and he instinctively turns towards me, snuggling up like a reminder of his one year old self. Until I see the shining dampness on his temples and hair.

Like the way he lazily wakes up and hugs me tight with that melting gold smile of his, the way my body envelopes his softness and the way he traces my jaw, my clavicles, playing with my hair.

Is it possible to be great, to fill in passion in the momentary and finally create a grave full of passion? 

Is it possible to live deeply into the world, and still create the orchestra of warm home, the rhythm of domesticity, the moments of beautiful blandness?

Some days am full and think yes! Others not so much!  The consistency of the inconsistent heart!

Copyright © Neerja Yadav

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