as if,

we are stranded on a beach

like emptied bottles and slippers abandoned,

perpetually swallowed by bellows bleak,

awaiting to be claimed


…… ……


yet we stray,

in refuge of muck, moss and sand

this love is like a sea wave,

it brims the forsaken with hope

and empties as it recedes away


©Written Frames, 2018

P.S. No, I have not been to oceans today. Yet the image of an empty bottle stranded on the shoreline is so vivid before my eyes. I think of growing old and perhaps empty as the oceans cradle the bottle in its spasmodic symphony of life, as such it comes and as such it goes away…..


The Noose


cloistered jars of pickles and sweets

ferment in fury behind the doors ajar,

festooning you with an impulse to peep

the froth and fumes of constricted love


strenuous breaths with sneeze and cough

scent of flowers congests your nostrils,

mouth-breathing the glory of the days gone

you question my mournful mouldering


as if nothing happened…


©Written Frames, 2018

Freedom in love makes you fall in love with chains and shackles of it, willingly!





I bleed from the bruises,

unseen dribble and drifts,

shaping the speckles slowly,

mar not the mirror of my memory

but the sponge of my character

– so soaked and heavy ….


I reflect on my fragrant past

like a baby lulled in maternal arms,

with a settled heart and a poultice of warmth,

swathing the cuts, salving my missing shards

I shed when I feel my heart….


I found myself in labyrinth of time,

and you find this host riddled by parasites

seeds of mephitic moments ooze of rage,

silently changing, slightly every time,

as every encounter conjures a fresh decline

do you see such saline conduct of my appetite?





©Written Frames, 2018

How strange it is that I hardly hold any memory to reflect upon if it is not the memory with happy faces….

And how strange it is that I think of such memories with a heavy heart which is nothing but a by-product of emotions that bad moments had planted in my behavior all along….



Flowers bloom, but wilt
Bespeaks of morrow’s quest, a change
Of a life lived and sustained

Love thrives and booms, the firelight fades
A living accustomed to heart throbs
Once were desirous, now mundane

Between us, the land of roses laments dry
From being loved, and then unloved
For your rose had caught an evil eye

You plucked them all out, a maddening sprouts
That even weeds left us two alone
On the barren land with her soils eroding…..


©Written Frames, 2018

You fight, so to win and you fight for love only to loose.



your laugh is like a wandering cloud of Winter,

caressing the moonlit sky, as if sweeping

the diaphanous veil of desire and demure

with trembling touch of new found love


among the dark tresses of unyielding beauty,

you are hiraeth of a selenophile, a longing

flickering phenomena of silver triangles

surmounted they twinkle, upside down


shimmers of stardust engulf me

perennial pirouette of love and its feeling

empyrean scatters of light, such iridescent gleam

through roses and sunflowers, it found me…


©Written Frames, 2018

Look at the skies and you will see what you feel.

Ruins of Love


flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes

susurrating remains of love are imbibed by the sun

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


faded red fabric and fainting scent of a white rose

clutch at the waistline, the fingers wither to bones (one by one)

flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes


dying moisture in eyes is remainder of remorse

sweet tooth is tamed, of raisins and that wine had won

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


lice of memories pierce the ache of this shredding host

gouge the garment, spill of their syrups and scent as undone

flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes


the froth of promises & oaths, fading with stagnant cold

still sunsets bemoan the threads, as strayed with windswept spun

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


yet, dark clouds of mockery might burst open to drench and emboss,

my tatters scorched, when avalanche of death has begun

flailing in the wind are my threadbare clothes

washed and bleached, I flutter free of your thoughts


©Written Frames, 2018

P.S. This is my first attempt at writing Villanelle and I totally enjoyed adapting to its intricate structure. I am one unorganized, undisciplined soul who is inclined to write free verses – raw and natural, however, with this one I absolutely surrendered to the beauty of such poetic form and learning it to add yet an another experience to this artistic venture we are on…..

Hope you enjoy it!