Poetry Vignettes

The Blue Moon

Once a blue moon, something would happen that messes up certain plans. There will be forces on either side which hold you and get you through things that not just make sense, but also, try to harm you. Certain things are meant to be let go of.

            Once a blue moon, there will be happenings that are terribly upsetting. And that’s okay. There will be consequences for every single thing that you do. Once a blue moon, there will be ways for things to unfold in better ways. There will be things that work, things that don’t.

            Once a blue moon, your energy will be depleted. There will be words to take care of. There will be work, there will be joy. There will be everything that you need there to be. Things will happen on its accord, because you write. Because you’re there. Because you let things be.

            Once a blue moon, you will be the joyful shining moon that you are. There will be enough for everyone to feast, because people feast on the blue moon. There will be wooden spatulas, there will be curses, there will be spells. There will be yew trees, Geraldine.

            Once a blue moon, your work will see the light. Your differences will be recognized. Your treatments will ensure that they work for everyone else, as well. There will be enough to go around. There will be enough to go around…





–aka consumption–


the purple haze that tempts and promises
dangling condolences for your lack
a wink that screams I’ll fill your void

every store, a whorehouse

the strobe lights give you pleasure
as you walk along the aisles and stop

to gingerly take down something you
don’t need

the child had scars
that he couldn’t explain
he looks and smells like cocoa

and they never knew



by Andre Wee. Courtesy: Google Images


a chiffon weight in my underbelly purrs
when you moisten your words with notes
dipped in muscles, putative strength

I’ve sharpened myself on this whetstone
of casual undermining chatter, first from
genetic precursors, blood-buddies peppered
across dead branches of a family tree
and then from you, your innocent ignorance
of me, your colorblindness to my rainbow

and I remember the gray wires on your chest
your loud boom of a laughter, lacking nothing
as far as you’re concerned, while I count the
missing feathers in my wing, fractured, in a sling

so that the next time you throw a dart, I shall
spring back a step..? no I shall learn to cry,
no the secret in fact, is that I’ll be wordy to you
in a way that makes my smile scream a big No.


What Ails Me?


Webs of discontent, laced
Around bloodstreams and skin

This discomfort is synonymous
With unmet demands of the world.
Yet I’m glad, while knowing
That I’m up to no good, these days
Like a cat, who is proud for no reason.

I rely on words to cure me.
Curves of letters appear therapeutic.
So pathetic has been my recovery,
That I have relapses more often
Than I find time to write!

And it’s all      still        in my head.

I pick up my pen then,
Thankful for the little things,
Yearning to get out of the rut
Of writing for my being
To writing with my being.

Poetry has never smelled better.

Poetry Street Art Poetry

Excuse Me, Sir



Excuse me, Sir

But what is the procedure

To peel off religion from my skin?


I find no trademarks, no barcodes.

I find no brands, no logos on me,

No palpable evidence of my faith.


Birthrights are strange,

For no mother would aspire to leave a tangible mark

Yet, you perceive an invisible permanent tattoo

As if it also traverses the placenta.


Sir, could you tell me

Which God created mountains and plains,

Which God designed cells and space,

Which God knew all the arts in the world,

And the skills to be the mightiest,

And if it’s not Zeus, Jesus or Allah,

If it’s not Krishna or Buddha,

We have a shy God, Sir.


Sir, even if it is one of them

If by any chance, God was One if not all,

It’s tyranny to command faith due to power

To ensure worship, in spite of his absence,

To instill fear, in spite of good grace,

It’s narcissistic to allow temples and tributes-

I’m not sure I want a tyrant for a God.


You seem to know him well, Sir

You seem to worship him and believe,

He has not told me Sir, but I’m sure you’d know

How do I peel off religion from my skin?