moonlit night
the cosmic gyre
of the sea
evening meditation
the galactic rotation
of my blues
open sky
blue stardust
spiraling—
in my dream
another universe
Published in VSANA on the stone of July, Patterns.
https://www.vsana.org/ppp-50-july-1--26
evening prayer
a drifting leaf falls
in my cupped hands
receding wave—
the folded wings
of a migratory bird
meandering through
the village alley
floodwater
fading all at once
the childhood laughter
returning home
a labyrinth
of the old trails
thawing mountains
one after another
leave behind
the lingering cold
of an old war
melting ice—
the barren summits
of glaciers
late-night train
through bare trees
in the jungle—
how barren life feels
after departure
across the foggy lake
the blurred tips
of the city line—
how gloomy life looks
from a distance
another week
passed after betrayal
autumn moon
this longing to drift
across the darkest sky
-------
none of them had labels the emergency aid
-------
three copper pennies
overlapped in the well
forgotten wishes
-------
the string snapped
of a refugee child’s guitar
autumn wind
-------
there are lights
on Mars
after whispers
of our gossip drift
above the dark skies
-------
The Wind of Change
I’ve forgotten too many things while moving to a new house, a deliberate effort to preserve my emotional bond with my family home. As I pack, I realize I am gathering things that hold a little bit of sentimental value. What I choose to leave behind—old vases, velvet curtains, a wooden trunk, worn kitchen utensils, backyard swings, and walnut furniture. Each of these objects are deeply woven into the fabric of my childhood, holding memories that resurface with a glance or touch. It’s my way of staying connected to my childhood home as I know it’s time to move forward into a modern life that may or may not hold the same sense of belonging.
end of summer—
husks and dust settle
in the balcony bird feeder
-----------
Dark Shadows
It was hard to interpret
the untold miseries
etched on the faces
of those forced to leave
their homeland, their heritage,
their only place to live freely.
It was hard to interpret
the words that pierce hearts,
the wounds too deep
to heal without miracles,
the tears that roll
down the cheeks
of the helpless, of the vulnerable,
those without a voice.
It was hard to interpret
the silence of old women
sitting on the rubble
of time,
finding no answers
for why’s been scapegoated—
a thousand innocent souls.
It was hard to interpret
the prayers locked
in quivering lips,
unspoken, ungranted,
until the very end.
It was hard to interpret
the peace after massacre—
still unfolding the wings
of another war within.
-----
home alone
“I can see everything now, can't I?”. I asked this question to myself before lying on the sofa near the window that opens to the garden. I want to make a constellation before going to sleep but the grayish white clouds made me draw the curtains instead. I scroll through the social media posts and find nothing relevant and interesting. I start staring at the roof where I can see the dappled light of the lamp reflecting the tiny stars. It’s time to connect the dots. I made a small constellation with the stars and named it after my childhood nickname. The nickname that I never heard of for years and that still echoes through my memories. I still am not ready to let go of things that were once a part of my life.
sleepless night
the flashes of
distant lightning
-------
echoing childhood
“You make me dream of dragonflies, O little rascal!” she screams from the hilltop.
He is her childhood friend—the one she always wants to be around. After ten long years, she has returned to her hometown, the place woven with the golden threads of her early memories. City life has drained her: routine, noise, deadlines, loneliness but no real joy. So she comes back, searching for some peace and real happiness.
She wanders through the old town bazaar, where she would come with her parents and her childhood friends. The local park greets her with rusty swings; their creaking sounds seem to recognize her touch.
Then she climbs the hillside behind her family’s old haveli—the place where she and Sunny once sat for hours. Their evenings were filled with stargazing, chasing fireflies, listening to crickets, and finding shapes in the full moon.
“It was routine back then,” she murmurs, taking a deep sigh.
The tears roll down her cheeks, and she lets them fall, unbothered. She screams into the vast sky, but only her own voice returns, echoing through the valley, sharp and empty.
With a heavy heart, she walks back to the haveli…
back home late
the dry leaves cling
to her shawl
-----------
deep winter night
“She took the last piece of cake and went back to her room,” everyone whispered at the party.
She wants to eat it alone—especially after her recent illness, which has kept her mostly confined to her room. It’s their 50th wedding anniversary, and her husband has thrown a lavish party, eager to present their marriage as perfect to his social circle.
He shares a carefully worded post on social media, tagging her too. The steady ping of notifications irritates her, and she puts her phone on silent.
Taking a small bite of the cake, she mutters.
“Why do people pretend their imperfect marriages are perfect, especially on social media?”
She tosses her phone onto the bed and moves to the window—her usual refuge when sadness creeps in. Gently, she touches her faded purple scars on her wrists and thinks about her traumatic past.
Outside, evening fog is shrouding the street lights. She looks up at the sky where the stars are almost dim—barely holding on their light.
blurred window—
she scribbles her initials
without her family name
Paperback and Hardback versions are now available from Amazon
Paperback : https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0D9RJVGW7
Hardback : https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0D9XJSVPC
The Paperback is available in India from Pothi : https://store.pothi.com/book/meghan-dargue-fromoneline-unseen/
You can also find the book (with relevant links) on the Kobayaashi site : https://kobayaashi.co.uk/fromoneline-the-unseen/
