Once upon a time…

tell me about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
tell me about the 414 million pieces of plastic that washed ashore on
a tiny island.
tell me that included one million shoes.
tell me about the microplastic in the Marianna trench.
tell me about the bottle caps inside the albatross.
tell me about the dead whales.

tell me about that glow in the early sky.
tell me it is a false dawn.
tell me the sun is already dead.
tell me how they buried it, draped in a plastic shroud.

tell me how this story ends.
tell me how it began.
once upon a time, on a slow-moving sphere of
sparkling blue and emerald green, a light…


Another Season

They said today, the monsoon will arrive in the first week of
June. Like it always does. We outlast summer because we know

the wet will come. We survive the rains because we know that
by Diwali, the clouds will begin their retreat. We get through the

festive season because the cold numbs our fevered brow. In April,
the first mangoes will ripen in the sun. There is always another

season. There is always another reason. One more transformation. One
more repetition. Our mortality is never in question as long as the variables

are constant. It is the unchanging that we fear. A forever downpour.
An endless summer. A predictable love. A world refusing to fall apart.

The Truth

“The truth is like poetry.
And most people f*&^%#@ hate poetry”
– From the movie, ‘The Big Short’


The truth is a million species are lined up for
The truth is natural ecosystems are breaking
The truth is it the way we consume land and sea is
affecting us all.

The truth is bleached coral.
The truth is fish with plastic in their bellies.
The truth is burning fossil fuels.
The truth is rising seas.

The truth is the worst April cyclone in the Bay of
Bengal in years that killed dozens of people in

The truth is no longer sustainable.

Have you closely examined the delicate contours
of a butterfly wing?
Have you wondered at the Fibonacci patterns of
shells and flowers?
Have you considered the delicate balance of the
food chain?
Have you woken up in the morning to the sound
of water and birds?

The truth is that nature, left to itself, is poetry.
The truth is most people f*&^%#@ hate poetry.

From the IPBES report on biodiversity and ecosystem services


Ticking Clock

not one left to bury
no twenty-one gun salute
no flag draped coffin
no grieving kin in black
not even a discordant dirge floating in the
hot summer wind

who would care

who would care for a
tombstone that said:
“martyr in the war between
humans and earth –
bramble cay melomys –
first mammal killed by
human-provoked climate change”

leave a clock there

leave a clock where the
tide can’t reach it, for a while,

the countdown has begun


The bramble cay melomys is reportedly the first mammal to go extinct on account of human-caused climate change events.


For Poets United where the midweek motif is “Biodiversity”

Home and Grave


The subtle within us beguiles with its
mystique. It is tranquil lake and tempest. It
is home and grave. The only way to know
the unknown is to accept that it will
immediately change places with the known.
Nirvana like a river is constantly renewed.



Previous: Tao inspirations #14

No door, No womb


To find myself, I have to go back to the
beginning. To the bottom of a spade as
it hits the earth. To the edge of the wind
as it brushes a star. To the void that had
no door, no womb, no face, no name. To
find myself, I have to find that nothing.



Previous: Tao inspirations #13

Little images on big trees

We will become myth. And they will paint us
under the giant wheels of insatiable want, they
will sing of us as thieves who stole from the
bowels of the earth, they will write of us as fools
who burnt our own home, they will carve little
images of us on their big trees as warnings to

their children, we will become metaphors for
depravity, we will be the ones the gods went to
war with, we will be the ones that won and the
ones that lost, the ones that made the hole in the
universe that no one would ever fill — my own
favourite is the scratched outline on a cave wall,

where the vanquished earth is a rancid berry in
the beak of the death bird, tasting of human folly —