Black and White
Black high heels clicking on the smooth cement, white from the morning sun
White collared shirt, with shadows black, the pencil skirt black.
Black pillow of the night with the white gibbous moon resting on its black surface
White, white head of the moon with just a touch of black, shadows under its eyes.
Black lake waters rippling, quietly, white light laughing, silently in its waves, black, black sky above.
Black lashes blinking, black, black almond eyes staring, staring in the circular white, white mirror,
For an answer, white face thinking, white face still.
Black piano keys sinking and rising, shining white with light,
With white long fingers caressing and hitting, quietly or loudly,
Black mass of a piano, its bench in a pool of white tungsten light.
Black tunes sighing from that black piano, black with sorrow,
Interlaced with white tunes, tunes rising from that black piano,
White tunes laughing, white tunes smiling, white with joy, white with freedom, white with hope.
Black, black thoughts in oneâ€™s mind, while staring at a crevassed white wall,
White, but with the black signature of finger prints , dirty fingerprints and black shadows of spiderwebs.
Black charcoal on white enameled nails, black dust, black eye powder smudged,
On white chipped nails, the varnish in the bottle white in its pool of white perfectness.
Black crow alighting on the white poolside chair, paint obscured by black fungus.
Black crow cawing, claws raking the white paint.
White bird droppings on the new white cement, mingled with black.
White dove rising, wings whirring, white handkerchiefs of its wings thrumming the air.
Black and white, white and black, life black and whiteâ€™s palette, gray their brush.
When I was four years old, from my Indian style sitting position on the kitchen table, I firmly declared, “I want to be a writer.” I wrote my first poem when I was eight, and i fell in love with the literary world. I gobbled up books and poem anthologies. Since then, I have been writing poems, novellas, and novels. Writing is a way for me to relax, to close my eyes and let my memories combine with my imagination to create. There is little more exhilarating than writing a poem about a memory or a landscape, or universal themes like death, love, and regret, and fusing it with my own experiences and insights. A detail of the rich world around us can strike a cord with me, and allow my muse to run free, in directions I cannot always fathom. Expressing my thoughts and observations of the world through poetry and conveying those emotions to the reader, while evoking his/her own experiences, is one of the most rewarding things as a writer.