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Mind Minimalism

I Peel off the layers of the past decade Shaking off the few remnants still housing my mind I spring clean and prepare for the newborn cries of the coming happy babies of Time Struggling with the limited memory chip I sit to sort and save to retain and renounce I strive to upgrade to reduce the clutter in my slackening neurons The dark shadows of sombre stories that have ruled me Owned me detained me now need to go It's time to dislodge the luggage of loathing to cremate the ugly remains of ridicule Atoning and forgiving at the same time all that's stale Bristling with conscious self I rise to clasp the nice nimbus memoirs As of now, consumed I go light on my luggage inside my head Relieved, I greet 2020 - my sealed morrow with Mind Minimalism _________________________________________________ © 2020 Alka Tiwari All rights reserved Dear readers, When prose fails, poetry embraces my thoughts. So here are my poetised thought...
Recent posts

Finding Childhood

"Mamma! Can we have a couple of more balloon bags...such big ones?" My kid looked up with raised eyebrows, questioning round eyes and pouted lips. Having already bought two packets, one each for my two children, I was out of my reasoning mind to comprehend this new demand for more. I squatted down and looked at him with the same round questioning eyes as his. He unhesitatingly squeaked, "I need loads of them urgently." Now I was running out of my patience thinking about all the people waiting behind me at the till. I was about to say that we can't go back to pick more when he waved two packs right in front of my face leaving me flabbergasted. I pushed the cart out of the store with my kids standing on it, squished between me and the trolly, having a jolly good ride to the car park. On our way to the car, I couldn't help asking my child the necessity for so many balloons. He simply said, "The teacher told us that cars create a lot of polluti...

Let's be an Amoeba

I am a circle I am a triangle I am a quadrilateral I am an oval I am a star But what shape are you? I am all shapes... I am a shape s hifter Change  is the only constant for me I am an Amoeba! I am re-learning some rudimentary terms these days with my kindergarten kids, which I had obliviously jilted off my mind. We read about Living, Non-Living and  Growing recently. 'Living' and 'Changing' are by and large synonymous. You can't live without changing. This is a fundamental principle followed by one and all. From single cell life like amoeba to the most complex versions of life like humans, we are changing every single moment and this is called 'Growing'. But is it possible that we have forgotten these basic things happening to us? We see ourselves in the mirror daily and recognize the image to be the same year after year. The gradient of change is so slow that it seems imperceptible. We forget that we are invariably altering. We forget tha...

Life is a 'Bubble of Dream'

Today I bring for you all a poem of mine which is one of those that were recently included in an anthology called "Colours of Life"  published by UBI (United by Ink).  We all see our own dreams when we sleep...what if, what is all real to us, is a dream of someone else?  Reality vs Dream Sitting on a windowsill I looked out with my eyes tucked inside my drooping lids Shutting me out of the nugatory business of my aimless view My unrestrained mind seizing my earthly eyes I now think - What if... our stark reality is a perennial dream of some all-pervading soul? What if... we are copious microcosms of a single macrocosm? What if... our élan vital is just a projected animation of some Mahayogi? What if... that cosmic soul rises from Her elongate slumber And sucks Her fanciful vision back to Herself? What if... our essence vanishes in thin air  As Her dream escapes from Her 'now open...

First Kiss

Drenched with the sweat of her own swelled up perspiring body she had been laboring for about twenty-four hours now. Shooting up and down in a wave-like motion following her labor contractions she valiantly surfed through the tsunami of her pains. Her cervix dilating to an unimaginable ten centimeters. She was ready to let a whole watermelon out, if that meant the only way to alleviate the writhing cramps and unbearable convulsions. The Doula's inspiriting calls worked like a snake charmers ' Pungi ' (Musical Instrument) who tries to seemingly hypnotize a cobra. Like you sweep each grain of dust with a broom and heap it up in a dust pan, she amassed all the crests and troughs of energy streaming inside her germinating body. Mustering even the last iota of superhuman strength she gave her final push screaming out loud, one last time. A slippery bundle of flesh and blood emigrated out to this world of light and air. As the loud shrieks of long...