Wednesday, July 26, 2017



As Jack and Jill
went up the hill
stark-still she stood
in earnest longing
to discover secrets
of a lost childhood

trudging along
the forest path
hand in hand with
Red Riding Hood
she longs to feast
on granny’s love

time summons,
as the clock strikes one
she climbs the mouse-path
up grandfather’s clock
in recall of faded memories
when the pendulum chimes
and sings aloud
hickery-dickery dock

but as the clock strikes at the day’s end
her fairy-tale thoughts
on fantasy-wings
fall off the edge
of childhood dreams
and plumb the depths
of dark thoughts of yet another
disfigured dawn

in the filtered light
of a melancholic morning
she resumes
the meaningless ritual of survival
beside the straw-basket
of white flowers
weaving funeral wreaths.

*Long Islands American Anthology

Yet another poem

Yet another poem
deep winging dreams
nest in cosy corners of the mind
waves of emotions flow into
the dead conchshell of thoughts
dormant dreams wake up
gather memories
across the isles of time
words nestle between thoughts
invite rhyme
lines sketch a rhythm
rhyme, rhythm, words, lines
curated in time
together they infuse life
into mute emotions
the silent verse expands
like incense fragrance
and culminates into yet another poem.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Miniature frames...minimalist poems of rita malhotra,india

everyday i borrowed a feather
 from the morning bird
placed it beside your coffee cup
yet, you could not make wings out of them
today, only void fills our spaces.

 every thought belongs to the fragrance

of the yellow-white blossom in my vase
every gaze to its feminine grace
nights only find the scent of love
in the interlude of dreams
i shall never sell the stars again.


 every void
like every absence
spells the continuity
of your presence

on the bank of the
holy ganges
the widow in white
forgives an evil inflicted on her
with each counted rosary-bead
the count continues, endless.


the 367th star died today
eyes watch the silver orgy
of the night sky
the moon continues to remain
my fidel bedmate.

(inspired by one of Kunal's lines)


timeless hurt absorbs
Hidden truths of life
Metaphors of aloneness.


night goes to sleep
dawn throws its doors open
to the radiance
of a thousand suns
spring dreams fulfilled.


“sun is the face of god
so is the moon at night”
history shall remember the poet
with fondness
for the legacy of
beautiful metaphors.