After setting the sun rises again


a smile on your lips
a dagger underneath
fingers clasped tightly
around the hilt slyly
you let me in


Owning up to it

A life fit for a king
a song fit for a sing
we all dream

No matter how poor
no matter how sore
we all want more

How do we stop
how do we drop
staying on the top

where do we find
peace from this grind
a calm within the mind

rummage, dig, rake
let the ugly surface
let it
evaporate into nothingness

Could you be?
as deep as the sea
as rooted as the tree
as dark as a starless night
as cruel as the knife
as gossipy as the Meerkat
as broken as a door latch

I think you could
but I doubt it
I seriously doubt it
because you’d never own up to it

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Cracks and pieces
fragmented and crippled
the world
lies in shambles

and while the sky sadly weeps

Somewhere above
the jagged mountains
in the east,
the sky weeps
weeps because
the jarring convoy
of people below
do not see
the truth

On the brink of an apocalypse


My gentle respite
safest of havens
my past
my origin
my sleepy little
it used to be

Puddled roads and
over-stuffed drains
monsoon rains
rush like the river
gush like the river
on the pock-marked road
carrying sins
carrying curses
diseases and

To My Creator

The little zygotic parasite
under the dome of flesh
feeds and floats
stretches and grows

A Cocoon

A cocoon
they say
we live in


The Plucker and the Drinker

This poem is dedicated to innumerable tea plucking women of the Himalayas.  It is not easy standing under the blazing sun for hours and rummaging for the find amidst unkindly bushes. It is worse still when the profession is labeled a caste, classifying the lineage forever for generations to come. As I drink my favourite cup of Darjeeling today, my thoughts go to the female tea pluckers in the hills of India and Nepal. Bent silently over dark green bushes, under a blistering sun, rummaging the tea bushes for that match of  two newly sprung leaves with the precious bud in between  – Dui paatey suiro called in Nepalese. They toil of course for a living but we shall not forget, that because they stand and pluck in the wind and rain; because they stand under the unforgiving sun that rob their youth much ahead time, we are able to indulge in our lazy morning tea, and soothing afternoon tea. Low wages, excruciating conditions and parsimonious owners have driven them to build unions, the very shelter for which they have fallen under harsh scrutiny. Derogatorily called  Sunday by townsfolk, they swarm the town for recreation usually on Sundays dressed in their best. When Monday comes, they rise at dawn and are back amongst the stunted bushes, wicker baskets dangling on their backs, plucking for the next Sunday trip to town.


For Love’s Sake

Love for love’s sake
you dedicate
to another
it’s needless


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There is a ghost in my house
surely there is
a shadow in my room
in the corner he sits


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Ghosts, Poems

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Yoshay Lama

I welcome you warmly to my blog. This is the resting place of most of my creative work. This blog consists of book reviews, articles, poems, mere reflections and excerpts from my stories.

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