Guest Post: Rupa Jambholkar

Today I am featuring Indian blogger, Rupa. I am presenting a post from her own blog, a touching poem about her love for her husband.
Here is her own short bio.

“I am an engineer by degree. A home maker by choice and an artist by soul.

I live in Mumbai, India with my husband and two kids.”

Love needs no fancy flowers!

I pulled out the chair for you,
but forgot
you weren’t there.
I made your favourite chicken curry, spicy and hot, just the way you want.

I envisage, the way you relish it,
licking your fingers,
and asking for more.
You know and I know,
it’s too hot for you but you still love it.
And I wonder why?
I see the way you look at me ,
with your loving eyes.
Even though I look like a pallid soul.
And at that moment , I try to steal my glance away from you, but your eyes stay fixated on me.

And then you hum,
an old romantic song to compliment me,
but I pretend that I don’t blush nowadays
and I somehow manage to smile,
to hide the fact that, I still feel so shy.

I cannot elucidate to myself, how can you see beauty in me, especially now, when I fail to see it anymore.


Yes I did hear the doorbell, my eyes have lit up, I know it’s you.
And you know that, I was thinking about you, waiting for you, so stop smiling and give me a hug.

The curry is still warm,
so is my heart and so are your arms,
And now I see what I saw, the same love to begin with.

You can read more of Rupa’s work on her own blog, Pans & Proses.

Please try to find some time to welcome Rupa into our wonderful blogging community.

A New Blogger: Karla Harris

American blogger Karla has sent me a link to her blog and her poem.
Something to think about in these troubled times.

Out of Touch

Here is her own bio.

To best describe me, I’ll start with the basics. Born and raised in S.W. Missouri, I was fortunate to attend the same school for all 13 years. As a youngster I dreamed of being a teacher~and a Mom. Fresh out of college, I became both. Headstrong on completing every goal in front of me, I put the “pedal to the metal” on my career. Teaching and motherhood defined me. The truths learned under steeples, coupled with the great outdoors, have guided me most of my life. The river of life has had its share of rapids. Tossed about at times, I always tried to lean on lessons learned. What kept me floating was pure faith~even when I tipped my own canoe over many times~and felt like drowning.

And now, as I approach my half-century mark, there is more clarity on why living in the “unknown” is a period of growth. This is a beautiful period for me to walk hand-in-hand with my heavenly Papa as he shows me future paths. Trails that will be shared with my own grown children, grandchildren, other family members, and the simple souls I meet on this journey. And it’s through my writing, and connecting with others, that I’ll meet my most authentic self in the mirror each day. And hopefully, encourage others as we tread forward.

Please take time to visit her blog, to share your thoughts and give her some encouragement.

‘Where I’m From’

This theme about composing a poem based on where you are from and grew up has generated some wonderful writing.
This is the original, on which to base your own attempt.

Where I’m From
George Ella Lyon

I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I’m from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I’m from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I’m from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.

I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments–
snapped before I budded —
leaf-fall from the family tree

American blogger, Maggie, has just published her own story as a poem.

I have no skill at poetry, but gave it a go anyway. If you want to try too, then send me a link to your poem in the comments, or just include it there.

Where I’m From.
Pete Johnson.

I am from hot pavements on a city’s summer streets
and frozen pipes in the winter

I am from flying ants emerging through cracks in the slabs
and the rainstorms that followed their departure

I am from the faces of men drinking beer to forget the war they had just fought
and the women with hands red from washing and scrubbing

I am from an outside toilet with newspaper squares on a nail
and the scary fat spiders that lived in the corners

I am from men being men
and women holding families together

I am from eating leftovers during the week
and learning how to make do

I am from limited expectations
and knowing your place

I am from respecting your elders
and doing that without having to be told

I am from where family came first
and nobody ever questioned why that was

I am from places that are still the same
and a time when they were very different

‘Twas The Day Before Christmas….

I am reblogging this poem from chuq in America.
For everyone wondering why their stats are low today! 🙂

In Saner Thought

Closing Thought–24Dec19

’twas the day before Christmas

and all through the blog

no one was reading

time for lots of nog.

visions of popularity dance in my head

But stats were something to dread

For little has been read

and I fret

while lying in bed.

That small voice in my head

I heard it say

maybe those readers will return another day

until they do

it must be said

Merry Christmas to all

and to all a good day

Peace Out….my friends.

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Guest Post: A poem by Fraggle

I was delighted to receive this poem from FR, at
Her delightful photography is highly recommended, as are her thoughts on life too. An engaged blogger, great blogging friend, and all round nice lady. Please head over and check out her site.

An ode to poetry by Fraggle Rocks
(with apologies to Shakespeare, Wordsworth et al)

Oh What a poet I could be
if only rhymes came easily,
my words would flow and stanza’s fill
with fields of golden daffodills.

If iambic parameter wasn’t so hard
I’m sure I’d be an excellent bard,
I’d find some arcane words to use,

I’d write some plays with many pages
of Kings and Queens throughout the ages,
Sir Ian McKellan would be the star,
and I’d be feted near and far.

My sonnets, well they’d be sublime,
obsessive love in fourteen lines,
and men would weep to feel such angst
and ladies swoon and wet their pants. (sorry, best I could do for angst)

Alas, with words I have no skill,
can’t find enough to fit the bill,
and so dear Shakespeare, do not fret
still Engerlands greatest poet yet.

But a picture paints a thousand words
of sunsets, beaches, castles,birds.
Children playing, a lovers kiss,
no better poetry than this.

So off I go, camera in hand,
to photograph North East Engerland
I’ll write my poems with an XT-2
It’s just as good, don’t you think

Guest post: A Poem by Rachel

I received an email from a lady named Rachel. She sent me a poem for consideration as a guest post.
I liked it, and thought it showed great promise. But what do I know about poetry? My own recent attempts made me realise that the answer to that is “very little”.

So, let her know what you think, by adding a comment below. Thanks in advance, Pete.


This time, that time, place and face
Meanings and memories, our mind’s embrace 
Intensely felt pleasure and pain
Looking back, facing forward, regret in vain

Treasured moments , truthfully beauty
Stealing wonderment from complex duty 
Decisions abound, a landscape to cross
The challenge of life , of love, of loss 

When my life is ending I want it to feel 
That there was nothing undone that could have made it more real
So everything matters, woven, like intricate lace 
This time, that time, place and face

In The Restaurant: A Poem

Another short poem. Still experimenting!

There was an edge as he ordered the starter
He couldn’t bring himself to face that, so carried on smiling
By the time the main course had arrived
Before he had eaten the first forkful
He just knew that love had gone
He didn’t know why, but he knew it had happened
Deep down, he confessed in his mind
He did know why, but didn’t want to admit it to himself
He didn’t even hear the words she spoke
He already knew them, from countless repetition in his head

His errors had come home to roost
At a time he least expected
He nodded and agreed
Failed to fight back the tears
No taste for dessert
But more wine would be needed
He was sure of that
If sure of nothing else

A Poem

I have never tried poetry, so I thought it was about time. Let me know if you think it is worth me continuing…

He loved her as best as he knew how
It was perhaps obsessive, but he didn’t and couldn’t know

He was needy when need was not wanted
She needed strength, not need and desire

The more he needed, the less she felt that need in herself
The questions, the phone calls, that edge of control. Always there

She had to call it a day, though he never understood why
It took half a lifetime to understand

But did he ever really understand
Ever accept the damage done

Did he really appreciate that need to move on
To carve out a life, with no hanger-on

Decades later, and a sensible head
Made him realise and regret the mistakes of long ago

Too late for them both now, decisions made
Lives lived, without each other. Just getting on with it

Too much water, under countless bridges
It could never be the same again

No matter how much either of them wanted it to be
They both knew their time had passed