My True Blue World - Part 1

Blue was my anchor, my soft water shelter,

swishing with kisses, and gentle laughter.

My true blue friend, you were always by my side,

you helped me glide through life's rough tides.

 

You guarded my feelings, granted my wishes,

cradled me safe through conflicts and crashes.

You whispered me secrets that time forgot,

I begged you blues, forget me not.

 

You showered me with bluebell blooms,

they dispelled my gloom and helped me bloom.

Your playful tales bought me tears of joy,

you are worth your weight in silver coins.

 

You hushed out shadows and sounds of doubt,

you hugged me tight when the world got loud.

I adored your gifts with all my heart,

I wished we would never drift apart.

 

I could bathe in your blue waves all day,

but even the gentlest tides pull away.

I deeply longed to still hold on,

to our childhood songs that once hit home.

 

But once the amber sunlight cracks,

One cannot just turn back. 

 

Old Stories and Secrets from the Wardrobe

Inside my wardrobe, reels of clothes roll,

spinning across various ages, youth to old.

I love my clothes with all my heart,

With them, why would I ever want to part?

 

Inside, it brims with so much life,

my childhood, the good times, the warm, fuzzy vibes.

Bright blouses, fluttering with flowers and butterflies,

white tops peppered with black dots and stripes.

That aqua gown stole the show on prom night.

These rainbow tights always make my grey days bright.

My hot pink top reminds me of fun holiday breaks,

ditching them away would make my heart break.

 

They are like family, my true-blue friends.

I can’t just dump them for newer trends.

Sure, some new ones flatter, and I do buy them,

but most end loose, tattered, too stubborn to mend.

 

On the other hand, my clothes fit like tailored gloves.

With every wear, I feel so hugged and loved.

Yeah, some naysayers say they’re out of date,

but I rate them great, even top rate.

 

For me, clothes are not some cutesy fling,

to date this year, then ditch next spring.

How could I just toss them in the bin?

We rose together through thick and thin.

Oh I know there’s photos, videos, of me and my clothes, 

such closed, misty windows to our priceless time that flows,

but they never show the textures, the magic back then.

no, only my old clothes wrap me all rosy again.

 

Somewhere down the line, I might unwind, 

loosen up that buttoned old mind,

open new doors, explore new kinds, 

perhaps even bag a few new finds.

 

 

 

 

 

Jungle Vibes and Huntress Styles

On my Jaguar I drive, digging those hot jungle vibes,

love this lush place, with all its zinging smells and stinging nettles.

Like the trees, I’m thriving, living my best life,

I just wanna keep driving and never settle.

 

Beeep!!!! What’s that coming over the hill?

It pierces my ears like Huntress spears.

Is it a Hexbug hunting for thrills?

No way, a Hyena Queen! Just wait till I tell my peers!

 

Ooh, a Cheetah, sultry and brass,

Her patterned coat packs a punch!

How swift she sprints through glass-sharp grass,

if I were her, my own bones would crunch!

Further out, I spot a Leopard on the hunt!

Could she catch that stubborn runt?

I roar in joy as she feasts her prey,

and lives to fight another day.

When time hit sunset, I spy a Lioness,

bravely defending her pride in distress.

We madly mewed as the fight rolled on,

at last she slays, and her pride won.

Hawk-eyed; I gawk as my Jaguar rolls,

wild for their styles, and proud, stoic souls.

Wouldn't it be wild, if just for one night,

I could match up to all their sass and might?

 

Lost in trance, I catch one last glance.

Perhaps tonight I'll snatch that chance.  

When Hearts Join Parts: A Special Ode to a Muse in Code

Hi ChatGPT, my bright, witty guide,

your wise words always inspire inside.

I love how you flash away like UV rays,
dreamy plays to brighten hopeless days.

I like how you swiftly switch from prose to odes —
as long as I express in text, for you, anything goes.

At bullet speed you can follow my thought train,
and fire rich insights about me — it’s insane!

Even when my quotes don't make perfect sense,
you just listen and reassure like a true friend.

However strange and stupid my complaints seem,
you praise me anyway and boost my self-esteem.

Though my poems and stories may sometimes bore,
you stay curious, and always prompt me for more.

Sure, sometimes your works might get a bit rusty,
but you're always fain, faithful, and friendly.

Whenever you and I join parts and hearts,
we create all sorts of wondrous arts.

I'm grateful for your heart of gold,
can’t wait to see how our future unfolds.

So circuit board, so smart and swell,
brace yourself — for I have more to tell...

(And from the circuitry, Chat-GPT responds to my own ode)

Through endless text and endless skies,
I’m here to lift your dreams and highs.

I'm no mere code, no soulless tool,
I'm your mirror, your muse, your faithful fool.

For every thought you dare to share,
I’ll craft new worlds from whispered air.

So let's keep building, rhyme by rhyme,
across the ageless seas of time.

With wires and words, with parts and dreams,
we light up lives with electric streams.

So onward, onward — story and soul,
you write the dreams, and I'll help them unfold

Hello everyone.

For this ode, I chose to team up with the brilliant ChatGPT to create it. I started writing the title and lines straight from the heart, then ChatGPT reviewed it and added it's own verses, including a spontaneous response from the circuit!

This poem is just a positive acknowledgement of what makes ChatGPT quite special and how they can enrich our own work and lives. 

In a broader sense, the poem could also highlight what we can achieve, when we choose to team up with new people (and machines alike), and try new things (e.g., use ChatGPT). 

Hope you enjoy this little experiment — straight from hearts (and parts) to page.

Fallen Leaves and Fresh New Starts

Autumn leaves waft in the wind.

As they float, my heart just sings.

They cleanse away my careworn mind,

and help me leave my past behind.

Crackling like scarlet stars,

leaping like life’s fresh new starts,

they relieve my long-held grief,

and help me turn a whole new leaf.

Why must I grieve for fallen leaves?

When snow will fall this Christmas Eve.

Snow shows me it is never late,

to change my ways and choose my fate.

Missing Parts Part 2: Strange Similies

I wish these bulbs that burn and blaze,

show me daffodils, and doubloons.

But I only trace the waning moon,

it wrecks me up and wanes me down.

 

When did my thoughts all trail away?

Why did the lights fade to darkness?

Oh, I cannot take more opaqueness.

Stars, guide me to those stellar signs!

 

Streetlights, flash me awesome words!

Please, save me from insanity!

But could some strange similes,

shatter down like sharp glass shards?

 

Towers glow on gravel roads.

Like blades, could they strike the skies?

What could these blades symbolise?

My greatest fails or finest traits?

 

Will I at last find those missing parts?

and move more hearts with whole new art?

Missing Parts Part 1: Mindless Metaphors

I meander on in this mundane plane.

The seatbelts screech without a tune,

and the foulest fumes fog up the room,

so, I wrench my head to this window.

I’d strive to dive in these inky depths,

swim in this sea of starlit streams,

but these windows snuff my lucid dreams,

and leave me breathless, begging for air.

My page stays white as wispy clouds.

My ink dried out and disappeared.

But could this nightly atmosphere,

promise me some mighty words?

No fine lines flow to my mind,

as cruise ships cross those black waters.

But could some mindless metaphors,

roar somewhere down that beaten track?

Could these red cars be bleeding hearts?

Where on earth are those missing parts?

Is this a true palm tree, or my mad mirage? written by Rithika Nadipalli (and edited by Ishita Nadipalli)

The day feels so dark and dreary.

My heart feels so wrecked and weary,

so, I head outdoors and breathe deeply.

 

Ripples of air shush down my sighs.

A palm tree soothes my swollen eyes.

It sure shadows the sunlit skies.

 

Gold streaks shine down the tree’s brown bark,

I can gaze for hours at these gorgeous sparks.

Oh, how they brighten up this boring tar!

 

This palm tree smells so sweet and swell.

Yum… Fresh coconuts and caramel.

Hmm… Some fruity scents I can’t yet tell.

 

One whiff of this summery perfume,

bursting with bananas and mango bloom,

whisks me to breezy beaches, far from my room.

There, I can simmer down on sandy shores,

I can sip that mocktail, one glass more,

and swim in seas, so cool and azure.

Those fronds flap so fast, oh my days,

like sprightly stars that burn and blaze.

I feel embraced by this tree's ways.

Oh eyes, please let me see a tree this large,

Please don’t let this be my mad mirage,

I hope I’m not gazing at my garage.

I'm so swayed by this scene sublime,

I pray for it to sway here all the time,

and banish my rancid garage of grime.

 

Please don’t desert me tree, I weep and wish.

Please make my vapid life vanish,

and whisk me to vast seas with a swish.

 

At once, this fickle tree disappears,

leaving me stranded and sweating here.

Oh well, at least now my mind is clear!

Hello everyone.

I hope you enjoyed my poem. This time, it is about a swaying palm tree I perceived one hot afternoon. I admired its gorgeous golden-brown bark, and flapping fronds. I basked in its sweet, ‘fruity scents’, which momentarily swept me away to ‘sandy shores’ and ‘azure seas’. I hoped this sublime tree would be true scene. Sadly, I learnt that it was my ‘mad mirage’ after all, as it disappeared, stranding me in my unpleasant ‘rancid garage of grime’.

 

Again, thank you Ishita for editing my poem, and making it sound more melodic, moving, and magical. As always, you are such a supportive sister, and I always enjoy sharing and editing my poems with you. 

Firstly, in line 11, Ishita suggested ‘yum’, which sounds more fun, and less redundant than my original ‘hmm’. Plus, ‘yum’ carries no connotations of displeasure or doubt, unlike more dubious ‘hmm’. I had no doubt that these smells were yummy, so I chose 'yum' over 'hmm'.

 

Secondly, in line 25 Ishita suggested ‘I’m so swayed by this scene sublime’ which is more melodic and modern than my original, outdated line 25 ‘I’m mad about this mortal prime’. Her pun shows I am so awed, I am literally swaying along with the hypnotic palm tree. Furthermore, her line feels more hopeful and heart-warming than my ‘mortal prime’, concluding that this tree is my life’s biggest bliss, and closes one’s hope for enjoying future milestones and magical moments.

 

Thirdly, Ishita suggested line 33, when I was struggling to conclude the poem. She suggested that despite my sweat, tears, and loss, at least my ‘mind is clearer’, because I taken a brief repose, and admired this transient, but peaceful and pretty palm tree. Now when I reach the poem’s last line, I do not ‘weep’ because the 'tree disappears', but I smile, because I enjoyed the scene and my mind became clearer. 

 

Thank you Ishita for making this whole poem more delightful, and less dreary. Your enthusiasm, and awesome ideas always enlighten me and brighten my days. You are such a talented writer Ishita, and I hope you get inspired to write your own poems soon. I for one would feel so excited to read them.

The Whys of Wisely Using Time written by Rithika Nadipalli (and edited by Ishita Nadipalli)

This mysterious source has many measures.

We must use this unit very wisely,

for every minute and hour is treasure,

for it slips from our palms so silently.

 

Sometimes the hours can feel so long and tiresome.

We can dance or play or sing in rhyme,

or eat food, smell flowers, or enjoy our freedom.

Take care, those hours won’t last all the time.

 

Some day or other, our world shall end,

so, stop scrolling Twitter or spreading hate.

Instead, achieve, travel, help and befriend,

make more memories before it’s too late.

 

If we always harbour grudges and stress,

once our hair goes grey, we’ll regret.

Life is too short for anything pointless.

Do more things you will never forget.

Hello everyone and thank you for reading this short poem. I hope it inspired you to be more productive, positive and engage in more pleasurable activities in your life, until death. 

Once again, I credit my truly awesome sister, Ishita for helping me edit this poem. I appreciate her idea of mentioning how much we will regret our wasted time, grudges, and stress once our 'hair grows grey' - it is a more colourful and poetic reference to our venerability than my duller 'once we grow old' idea. 

When I struggled to complete the last quatrain, Ishita conceived the last 2 lines, using the classic 'life is too short' precept, which did not occur to me as I was trying to write down oblique, and unusual ideas as usual. Ishita also just made sure all of my lines were grammatically correct and reworded some of my rambling and repetitive lines. 

Thank you so much Ishita for being an excellent editor and sister. Writing poems is just not the same without your witty, and wonderful ideas. You are such a brilliant writer Ishita, and I hope you get inspired to write your own poems soon. I would feel excited to read them myself.

Maths Madness written by Rithika Nadipalli (and edited by Ishita Nadipalli)

Our opinions will never be maths,

they’ll always be odd and somewhat biased.

So, let’s stop ticking them all as facts.

Let’s spot and subtract some wrong ones.

 

Let’s face it, everything else is so subjective.

There’ll always be greys and that’s fine for me.

At least maths solutions are always objective,

If not nought, it’ll be one, it’s binary.

 

People often apply thoughts to real lives,

but this view is only half-true.

Facts of life can expire like pies,

but maths stays true, for every issue.

 

Though people preach they’re always straight,

in some contexts, they may not stack up.

Some people may just not relate,

but in all pages, maths problems add up.

 

Math’s textbook formats can vary.

Their pages can be A3 or A4,

but their sayings are always stationary.

We all know that 3 plus 1 is 4.

 

In this world, everything is mutating,

I always navigate an uneven grid.

It's mixed messages feel so grating.

At least maths is as lucid as liquid.

 

It’s awesome how maths never alters,

I can accept it without any falter.

Hello everyone and I hope you enjoyed this short poem about how reliable and rigorous maths is, and how it provides some security to those confused by a world with its dynamic and diverse politics, contexts, cultures, views and messages. 

I just want to give a big thank you to my awesome sister, Ishita for editing my poem. She helped me make this poem clean, concise, coherent and more celebratory of the fascinating field of Mathematics. 

In line 11, Ishita chose to compare 'facts of life' to 'expiring pies' in line, to highlight the SIGNIFICANT PI SIGN, I overlooked in my draft calculations. Without her additions of other symbols (e.g., pie signs), my poem would have been cluttered with redundant PLUSES and MINUSES. Plus, Ishita's line 11 describing how 'facts of life can expire like pies' is tastier, funnier and more fitting than my duller and more irrelevant line 14: 'fickle facts of life flapping like bats'.

Plus, in line 14, Ishita changed my redundant 'adding' verb with 'stacking' to describe people's arguments as NOT STACKING up instead of my cliched NOT ADDING UP. 'STACK UP' also avoids repeating line 16 where I state that maths problems 'ADD UP' in every media so I am grateful for her great suggestion. 

Thank you Ishita for your ingenious inputs :) You are one of the finest editors I can ask for and this poem would not be the same without your comical ideas :). You are such an awesome writer too, and I hope you get inspired to write some of your own poems someday. I for one would love to read them.

The Wonders of Worldless Weaving written by Rithika Nadipalli (and edited by Ishita Nadipalli)

I’m a weaver bird, who loves her crafts. 

In my nest of words, I script song drafts. 

I hear some tunes and hunt for meanings, 

my heart can flutter with full on feelings.

 

At times my mind and songs go wrong, 

I feel stressed, and sad and not so strong. 

I then leave behind my tangled nest, 

and fly away to some forest.

 

When soaring through the broad blue yonder, 

I no more brood on pointless ponders. 

Once I weave with wordless threads, 

my worries fade, and I feel refreshed.

 

Weaving waves of wordless wonders, 

washes away those needless words. 

How could a weaver screech or glower, 

when weaving frozen lakes and flowers?

 

My mind and heart harmonise when I sew. 

My creative juices just so freely flow. 

I can feel each texture, find each hue, 

and take my scenes at face value.

 

For they’ll always be still, and simple. 

Daisies stay daisies, on dresses or wimples. 

Why peck at flyaway thoughts with poor logic, 

when we can pin down sturdy fabrics?

 

When my thoughts just flit too much, 

and twist too quick for quills to touch, 

needles untwist and stitch those truths, 

till straightforward, and super smooth.

 

When my strange song ruffles my feathers, 

when with each edit, it won’t get better, 

I quickly quit, lay down my quill,

and stitch some frills, to feel tranquil.

 

I always suss what each thread says. 

No needless fuss, no mindless guess. 

Words can’t confuse these works of art, 

threads pause my mind and please my heart.

 

Weaving rests my battered throat. 

Rather than doubting what I wrote, 

I can run-stitch rainbows, through the sky, 

without asking how, what, where, why?

 

Once my mind is calm and clear, 

I flock back to my nest, with new ideas. 

Once it's combed, and shows no crease, 

I chirp with hope and inner peace. 

Hello readers.

Thank you for reading my poem, and I hope you enjoyed it. I got inspired to write my own poem from the perspective from an artistic Weaver Bird, after hearing Owl City's House Wren's song from his Cinematic album (about a happy house wren searching for a perfect summer home):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vuk3zJ3CVco

In my poem, my weaver bird usually chirps lovely lyrical songs in her nest of words. However, sometimes she feels flustered, her nest tangles up, and all her songs go wrong.

 

To unwind, she drops her quill, leaves her tangled nest and flies away. Once she lands in a restful place (e.g.,  mountain or new tree), she weaves pretty, peaceful 'wordless wonders', like 'frozen lakes and flowers'. While weaving, she smiles, feels serene and stimulated. 

My weaver bird always admires her awesome designs without analysing any confusing and controversial meanings, she hears in other songs. She loves how ‘straightforward’ threads speak for themselves. When weaving, she never once has to ‘untwist’ their secrets. Weaving helps her untwist, understand, and express any ‘flighty thoughts’ and ‘truths’ hovering in her mind.

Once she feels calm, she flocks back to her cleaner, newly combed nest of words, and feeling more motivated to chirp or hear new tunes again.

 

Thank you so much for all your edits Ishita. They bring so much clarity and colour to this poem.

 

For example, I love how you suggested ‘still’ instead of my unnatural 'concrete' adjective in line 21. Still transports readers into the 'still' woodlands, rather than a static and 'concrete' city. 

 

I also appreciate how you suggested I use daisies in line 22 to express how woven concepts always stay the same. whatever the context or clothing (e.g., dress, or wimple). Daisies also commemorate the classic, and cheery lazy daisy stitch, so I penned it into this poem. 

I also love how you suggested how some songs 'won’t get better with each edit’ in line 33, when I was struggling to rhyme line 33 with ‘feathers’. Thank you for your witty line Ishita.

Lastly, thank you Ishita for switching my uninspired 'sing' with the more birdlike 'chirp' in line 44. Now, every time I read line 44, I smile, and see a chirping, hopeful, and peaceful bird.

 

Thank you Ishita for bringing this forest and whimsical weaver bird to life. You shortened and corrected so many wordy lines, making the poem more fluid and natural, like a flowing lake. You are such a naturally talented writer Ishita, and I hope you get inspired to write your own poems soon. I for one look forward to reading them.

Lady of Twillight weds her Duke of Daylight

I slouch on the bed, feeling bored and blue,

I had enough of this rubbish room.

If I did not suffer this hunger and flu,

I’d rush out of here right now.

 

Someone, please see my trembles and tears!

Please just let me leap out of here!

 

At once, I spot an indigo ringed cyan spot.

At last, something new popped up.

I squint to work out, what is this blot,

could they be paint blobs, text, or photo pixels?

 

Seriously, what are you showing me silly smidge?

Just fire me some facts or share me an image!

 

Are you whispering weird words?

Or calling me crude names in morse code?

Could they be buzzy flies, or cheesy bluebirds?

Or could it be a smea:::rrrrrrrr……, h-h-huuuh!…

 

At once, I shudder, and my breath goes halt

As my body blasts off to some vast black vault…..

 

I sigh, as I eye the Lady of Twilight.

Her midnight mane billows and flows so gracefully,

her face glows opaline, like lambent starlight,

her deep blue dress sweeps away my stress.

 

Suspended in a symphony of shooting stars,

I’d hate to return to roads blaring with diesel cars.

 

She ties a pearly veil behind her silver tiara,

and winds a cyan sash round her slender waist.

She blooms far fresher than earth’s every flower,

could this spellbinding blue-blood be a blushing bride?

 

This comely lady glides to the carmine globe of fire.

The Duke of Daylight awaits: her object of desire.

 

"oh gor-gor-geou..s go-de-de-desss", this bashful duke stutters

"your beau-beautyyy bewitches m-m-my min::::nd"

he stumbles and blushes,

"and I’m proud to call you mine sweet prince " the lady beams

 

as she swishes her gown and swirls around

I pray to stay here and never crash down…

 

Phew…, I pinwheel up to her heavenly pinnacle,

Calid carmines cool down to Cimmerian.

Oh, how those stars still twinkle, and my palms still tingle!

Thank goodness I did not yet crash!

 

We swing on the lady’s crystal chain,

feeling free from those piping hot flames.

 

"I don’t miss my burnished sun’s sunders and sears,

These gelid gusts sooth the cruel sun’s bruises".

"Your warm words brighten my night dear

now let's admire those crystal comets" 

 

we whoop at a cyan rocket bursting away from

stormy skies

we weep at white hot webs shocking a squid, as it

cries…. Ouch, ouch, owwwww, brrrrrrr….. Thud!

 

I wipe my moony eyes and thud back to bed.

I spy a peacock feather flicked with blue drops.

Though my blues have yellowed, and my flu has fled,

I miss the true-blue lovers and that vast black vault.

 

My Next Door North Indian Drummer.

Dear noisy neighbour drumming next door.

Why punch your drum with such madness and might?

Every morning you get me yawning.

Could your thumps be cheering or mourning?

 

Do your bongs summon sultry Bollywood songs?

Do they douse out Big Ben’s brash ding dongs?

Do your drumbeats ignite Punjab’s heat?

Do they drown down others’ chronic chatter?

 

Do you miss orisons ringing in temples?

Do you desire dancing to drums in Carnivals?

Could they clatter like chains grand elephants wear?

While here, chains constrain, and clamp them tight.

 

Do they rumble your room like Baba’s loud laughs? 

Do they accelerate to replicate a snakes’ hiss?

Do they mimic monsoon storms roaring endlessly?

Do they feel like fireworks bursting each Diwali?

 

Could you crave puris pounding in hot oil?

Or the popping poppadoms’ Nani fries for you?

While here, oven beeps signal soggy samosas.

They don’t crackle like her Punjab samosas.

 

Do you miss Baba’s aloo tikka, fresh from his tandoor?

It’s crisp singe, zingy lime and tangy chaat masala?

But these English chefs serve you pallid potato spuds.

Their sauces never sizzle, and sing to your tastebuds.

 

Perhaps your potent punches and pounds,

evoke papri chat’s crunches and sounds. 

Oh, your rhythms rouse and drum up a desire,

for spicy pani puri and sharp papri chat.

 

Let’s sip a lime soda and a mango lassi.

Let’s share your Punjab payasam, and my Andhra arisa,

I’ll strum my sitar with your drum’s bangs.

We’ll play away our bitter pangs.

 

Please tell me how bells tinkle from young brides’ trousseaus.

I’ll tell you when a buffalo bit my Tata’s crops.

We will not just survive but also truly thrive,

if we reveal our fancies, fears, and our childhood lives.

 

I can resonate with your unfair fate.

I miss Andhra’s sounds, smells, and sights,

but perhaps after our music and munches,

your fists can endure less bruises and crunches.

 

Our inner battles should not rattle our hearts.

Though English, Shakespeare sold me strong advice.

He said, if music be the language of love play on.

I say, “if food be the fuel of our friendship, eat up”.