Rama Ink.

Living inquisitively.



Over trellises, lamp posts, fences, climbing, drooping, curling, I dream of clematis, in purple and white.

To have a Gardener’s hands!




We walked together awhile talking about this and that. How the world is round and the leaves taste of warm summer days and cool starry nights. And how, speaking of leaves always makes him hungry. So I left him to chew on his green leafy breakfast while I chewed on my thoughts all the way home.

That ‘whiling away’ time.



Countless trees I have marked
to sit under,
to read under,
to while away what is left of my time under.
Countless trees I have marked
where the shade is deep
and the leaves swallow the wind.



My foot is bathed in light. I have been watching it gambol around, lolling in the light of the morning sun. How snugly the toes fit together. How happy they seem to be resting for once, consciously.

I have lost my voice, figuratively. Not to worry, I will find it again. Just as I re-discovered reading. Except for a sporadic book here and there, I had all but stopped reading, too glued to the news, which I had NEVER done in my whole life! I was so blissfully ignorant of politics until it took over everything. Poetry was out of the question. It seems I am incapable of housing deep indignation and blissful ignorance all at the same time. I just wasn’t in the right place and now, it seems, I have lost the place. I have been looking for it, catching glimpses here and there but never quite catching it, feeling it. And I will not write unless I feel.

But I have not been idle. I must have some beauty! So I have been collecting images. Peering into the depths of things, the tops of things, the middle, hoping to shake something, loosen something. Hoping it will fall into my lap and stay as though it had never left. I never imagined writing poetry would come to mean so much to me. What started as a lark, has become a necessity, a solace.

I never imagined that not reading would hollow me out so. I had never imagined ever not reading. Thank god that is over! It’s good to feel human again. To feel the weight of a book. To stay up late, deep into the night, losing myself in a good story, letting the words run ribbons around my heart.


Yesterday was beautiful.
Warm and spring like.
I sat on the front door step, upended my hair and let the sun warm the nape of my neck. I loved the way it dripped down my back and loosened my spine. Have you tried running your fingers through sun warmed hair? The feeling is like no other.
Today looks promising, too.
There was a sunrise over the hills.


New found




January is done.
One month closer to spring, to summer, to warm breeze, easy breath, green, green, green everywhere.

But, strange though it may seem, I have fallen in love with the winter landscape. I never thought I would. I never thought I would care for the naked, stiffened limbs of trees and the cold seeping through everything. I still don’t care for the cold that comes for my bones with a vengeance. But the trees, the dark brown, and the beige of the earth! How they have fallen on my vision of a sudden, with a loud thump, a look at me, I can be beautiful within my bare bones, within my silence and my waiting. I can be beautiful without the light and the mollycoddling of summer.

I can be beautiful simply by being.

It has been a knock on the door, an awakening.


Yes, it is cold.
My hands and feet are a constant reminder. I am a warm weather person. Humidity does not bother me. But this cold, that is another story.
My bones ache from huddling inside my skin.
Everything feels tight and brittle and raspy.
I was never any good at the mind over matter thing. Not when there is such an ache in my body for warmth.
The sun helps, though. The brightness coming in through the window gives an illusion of warmth. I will take that and make the most of it. Thank you, dear Sun!








Starting small.
I have lost my voice for big things.
It will rise again when it is time but until then, I will start small because not writing is withering.

Winter colours


Fragility and hardiness with a hint of lace.

My kind of flower.

Wild. true.

With a bit of beige thrown in for good measure.

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