Summer Soaked – ☀️☀️☀️A short poem about the Sun in summer.(Written out of partial respect and partial frustration)☀️☀️☀️

Photo by Jill Wellington on

Far from the coastline,
Right on the horizon,
Bobbing on waves of saline,
Lives the big fiery Sun.

Yellow , orange and sometimes pink,
Sets , rises , sometimes sinks.
Behind the clouds it hides…
On clear sky its rays rides.
It is not missed much in summers,
We think of it the most;
On cold winter days under our covers.

These days, Beautiful Sun,
You aren’t much fun.
Skin cancer and strokes,
Is surely not what we want the most.
A lil warmth , to dry wet clothes,
To grow crops for us and grass for goats.
That would be more or less it.
So please do not with your hot rays hit.

I really like you.
Yes i do.
But please just be right kind of warm.
For too much of you might do me harm.

Far from the coastline,
Hot and sweaty as i write…
Do take this plea of mine,
Please oh pretty please,
Sun , be a lil gentle with your shine

By Cynthia

NOTE: Hey everyone, if you liked my poem do give it a like.. and thank you so much for reading this childish poem.. i thought it was very basic , true and fun to write..

Also I hope you are doing okay wherever you are ♥️😊

Indian Instagrammers as COVID warriors ( A post on how Insta peeps helping right now in COVID -19 emergency situation in India)

Over the past few weeks the COVID-19 situation in India has been getting worse. Second wave they say , truth be told , the ocean of this pandemic has never been calm to begin with.

This post is going to be about influencers and in general people , whom I have come across on Instagram , who are doing a good job of amplifying the information that might help save people’s lives. People like Dolly singh , Khusha Kapila, Ankush Bahuguna, Manu Chaturvedi are just some of these kind hearted Instagrammers.

Availability and requirement of oxygen cylinders , Remdesivir , plasma and hospital beds, etc; are all constantly being updated in their stories.

The followers of these Instagrammers , DM (Direct message) them on their profile , the information is then , to best of their ability – verified, and then posted on their stories and sometimes even as posts on their profile.

Here are few screenshots of their efforts (Kindly ignore the picture quality) .

Yes they still create and upload content , but in the middle of all of that they also have managed to make content about staying indoors, wearing masks and even asking recently recovered COVID-19 people to donate their plasma as it might help someone.

Khusha , an Instagram Influencer , being in character of a mother and spreading the request of plasma donation in an entertaining but serious manner.

It is indeed truly heart warming to see them cheer us up in these hard times and also help out as much as they can.

In this , what “seems” to be , endless battle against the virus , we must also be grateful to the doctors , nurses , hospital staff and not to forget all the sanitary workers , almost everyone who are risking their lives to save lives, for they literally could run away from the scene and think about their lives first.

But they are there…Still standing , Still fighting for all of us.

NOTE TO READERS: Please stay safe , and hang in there my fellow earthling , we will get through this … Sending love, positivity and prayers for each of you out there in this world ! ♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

Tea for my soul ( A short poem on tea.)

Photo by Meruyert Gonullu on

Oh beautiful brown liquid..
So sweet and tepid.☕

You fondly remind me…
That eventhough life is full of blimey’s!😱

I can still take a break.
Bring in your friends: biscuits and cakes.

And genuinely feel that, life is all good.
That I am doing the best that I possibly could

-Poem by Cynthia

(Above Photo by cottonbro from Pexels)


Thank You so much for reading my poem on tea, it was literally inspired by a cup of tea that i was drinking.. hehe 😀. Yea I drink more tea than coffee..

I hope you my reader are doing okay in these tough times ❤️.. just hang in there 😎

And in case you like tea..I am sending you a virtual cup of tea to feel good about yourself . Here you go.. 😊

Photo by Olga Mironova on


Unpreserved Love. ( A poem about that ‘love’ which was never cherished.)

Photo by Andreas Wohlfahrt on


Feed the moon my poetry.
Tie my soul to your last blunder.
Follow my cries into the fathomless sea,
Watch me laugh with the every thunder.

The galaxies crumble at your door,
Looking for hope within your soul
Alas, they found you empty ,deep and above.
For you failed to preserve a gift so rare such as love.

Feed the moon my love drenched poetry.
Don’t stop until its drunk enough.
It wont be accused of gluttony.
For there is no limit to a universe called love.




You! Yes you who just read my poem.. please stay safe, i am glad you are alive and this is just a reminder to tell you , my lovely reader, that , things will get better. 😇😊😊💚

Oh, and if you like my poem , do press that 🌟 star/ like button.. It helps me a lot.. Take care my fellow beautiful souls 😊💚😊💚

AFAR – A poem about the love between “Callisto” ( one of Jupiter’s moons) and a “tiny space rock”(one among the numerous particles found in the Saturn’s ring)

Photo by Skyler Ewing on

I saw through my telescope
With my one foot in the air , totally surpised,

I witnessed Callisto elope.
With a cute rock covered in ice.

They jumped and circled ,
Their love signals sounded garbled.

Free from the pull and force…
They floated very near to Milkyway’s doors.

“Password” grunted a Policing star.
The couple giggled and showed their scar.

A massive part of them had gone,
As they left the places from where they were born.
Gates were then opened ajar.
And the two giddy celestial beings floated, excitedly, Afar.

CLARITY ( A Poem on Schizophrenia )

Photo by Daniel Torobekov on

I met a man.
As hollow as a canoe.
As heavy as a grindstone.
As lost as a cloud.
As silent as a mad crowd .

“Hush” he yelled.
To the crazy voices in his head.
“No, you are wrong!” he said.
Later he explained “Her soul is infrared!”
“Run” again he yelled.
“Hide” he whispered this time, and shivered.

I looked at his tear laden face,
The world called him insane with haste.

He looked at me with wide blank eyes,
Held his hand out and showed me hair ties,
A woman’s , i assumed,
His love’s perhaps which must have doomed.

I met this man as dazzling as the sun,
It seemed as if he lived in confusion.
But he was as clear,
As a bright stark ray,
And hence;
He could easily tune ,
Into the frequencies
of every abandoned soul’s ruins.

He gathered the debris.
Listened to all the voices carefully…
Arguing with some,
Reasoning at times understanding with some..
All this does leave him feeling numb.

But he chooses to listen to these,
One day he will get to listen to his own voice,

By Cynthia.

Hii !! To you who just read my poem : If You ( a.k.a an awesome human… I just know it and do not ask how 😊) like what you just read, Please do give this poem a like or a comment .. It really helps me ❤️❤️😊😊

NO ONE TALKS (A Poetry On Suicide)

Photo by Akshar Dave on

No one talks about suicide, no one talks about death,
No one talks about the staunch sadness lingering at the back of our heads.

No one talks about the pain that our tear ducts bear at night
Atleast can we talk about the mere loss of will to just try and fight?

Maybe we could , maybe we should..
Maybe we would if only we could be understood.

For what we are seems exaggerated at times.
Those looks and judgements of others brand our thoughts as crimes.

Maybe we should , maybe we could…
With a bit of kindness, voluntary time and an open mind,
Maybe .. just maybe we could be understood.
Maybe you could help us reveal what we so fiercely hide.
We are not abnormal or unusual or mentally sick.
Neither is it a choice to stay this way, do we consciously pick .

We do not need help “first”, as people say,
It’s the acceptance of just as we are do we so earnestly crave.

Even as we look at the stars waiting to be one with them..
Do we secretly hope that this belittling sadness stays within this realm.
Even people like us, deep down, actually do want to let go,
But with this unknown suffocating heaviness, we cannot go on anymore

By Cynthia

Hi there! If u like my poem ,please do give me a like or a comment .. it really helps me ❤️ 😊


Sky of all sorts.
You hoard on your canvas
Clouds, colours, celestial elements..
Thunderstorms,pollution and what not.

To humans, many purposes you have lent.
To see pyrotechnics
For analysis by some astro geeks
To mainly assess the weather,
Or to see some once in a blue moon kind of an event
At times for some random thoughts to gather
To contemplate, regret and repent.

Sky of all sorts,
You love changing a lot

You hoard on your canvas,
Just as we do with ourselves.
Yet you do so not all at once.

Maybe thats what we need to learn
That there is a time for everything…
A time for a certain passion to burn
A time to let go of lost hopes and just sing…

Sky, many lessons to us you have taught.
Simple,intrinsic..chapters of all sorts .

Sky of all sorts.

-A poem by Cynthia ( that would be me )

The Cigarette


Photo Credit: Pixabay –

(The cigarette is a monologue by a cigarette addressed to its smoker who is critically ill in a hospital )

There you stand, your living days numbered as that white-coated devil states. And I, with all my memory somehow keep forgetting it.

You were right about me.

I did want too much for myself; it’s always been that way and will still be. But it will be so, with only you.

And always with you.

How you have hidden my presence from everyone’s sight…As if I am an abomination to you? 

I lay here camouflaged, amongst your “Other” belongings. These Other… Things.

Things they are, of grim and gloom that have managed to separate us by telling you that these will keep you alive.. Just physically. That’s all.

Tonics, syringes,tablets,monitors.. oxygen tank? More like poison to your soul, are these Things of grim and gloom.

I know I am there, not at the back of your head as those white-coated people say. 

I am there, right there, inside your heart., seated with a rightful sense just as queen claims her throne.

Murmuring my presence away.

You hear me. I know you do.

Just as I can.

I can see you.

There as you stand, your breathing frail body covered in that grim green hospital robe. You are speaking to that white-coated devil with your thin hands trying their usual stance to complement the words that come out of your now swollen lips.

Oh, your lips!

Your smile … Let me not get distracted now.

But your perfect stark nose through which my soul so brushed with such agility and grace. 

Your stern eyes that carried such weight of your livelihood.That gorgeous forehead with sweet little lines of worry written across which I so helped to ease… 

That white coated devil, yes.. he was there, but then there you were. Your smile, which was not a perfect one. 

It was more than perfect.

I don’t want to be stuck with imagery of something ridiculously more than perfect, inside my head, for the rest the day. You see, I constantly live in the fear of having to wake up disappointed from those sweet satisfying dreams of you.

Disappointed as a result of having to realize, that it was all but a mere play of my imaginations with your darned lips. 

It’s not true, is it?

That you will stop breathing?!

That the body which I so joyously possessed and enthralling helped to ease and relax  .. that body? Will it cease to exist ??

Come to me my frail human .. Just come to me.

Let’s taste each other so passionately just one more and unfortunately the last time, as your days are small numbered.

And I, with all my murky memory somehow keep forgetting it.

The Copper Pot

Introduction: In Hindu funeral rites, the ashes of the departed person are kept in a pot before dispersing it at an approriate time into the waters of a river or an ocean. This poem is about a little girl who lost her father in a sudden way and how much she is used to having his strong presence around. I specially dedicate this poem to my friend who lost her dad, who was a wonderful support system to her and the family.

photo of father and daughter running at the park

Photo by Josh Willink on

The Copper Pot


A little girl lost her father.
To the family this sudden demise came as a shocker.

But to the little girl , she knew not a care,
As for her, father was just playing The Sleeping Princess dare.

A game which father used, to make her sleep.
The father would tell stories that would take her into fantasy world so deep;
That the little girl would end up sleeping without counting any sheep.
Her father used to hold her hand everytime.
He helped her stand, he taught her to walk.
He taught her to stay strong and be brave when people mocked,
Her father was always ready to hold her anytime.
The little girl knew her hand would always be caught,
If she ever let it out,
In search of support, love or doubt.
And so when the elders did the last rites and put him respectfully in a copper pot,
The little girl looked around to see her father but found that he was there not.

When the little girl with innocence asked about her father’s whereabouts;
Every elder around her solmenly looked at the copper pot.

And before her mother could say to her any more,
The little girl did put her fingers right into the pot’s core.

And with the puzzled look on her face , she tries her best to understand,
As she asks her mother ” Why is father not holding back my hand? ”


-Poem By Cynthia Monica❤