All these ordinary days

rummaging, through the stacks in my mind,

teeming with the paperwork of all the days,

I have survived, and some that, I have lived

so far, in this inconsequential life, of strife,

I am looking for a routine, usual day, when

I exercised my muscles, to actually smile-


that one afternoon, when I toasted my bread,

inundating it with clarified butter, browning it

like my arms, underneath the winter sun,

and those hot turmeric potatoes, wedged

between two such breads, and how I salivated,

smiling, I chucked, into the apexes of appetite;


those ungodly hours, of the nightingale night,

my whole being vibrating, with the music

bursting into the hollow of my ears, my eyes

streaked with tears, reflecting the words,

sung by Marx, Dion and Adams, when I was

still unfamiliar of Bowie, Lennon and Mercury;


and how to forget, the excursion to the city fair,

my reluctance, to climb onto the Ferris wheel,

all of those who accompanied me went, while

I waved to them, some had closed their eyes,

panicked, but still going on for the ride, and

the way I shivered in my bones and smiled-


I am pondering, over such moments of delight,

to be nostalgic, in these dark hours, and beam

and laugh and snigger, and tap my forehead, to

feel my presence in me, and consider these days

I have lived… I live through these ordinary days,

till when it comes, to screen the vision, of my eyes


Something light for today. This is tagged as the poem for 14 November for NaBloPoMo. I am also linking it up with Poets United Verse First, where the prompt is to talk about ordinary things.

Image source

15 thoughts on “All these ordinary days

  1. ordinary days – i really do not think there is such a thing – i think there is always something extraordinary – i am just to busy to see it or choose to ignore it. xx lovely piece:)


  2. Oh yes, the rummaging–and the moving of items from one pile to another–is very much part of the ordinary day here, Because you started the poem like that, I began to see each stanza as one of those piles. I think your narrator found that smile with the odd potato sandwich, when catching up on music, in the mask of confidence, and–most noteably–“to feel my presence in me.” A beautiful thoughtful poem.


  3. Anmol this is wonderful – I love watching you grow stronger by the day in your writing – not that you weren’t before ~ please don’t get me wrong, but by reading you, you have changed and evolved and this is just one of the many that I have loved 🙂


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