new, poems

Welcome to my La La Land

up when I woke

standing like a slowpoke

I brushed up holding a cup

walked to the fireplace beefing up


I reached into my mind

to see what I find

what could be that

what will be its format


will it be the love or romance

and I did not find any homonym for that

will it be comedy with little terror

or the adventure in a far off land with struggle bearer

I, that please some ,try all ,both joy and terror

of good and bad , that makes and unfolds error


whatever it may be

but it’ll be original

making your mind to visit my la la land.

Image result for la la land

I hope you’ll like it..

new, poems

The Red Attitude

An attitude of gratitude

brings the personality in you

it defines you

and of course refines you .


one in the million’s

have the red attitude

because many of them fake it .

they try to be other and mind others

and so their attitude don’t matter.


who be the real

attains the purity

just like blood they keep the flow

and attitude themselves.


your attitude may test you certainly

and bring some rains of sorrow

but what you have to do is

look for the rainbows.


Standing by your attitude

it will stand by you,

and making it pure

helps you find the stars in the dark .





new, poems, Uncategorized

I gOt tHe iNk

Hey ! I got the ink

Waiting for long,

I’ve been made a HOPELESS Sink!


Ah ! but finally

the pen started to spit

and wrote something that may be occasion fit.

not great as much as I thought of ;

but nevertheless the tremors in mine are over

and I managed to escape from the prison

that stayed Hope off.


the cannon thundered me with lots

storm’d at with shot

and got me shelled ,

the horse and the hero in me fell down

even though they fought so well .


but they came through  the paws of death

realized the destiny of writing,

back from the mouth of hell.


the glory in mine again unfurled

making the fountain to spit

what I was,

and telling me to get the ink !

Image result for ink





new, poems

I am going to Die

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Hey wait!

It’s high,

Relax! I’ m just going to die.


but , you’ve miles to go

before you sleep,

you must have some pending work indeed.


The desire to live is no more alive,

for the work I was here is done

and now I have to retire.


Just like everyone in the world

I am going to die.

After making the difference

I was handed by.


– Avani



new, poems

In the footsteps of my MOM


Image result for the footsteps
following the footsteps

Following the footsteps

I forgot the footer,

who taught me to walk

And to love one another.


I raised this one for her,

Because most of us need something

not to walk away from:

And that is my MoM.

I remembered her teachings

but forgot her feelings.

I just walked along the steps

but her heart was never at rest.


when I said,” I cannot beat this!”,

she said, “if you drop your beliefs,

you will drop your success ,

Do it because you need this.”

Far away from her

I carried her warmth,

In the footsteps my ancestor

I was strong.

— Avani singhal




nature, new, poems, time

The ROAD not taken- Robert frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one s far as I could.

Two here it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other , as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

oh, I kept the first for another day !

yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence :

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Image result for the road not taken



nature, new, time

Incredible underground city in Turkey that runs 18 story deep discovered by local who was renovating his home.

An underground 18-storey city that was discovered by chance (Photo: Getty Images)Credits: Getty Images

These stunning images show the underground 18-storey city discovered by chance by a man renovating his home.

In 1963, a Turkish dad knocked down a wall in his basement, revealing a secret room which led to an underground tunnel that took him to the ancient city of Derinkuyu.

Photos of the preserved city document how 20,000 people – including livestock and entire food supplies – could have lived 85m beneath the earth.

Continue reading “Incredible underground city in Turkey that runs 18 story deep discovered by local who was renovating his home.”

books, new, story, time

The Story of An Hour: by Kate Chopin

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

An illustration for the story The Story of An Hour by the author Kate Chopin

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him–sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door–you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”

“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.

books, new, time

The Alchemist

TheAlchemist.jpgImage result for thealchemist

The Alchemist follows the journey of an Andalusian shepherd boy named Santiago. Believing a recurring dream to be prophetic, he asks a Romani fortune-teller in a nearby town about its meaning. The woman interprets the dream as a prophecy telling the boy that he will discover a treasure at the Egyptian pyramids.


This novel is one of the great creations of panlo Coelho.You can read this book by downloading it online or can buy it.

By my personal opinion it’s just fantastic.the end is fantastic but you have to read the book the know about the boys’ journey.