A Bouquet Of Dreams

It is a beautiful dawn,

Kurinji  blooms bright blue,

Like it did,

That fateful day.

The view from window is hazy,,

But the memories vivid.

 

Of our house,

Atop a hill,

Amidst the cloudy dandelions,

And  the stooping laburnum,

Laden with golden blooms;

The cascading roses,

Shades of Red,

Ominous of  the sanguinary night,

Where she lay,

A withered flower,

My withered flower.

 

The Confluence

A mighty river,
a flowing handsome
mass,
And a coy rivulet, smitten by him,
Have a story to tell, so lo and behold.

She raced to touch him,
To slide over his highs and lows,
She danced on alluvial banks with joy,
As she neared him;
Foaming, rippling over the pebbles,

And the time came,
The river ever so stoic,
And she, her eccentric heart beats,
the waves touched the sky;
And the thoughts overflowed,
filled in the dark crevices on the land;

And in a confluence,
When the waters were one,
Her warmth simmered his cool waters,
And her gait, gave an impetus,
To his monotony.

But fate had something else in plan,
In a trifle, a tumult,
They diverged,
She tried hard to hold on,
Clasped his hands tight,
But suddenly felt something amiss,
His grip wasn’t firm,
And as the warmth rose in her,
She realised that it was always her who wanted this.

So she let go, slowly,
And the waters parted,
So did their ways;
She didn’t weep, she was strong,
And sometimes, letting go is strength.

Of Things Left Unsaid

As we sat on the rusty cold bench,

facing the magnificent sea,

I smiled, unable

to control my glee.

When you asked,

the question I dreaded,

What are you thinking, so dreamily?

Why are you smiling, so beautifully?

How do I tell you,

that the smile is a facade,

curtaining the things I wanna say,

the things I wanna do,

At the dark of night,

At the break of light,

to hold your hands,

deluged in the first rain,

submerging in the throes of passion,

collapsing into your arms.

How do I tell you,

that I want to surf the beaches,

gawk at the Louvre,

walk by the coral sea,

sipping some hot tea.

Instead, I say,

It’s nothing, just a beautiful dream.

The Dance Of The Waves

I lay on the sandy beach,
Toes gliding over the sun kissed sand,
Like a lover’s cafune,
The aftermath of a crimson sunset,
Exuding warmth and hue.

My fingers brushed my wavy hair,
As two waves rose in the oblivion,
Leapt up forward,
Like estranged lovers,
After a bout of separation,
Elated, they hugged, they danced,
They rolled about, rising into crests,
Hands entwined, swirling about,
Like the wands of a wizard;
Hands of a director.

Symphony died down,
A fleeting moment of silence,
As I closed my eyes,
Only to be engulfed,
Into the blue.

image

The Lie

He lies every night, by me;

I look into his bleak, unflattering eyes,

When he confesses his love to me.

I know that it is untrue, but want to believe otherwise.

 

I feel him slip away,

When I hold him tight,

I see him stumble in the way,

In the bright daylight.

 

I feel the coldness,

When he makes love,

I hug him and feel him tighten,

Like a stifled dove.

 

I wish he lied to me,

And I feel sorry for him,

As sad as it may be,

He is living a lie himself.

 

I lay there staring at the ceiling,

Where the fan rotated like the wheel of a cart.

Knowing fully, that I am the one in his arms,

But I m not, and cannot replace the one in his heart.

 

All Over Again

The first days are bliss,

Moments of elation, bursts of love,

Like when a new life,

Blossoms inside you.

 

Kith and kin shower blessings,

And congratulate,

And the couple smiles,

 Content, ecstatic.

 

Then start the risky days,

After the honeymoon curtain falls,

With bumps and kicks,

Just like when the baby grows.

 

Childbirth is agony,

Yet the baby’s first cry,

Lets you forget it all.

Similarly, with all the ups and downs,

Your smile, at the end,

Makes everything worth it.

 

Making me want to go over it,

Over all the flinching pain and bouts of elation,

All over again,

All over again.

The Coffin Maker

He lived with his son,
He was a businessman,
traded with death.
He was a coffin-maker.

He danced with joy,
With every death.
It brought him happiness,
And his daily bread.

He saved every penny ,
For his only son,
Innocent and bright,
Like the morning sun.

A fine morning,
the church bell rang thrice,
A death, he thought.
Smiled, happily.

He returned home,
Humming a tune.
Crowds were swarming,
In his courtyard.

He saw an innocent face
Clad in white ,
cold as ice
which knew no vice.

He made coffins to earn a living,
And the last one he made,
Was for his reason to live.
Who lay asleep, never to wake up.