Saturday, February 6, 2016

Swirl slowly

Hearts are seized swiftly
But you have to swirl slowly
To seep and seek souls.

Linking with Haiku Horizons

Friday, February 5, 2016

An idea

One day you loitered through my mind,
an unhurried thought, distinct and clear,
unlike the hazy and fogged rushes,
and the train of my thoughts slowed.
I dwelled on us for some time
and then I laughed off the idea, brushed it aside,
vigorously erasing the traces
etched by it on the slate of my mind
but some markers are permanent
and try as hard as you might
you cannot rub out their writings from the board.
You now linger in my thoughts,
like an indelible ink stain on paper.
And I translate you into
syllables, words, proses and poems.


Thursday, February 4, 2016

Stars in his eyes

Beyond the rainbows,
Lie fluffy castles of clouds,
Where stars dwell, my child.

The child reverent,
Of this infinite stardom
And magic it weaves.

Stars in his small eyes,
Cosmos conspires in favor
Of the faithful child.

Linking with RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #82 Star & Child

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Mesmerizing, the ways of Lord.

Tiny hands foraged the canisters, scrounging home churned butter, the pitcher hung out of their reach.
Balancing intricately, the cowherds raised Kanha who doled out the delicacy for his kinfolk.
His shenanigans, simultaneously amusing and annoying Gokul.
Mesmerizing, the ways of Lord.


Sunday, January 31, 2016

When the thorn bush turns white

When the thorn bush turns white, he thinks.
His hands worked in the farm with all sincerity, aware of the field supervisor's eyes that missed nothing. Tired, spiritless souls picking and stacking their hard labour for selling in bigger markets, waiting earnestly for 10th of each month when their effort would be rewarded with crisp currency.
It was for survival that he had first moved out of his hilly hamlet. Back in his home town, the winters were long and harsh. A burning hearth needed earning hands. So he came here and labored his days in the orchards of this valley which bustled all time with clamor of touring feet.
Out here, life itself seemed long and harsh; a frenzied subsistence.
He yearned for dreary winters and cozy quilts; ached for mother's lap; yenned for father's embrace and longed to hear tinkling laughter of his folks. He even pined for insular niches ringing with folktales. Every single mention of his village sent goosebumps through his skin. Every picture of his hometown coming to life before his eyes.
But he knows that survival of his ménage depends on his daily struggles. So, he burns in this leave. Endures the pain. Earns the money and sends a decent share back to his people. Hoping the monied message will translate into his love and affection.
Perhaps someday, he thinks, when the thorn bush turns white, he might be able to go home.

Linking with Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes Prompt Challenge #11