Hark! The rhythm

Hark! The rhythm. The pellet drum rattles. The dance begins. The creation, the annihilation, the fleeing in-betweens, and beyond these appar...

Thursday, March 28, 2019

Rivulet

The rivulet flows
above the hard rocks,
meandering, snaking
through the beaten tracks and trails
scraping them slowly,
turning stone to sand
with tenacity, persistence, sheer will.
Just like love
flowing through the skin
mingling into arteries,
veins and capillaries,
seeping in to the heart,
and gradually penetrating,
soaking the soul
through and through.
Impervious?
There is no such thing.
The swirls, the twirls,
they leave their marks,
folds and wrinkles.
The contours on surface,
the chemistry in depths,
fuse together,
blend, interblend,
sedately, unhurriedly
permeate every single pore,
saturate the very being.
The rivulet flows, just like love.

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Notelets for you

I sit by the window,

relishing

the soothing spring

and spin some words,

delicate, sweet,

and a tad crunchy.

I engrave my odes on paper

like involved intricate carvings.

And then I persuade

the fragrant young gusts

to carry my scribbles

in their folds and pleats

for delivering to you.

One notelet bears

my love for you,

the other, my prayers,

my fervent, ardent wishes.

And I earnestly hope

that when at leisure

you’ll read my letters,

a rosy blush,

a shy smile

will grace your sober lips

at the sheer absurdity of this gift

sent by a crazy me.

Monday, March 25, 2019

Boredom

As the main gate creaked,
eight eyes looked up in unison,
curious, probing and expecting.
Two hungry calves,
their mother and (perhaps) grandmother,
basking in the morning sun,
looked up, anticipating breakfast.
Vitamin – D did little
to silent rambling stomachs.
Thankfully, the garbage collector,
sensing their hunger,
dumped a paper bag near them,
the rotting fruit spilling over
on the dusty road.
The young bovines rushed.
Their mother followed suit,
while the eldest stood,
satisfactorily observing
her brood.
They gobbled
and her hunger satiated.
Mother’s divine love, everywhere.
Nourished, her litter ambled away.
Mundane things
that you notice in
world-weariness.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 words : Boredom 

Thursday, March 21, 2019

Equinox

The sweet caress
of summery breeze,
the mild susurrations,
the stirring of dried,
dead papery foliage,
and the buds of life
deriving strength to bloom
from this decay.
The day beginning to stretch,
till it grows weary
and seeps into twilight
and the night hastily shrinking,
excitedly merging
into the reddish hues of dawn.
This desire of the day
and the yearning of night
blending magically in equal portions.
Their thirst quenched,
satiated in
vernal, verdant, vibrant
spring equinox.
And the blossoming love.

Linking with Weekend Writing Prompt #97: equinox 

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

The day bygone

I looked all around.
Shook the bedcovers.
Toppled the pillows.
Went down on my knees
and searched underneath the bed.
Switched on the flashlight
and checked all the toe-spaces.
Even the cabinets and wardrobes,
turned them topsy-turvy.
Emptied the drawers.
Ah! And stacked them again.
Explored all nooks,
every spot that I could think of.
Went around the house,
rummaging, seeking, failing, retrying.
You see, I had lost the day-bygone.
And I sought it now.
But all this search
and I still could not find my yesterday.
And at the eventide,
I realised,
I had lost my today as well.

Sunday, March 17, 2019

Whispering thoughts

They give prompts for writing.
And the triggers remind me of you
Words flow
from the nib of my pen.
Plain simple words
that I want to say to you.
Conversations
that I want to have with you.
I hold on to those words
and weave them into poetries.
I knit them into verses.
I tag them into fictions
and improvised fantasies.
People read them.
And they call me a writer.
A person of free-verses.
Only if they knew that I am no author.
And these scribblings are no poems.
That the verses they read
are merely the unrequited susurrations.


Friday, March 8, 2019

She is.

She is.
And her being is sufficient.
Complete.
Adequate.
Rather abundant,
plentiful in all respects.
She is..
The horde of possibilities
that this sentence offers,
all the adjectives that you can think of.
Yes! She is each one of them.
Ace. Adept. Accomplished.
So, she is.
And it is because she is
that we are.
Period.

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

Fumbling

Fumbling steps,
steadied by your finger,
balance of life literally wrapped around it.
My tomorrows all assured.
It was only yesterday.
Seemingly so.
Though it has been good two decades.
Er.. Slightly more than that.
Today, I stand, unfaltering,
in pink blush of bride-to-be.
My steps are steadier now,
after years and years of running around you.
But as the future stares at me,
deep within,
I crave the envelope
of that one finger of yours.
The surety it promised.
The confidence it inspired.
Today, I wish
I could go back in time
and fumble my steps all over again.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 words : Pink

Saturday, March 2, 2019

Eventide

It should so happen
that one eventide
you come
and sit by my side.
And we spend the day-end
reveling in togetherness.
In the simple intimacy
of just being there.
Gradually, at the sunset,
the blue and the red interweave,
and the purple of the twilight grows thick.
Smudging into night.
And it should so happen that
this nightfall blends into nightfall.
This dusk into dusk.
That eventide,
when you come and sit by my side,
there should be no dawn.
How I wish!

Friday, March 1, 2019

Nutcase

Nutcase.
May be that’s what I am.
I look
at the fallen foliage of autumn,
dead and dried,
and I fall in love.
And then there is you!
You with your beautiful smile.
You, when you lower your eyelids,
like nightfall.
You, alive. Vital and spirited.
Nutcase.
May be that’s what I am