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.

Lonely, the sentinels of eternity

From tame wavelets to wild and potent swells,
Waves, big and small, all die at my feet,
Their last breath etched on my surface forever,
Scarred, I stand tall, proud and lone,
Watching this tidal dance of rising crests and falling troughs.

The sacred altar

One has to approach
This altar,
Naked.
Place the beating heart
At this sacred pedestal
And stand to worship.
Reach the deep insides
And surrender completely.
Burn away,
Slowly but intensely.
So, here I am.
My prayers rising
With the incensed mists.

Savoury, all the way

There is something special,

About a mother's cooking.

Could be measured scoops

From some secret recipe,

Or extra dollops

Of love and care

That make it ambrosial.

But no master chef,

Anywhere on this cosmos,

Can serve a platter better than hers.

Cumulonimbus

You barged in.
Like a violent storm.
And a raging chaos followed.
The walls of my heart faltered.
Bursts of lightning
Filtered through the cracks
Setting me ablaze.
Lulled by thunderous claps,
I found my peace.
Ravaged by the tempest,
Saved, too.

My masked love

I fell for him; regal and impressive as he was.

Even lost my toddler-days devouring his comic-strips.

Phantom became the reason I wear thick eyeglasses.

He and transient surge of first crush.

Yet he chose Diana Palmer.

Masked men, I tell you!

The secret atop the hill

The eerie halo, blanketing the sacred ruins atop the hill, is torn apart by fluorescent flickers on moonless nights. Faint, almost like an illusion. Imaginations conjure bygone romances to life; reality, wizened manuses of a priest. Temple-tales weave themselves into our eventides.

Musings from farms

Farmhands moved away,

Lured by the glitz of cities,

hopes of better work.

Mother earth left deserted,

Coffee and jobs both erased.

Wild weeds aplenty,

Travails lost to empty nests.

The bosom, untilled,

Several genus trampled.

Empty percolators stare.

Reminiscent farmlands abound.