Is emptiness your toy?

Not the sea, nor the fair, 
No, not the missed stair;
Not the fun, nor the sun, 
Not even her messed up hair;
Not the talk, nor the shout, 
It isn't the whisper in the air;
When it's none of that you yearn, 
Oh heart, why despair?

Songs, that were never sung, 
Dance unseen, tunes not hummed, 
The castles in the sand, 
Never built at the beach, 
Rose bushes in the backyard,
Bare thorns beseech, 
Oh what joy, atta boy, 
Tell me, is emptiness your toy?

Except you, except me

It isn't funny,
That I can hear your footsteps,
in the pitter-patter of rain.

It isn't comforting,
To find you staring back at me,
when I look into the mirror.

It isn't the same,
Them playing songs that you love,
when I switch the radio on.

It isn't fair
To know that you are around,
but not with me.

It isn't how it should be,
Because nothing seems to have changed,
Except you, except me.

Revenge

She giggled, as they sat,
In the ominous shadows,
By the calm of the lake,
Not letting time slip by.

He heard her chortle,
Through the veils of thunder,
Echoing in his mind,
And it made him shiver.

She fell back into the water,
Beckoning him, with her eyes,
He laughed out loud,
As he lunged forward.

He reached for her hand,
And held it tight,
As she pulled him down,
Deep.

She wouldn't let him go,
He wouldn't let  her go,
Her eyes spitted fire,
And his, untold tale of yearning.

Five years

They stood there, together
Like strangers,
Who knew each other too well.

Feeling claustrophobic, in the open park
He finally let go,
Letting the silence tear his heart apart.

He looked back, after they bid goodbye
polite and curt,
This wasn't meant to end. Not like this, anyway.


****

It had been just five years. No. It had been five fucking years. And it felt like they had met each other for the first time.

****

'So, you will call me, right? I don't have money to call you in London', he chuckled.
'No, I won't, fucker' .... he rolled his eyes, snatching the cigarette from his hands, and laughing madly. 'Stop talking like a kid, it's just London'.
'I am gonna miss you man'
'Abbe saale, internet hai na'....

****

Tittle Tattle

Slight tickling in the ribs,
hiding a smile behind lips,
knuckles feeling light,
head spinning left and right.


It's not anything new,
and no, not something old,
Nothing worth nothing,
and no, not precious like gold.



No more she walked,
she hopped, skipped, and jumped,
No more she talked,
she sang, whistled and hummed.

The longing in the eyes,
and giggle in her pout,
Tittle tattle was all he did,
And she waited, day in and out.

Soak No More

She felt it on her cheek,
tiny, wet, stinging,
Her parched skin revolted,
in spasms, short and quick.


Then, there was another,
And a wayward one more,
Her nails dig in her palms,
Of pain, she would not bother.


The drizzle gave way to shower,
And then, rain, ruthless and fierce,
Her clothes clung to her pale skin,
Head sunk, her feet knelt lower.



Then something inside, deep,
Exploded through her eyes,
The rain would soak her no more,
As tears would run, streak, creep.



This poem has been written as part of IndiBlogger's "The Surf Excel Matic #SoakNoMore Contest".

Undo

If there was just one wish,
that could come true,
which one would you choose,
among the thousands that swarm your mind?


Leave it to the heart,
and it will fly around,
like a carefree bird,
hoping for the special, and the absurd.


The pleasures of the flesh,
royal wealth that's envy of the world,
beauty that inspires,
and intellect that wows generations to come?

Or to know what lies ahead,
in the realms of future,
the fate of those who are dear,
and enemies, far and near?

Or to simply erase,
misdeeds, errors and follies,
Undo and heal?
If there was just one wish.

Search

Looking back isn't easy these days,
For the toys are of no more interest,
And yet, I miss the fun that I had,
while playing with them.

Not easy to look at old photographs,
For the friends in them are no more around,
And yet, I miss the bizarre connect,
that I had with them.

The comic books give no more joy,
And yet, I hoard them like a treasure,
For I miss the playful excitement,
of reading them.

Nothing has changed, and yet everything has.
For what is lost cannot be found,
midst old memories and tokens.
Search for innocence, is an unending quest.

Till it goes all numb

It creeps up forlorn lanes,
like shadows gaining shape,
scary,
after sunset.

It trickles down mossy walls,
like droplets of water,
tiny,
after a quick drizzle.

It sweeps the brazen fields,
like wind with its own mind,
hoarse,
after rushing down the hills.

It laps up the shores,
like waves, tall and high,
mad,
after flowing for miles.

It slowly pervades the heart,
like needles piercing the skin,
sharp,
till it goes all numb.

Path, known and forgotten

Unknown fear, little known desire,

Never has the path been clear

A jump here, a hop there,

Those who passed, come back to sneer

There were hints, that deceived,

And foes, held dear

Self-made rules broken without mercy,

Sought smile, found leer

It was never meant to be simple,

And never, has the path been clear.

This time for Calcutta

A shy bride,
a forgotten princess,
a fairy with its ethereal charm,

With hint of glory, old,
A city will regain life,
Faces mirthful, hearts warm,



Streets will light up,
And stars'll shine the brightest,
With people, alleys aswarm,

For the Goddess is here,
And joy is here,
Blessed will be homes, blessed will be farms.

Who would you rather be?

The poet, who paints on the canvas of thought,
And hums a forgotten tune as rhymes are wrought?
Beautiful is how the world seems to him,
But not him if surrealism is what you seek not.


The actor, who dons a new skin everyday,
and emotes without effort, as myriad layers peel away?
But to none does he reveal what hides in his heart,
So not him if for you, secrets are not part of the play.


The saint, who chooses that which is pure and austere,
With his heart all empty and mind unnaturally clear?
His desires ended even before the time could begin,
Never him if you think you could care for someone's tear.

The clown, and his dance, and his jokes, and his smile,
Who makes your day, with his simple style?
He is in everyone, and yet, none want this fate,
So why not him, if you haven't made anyone laugh in a while?

Tales that Reflection Tells

Smug and taut,

His face glowed with triumph.

Sly was his smile,

and confident his trot.

I am the winner,

He looked at himself.

But was it Him that he saw

Or an image pale, unclear.

'Lies', she hissed in his ears,

The smirk faded.

'All of them', she clawed at his heart,

stoking unknown fears.

Then she dissolved, in disdain

And merged with Him.

But now he wouldn't look

Into the mirror, ever again.

The Flute Player

This is a repost of sorts. Had written this way back - before college, seems like before time. Don't know what had inspired this - but when I think of it now, various inspirations come to mind - The Solitary Reaper, Braj Ki Sandhya (one of the bestest Hindi verses I have read), The Pied Piper...


Can't write such stuff anymore, back then I used to write for myself, only my own self. There was no need for acceptance. No greed for praise and accolades. The innocence is now lost - I am myself no more.

“The Flute Player”

~~~~~

The ‘fireball’ was sinking low;

And darkness swept o’er the vale;

And the villagers awaited eagerly –

Him – who makes their hearts sail.

Then was heard a distant tune –

Soft like love, Soothing like prayer –

Which grew louder every moment;

He came, at last, the Flute Player.

He walked down the hamlet lane

Playing the most lingering tunes;

A surreal aura evolved, and,

The listeners forgot their haunting pains.

A maiden slipped into the world of dreams,

Oblivious to her worldly part…

Enchanted and mesmerized she sang –

‘Oh, oh, the Flute Player of my heart!’

The young ones also took a ride

To joys of bliss as the music loomed.

He weaved magic with his flute –

And they merrily danced to his tunes.

But still with all his lust ’n charm,

The Flute Player remains all alone.

He swaps our sorrows for divine joy,

Yet, pines for something, to us, not known.

He plays his flute with burning zest,

Perhaps to make his pains flow

In tunes that fill thy heart with Joy –

Wherein may he find his secret cove.

~~~~~~