Fight barriers (haiku)

Today all can happen
I live to see the snow melt you
I could not.

Thank you Thursday Poets Rally for the Perfect Poem Award.

I nominate Life between the lines for the next award.

How a smile works

You know I stare at you.
Today I want to stare at you while you are doing your thing,
smiling your charming little smile.
I want to experience the entire process-
Of your facial muscles flexing,
your glorious 'fair' skin stretching
and tightening around your cheeks;
(Is there a slight hint of a dimple?)
Nostrils flaring momentarily,
and your eyes, as they squint,
with those mesmerizing eye-lashes
gather around them the wrinkles,
Cheeks brighten as they rise
lips playfully rise and
the bright sparklies failing to hide the shyness
you'd want me not to see.
I want to see all of this
and then
...
 I want to kiss the living day lights out of you.

Checklist for a working girl's/ charmingly-awkward December-child's birthday

It's that time of the year when I feel like writing a girly-girl post again. Well, if anyone has read 25 random things about me

 they would know that my birthday is on Dec.18 and "it's one of the hugest deal in the world to me."
 So, with less than a month left for the day, I've prepared a checklist for myself which I think will help me enjoy my birthday more.Although some of the things on the list may seem absolutely irrelevent, it all makes perfect sense in my head. 

Here's the list:

• Splurge on a birthday dress. Splurge on two. (check)
• Stop the gastronomical indulgences till the birthday for you want the dress(es) to fit you perfectly on your birthday too.  (check)
• Act your crazy head out about a month ahead of time (we all have to let the steam out from time to time ) so that you are your charming old self n people don't think you are a b%##^^ on your birthday.(check)
• Start making subtle reference to your birthday in conversations with friends so they don't forget the date.  (on going)
• Don't give any clues as to  what you want on your birthday if you are surprisophilic. (on going)
• Go slow on the social interactions with your 'usual' people.  You won't enjoy the day if you have been getting  an overdose of social gatherings and 'happy', ' happening' times. Abstinence is the word. (on going)
• Reconnect with the friends whom you've not spent much time with of late. Reminisce.  You'd be surprised how fulfilling these meets would be. Don't overdo it. (on it)
• Don't take any sudden whimsical leaves from work. I know we(especially you) all do it once in a while owing to the I-don't-give-a-smelly-rat's-ass-about-how-pissed-my-boss-would-be-if-I-take-the-day-off-today moods.  You need the money (for you've already splurged on the dress and a check on gastronomical indulgence doesn't mean stop eating! ) and they won't really be happy if you are celebrating your birthday at the company's expense. (fighting strong urges not to)
• Give your beloved some space. A lot of it, in fact. 'Distance makes the hearts go fonder', anyone? Only then, anticipation of the long awaited hug on your birthday would be worth it. (ongoing)
• Since you have cut down on the socializing go for solitary morning walks. Winter mornings have the curious ability to suddenly activate your dormant-god-knows-since-when neurons and you feel awesomely smart throughout the day. (check)
• Just before the D-day finish reading a book that touches you so deeply that you cry for hours and come out of it with just the right cathartic effect. The smile on your birthday will then be liberating.  (not yet)
• Get a pedicure, you'd need your soles if you wanna dance the night away on the Day. (not yet)
• Get a nice ooh-la-la(NOT The Dirty Picture fame) haircut. You don't want your hair to look like forgotten dirty a broom (not even worth a penny in Horwarts) while the rest of you is looking (if not a million) a few thousand bucks worth. (research on)
• Work. Don't procrastinate at least for some days before your birthday. That way the days would pass faster and you won't have a lot of pending work when you can really do with some presenteeism at work on/post D-day. (on it. :-/ )

20 Questions - (un)popular opinion

I am feeling awefully candid today. So here is a list of questions I'll answer, depending on the demand for the question. I'll update the answer in the post, as and when the question is chosen.

Send me a number and I’ll tell you my unpopular opinion (each person gets to chose only 2 numbers):
1. A crazed-over television program you do not/never cared for.
2. A color you think is over-rated.
3. A selection of celebrities you don't give a rat's add about.
4. A pastime you 'don't get'.
5. A habit you can't stand.
6. Something you really like doing which everyone else around you cribs about.

• Waking up early in the morning. Been the eternal wake-up call and have been sworn at, gotten things and tantrums thrown at meself . #jobhazard.

7. Your favorite household chore.

Getting supplies and storing up the fridge.

8. Popular websites that make you go 'blah'.
9. White chocolate or Salad?
10. A sport you don’t like, for whatever reason.
11. A body part you really like, for whatever reason.
12. Something that people always tell you when they meet you first and you hate.
13. Choose three not-so-positive adjectives for yourself.

These are not exactly three words but its my game and i m allowed to break my rules!

• Impatient and impulsive.
• tending-to-unsocial
• Queen-of-digression-while-story-telling.

14. You wish you are never a Corporate Hotshot.
15. A classic must-read did you last read and absolutely hated?

• Ulysses -James Joyce

16. Something that people around you are good at or at least try their best to that you hate and can't get around to do it.
17. A color that you don't like wearing.
18. Something that you'd really enjoy eating that most of your friends would go 'yuck' over.
19. A celebrity crush that maybe even you don’t understand.
20. Uninhibited  rant on whatever crushing your cookie at the moment.

All colors, violent colors in my head when I think of the crusher. Good thing. Because words would have confused me and not blended in so well. The nerve behind my ear is about throbbing so hard it's as if it'd burst out and all the colors' would splatter slowly  forming almost legible words; trying albeit not entirely successfully to pass on the message.

Inside

You can hardly feel 'us' with you.
I escape into the memory when I was me
and more yours than I am now,or ever will be.
The fire burns, still. Barely alive. Inextinguishable.

p.s: 
1. In response to 'Inside' http://player.vimeo.com/video/32032910
["I can hardly see myself alone.
you creep into centres unforseen
and i drowned all your depths 
they burn through my fire"] 


2.Shared with 

Poetry Picnic Week 13 at The Gooseberry Garden

Why long for love?

Because not everything has to logically make sense. That's why poetry exists. That's why certain colours blend and that is why we forgive even after being irrecoverably hurt.

See you on the other side of innocence

You may deserve my love, my breath, my body, my smile, my sighs & moans, my loyalty, my lies. But the one thing that you don't deserve is my youth.
So adios, my love.

p.s: Sunday is the time for the 160 Challenge. If you can write something within 160 characters, share it with Monkey Man like I did.

Babble mumble

I can't weep.At least not anymore. All the tears, the red burning tears that I was so used to shedding, scarcely serve to quench my now-frantic heart. 


↓


For, what are tears if it is just brine. They tinkle down and you, oh you terribly divine you, just wipe them off with your charming smile, which leaves me feeling mushy inside.


↓


Tears, to be taken seriously, should be thick, bloody and should dry your heart with each falling drop, leaving you, exhausted, lifeless. Unwipable. Only to be healed. 


↓




If corpses could talk, mine would probably -through it's weighted tongue- force out through faded, choked sighs the loss of the briny-sweet tears and the charming/disarming smile.  


↓


The eyes would,then, probably bleed the real tears again. For a corpse, even a corpse much-in-love, doesn't need a heart to be quenched. Only memories to breathe off of. 


↓


Muchas gracias, you.

Concordance II

You,
praying hands,
restless under the wrinkled sheet,
Seconds
measureless
inside a fuzzy head;
I,
a few ellipsis
lost in comprehension.

p.s:
1) In response to a beautiful poem by Shafeeq Valanchary.
2) Shared with Thursday Poet's Rally.

Breaking the rules

Hand placed yearningly on the windowpane, like Caesar the chimp; I sat watching the raindrops fall. True they are governed by gravity and must fall but stuck at office, the raindrops felt as free as the wind.

I grabbed my favorite cup of coffee and walked out purposefully to sip it, royally, in the rain.

If you or anyone you know has written a Friday Flash 55

Please tell The G-Man , like I did.

You've got mail

Prologue

2030, aug 24th, 6:35 pm : I found this letter while cleaning my desk. The handwriting seemed very familiar. It is only after reading one whole page that I realised that it was mine.

Chapter

Eyes set on your closed eyes with those perfect eye-lashes which make my heart skip a beat every now and then, what I heard you say last night:

I told you that I am not the perfect man that you think I am. I told you that I can be a screwed up, clueless, selfish prick hidden behind a shimmering porcelain mask. You laughed your generous laugh and told me that I was absolutely mistaken; that I didn’t have it in me to hurt a single soul and even if I did hurt you, I'd hurt myself more in the process.

You’ve got to understand that the nice, carefree boy-next-door that you know isn’t the real (or atleast the entire) me. Instead I'm a complete wreck, an unappetizing mess oozing out insecurities and wracking addictions off multiple sores, which running down my legs are creating a filthy puddle near my feet.

And hey, you’re not helping me when you’re looking straight at me with those big eyes, and the goofy grin of yours and calling me awesome. Perfect. Gorgeous. Hot. There is nothing that I want to do more than to pull off these so-called perfect layers of skin and fancy clothes and show you the toxic beast that lies waiting underneath. I want to show you the scars that are skin deep, marking me as an outcast for life, making memories unforgettable. I want to show you the scars that were supposed to be but I escaped. I want to show you the cold block of ice that is where my heart should be. I want you to lay your ear on my chest so that you can hear the absence of anything that comes from within, the silence where there should be pulse.I want you to lay your ear on my chest and hear the sudden eruption of heart beats that you cause by your touch.

I want you to, finally, come to terms with the fact that I was broken a long time ago and that there isn’t anything that you can do to change or fix me. I just want you to meet the real me. Only then can I trust mysel with you.

Did I really hear it or was I dreaming, like always?

Epilogue

Eyes set on your closed eyes with those perfect eye-lashes which make my heart skip a beat every now and then, what I whispered into your ears last night:

I will dance with you with yellow soles in fancy shoes in vacant lots under broken streetlamps, immersing my sickening soul in the music of our beating hearts. I will sing along with the radio, even if I sing horribly off-key. I will read out my favourite poems even if I mess up the lines. I will bear with your anger and moods and maybe sometimes argue with you and harsh words will slip out, but I promise to make it up to you with sincere apologies and sweetest of kisses. I will hide in your arms and cry out my sorrow, drenching your shirt with my tears.

Did you say you are broken? Or did you just sigh? It doesn't matter for I will love you best even if it's with my broken heart and my crushed hopes.

(Almost) wordless wednesday

The Masochist

“The only path to true happiness is: Never go through other people's personal things. You never know what you find in there. It may just ruin everything you have. Ignorance is bliss”, read the advice. It is then she picked up his phone, went through his inbox and cried herself to sleep. 

image: deviantart

We all want fridays to pass in a flash. If in your attempt to reach the weekends sooner you write a Friday Flash 55, share it with the G-Man

Godot or something like that.

(Previously)

There was a picture on the wall of a little girl turning a page of a book that seemed heavier than she was. Below the picture there was a table with shreds of important looking paper and blots of poetry-filled ink. This starts like an episode worth remembering, like a moment a photographer would like to capture for it had the air of the antique and the elegance of the sublime.

The winterlessness of the summer and the twilightlessness of the evening made it easier to long for an event, something out of the ordinary. The thing about boredom is that it makes one unavoidably curious. And curiosity, as we all know, kills the cat. The cat did die, in spite of the nine life myth.

(Then)

John- no, none of the famous one(s)- returned home to find the cat dead. It has always been dead. It is a picture of a dead cat for chrissake. Why would he have a picture of a dead cat hanging on his living room wall? Well, his dead almost-girlfriend-whom-he-was-still-in-love-with loved cats and he had never forgiven her for dying. So it goes . Anyone else would have at least waited till they had gotten down to the act so he would lose probably the only chance at losing his virginity. That bitch. It’s no fun being a 37 year old balding virgin who doesn’t have the nerd-genius tag to use as an excuse for his ‘condition’. 

Coming back to the dead cat, it was probably John’s twisted sense of poetry or humour, whatever you would like to call it, or maybe the cute shopping assistant at the bookstore that John to buy the picture. Not that it matters. What matters is why would the bookstore have a big poster of a dead cat for sale? Now that is twisted.  So the cat is dead and the dead cat is photogenic- yes, the cruel universe!- and John would certainly prefer to have its picture hanging on his wall rather than his own miserable self’s.

(Now)

The thing about boredom is that it makes one unavoidably curious and although the winterlessness of the summer and the twilightlessness of the evening made it easier to long for an event, something out of the ordinary. Nothing really happened.  No one came, not even Godot. All that one could say, even with the underlying curiosity and longing for something extraordinary, was that everything was hopelessly ordinary.

Surprise, O beloved lovers!

Two love-struck figures, cozy by the window,sipping coffee, fingers entwined somewhere in the intricacies of the grill,feeling the drops of rain. Then...

and

Poof






p.s: Is it Sunday? Amidst all the weekend plans if you can write a micro-fiction in 160 characters, go visit The Monkey Man!!!

Love's Moment Lost

The pain I thought I felt
Is now an indistinct memory,
For you tend to get used to feeling things.

The fantasies too, now, seem blaringly true
Having shed all their beguiling charm.
Although I have no heart left to offer you to break anymore,

I lie no more
Bout you and me.

About you, to myself, I lie no more.

I see, eye sea, Aye!

Magpie's prompt
 

The ayes have it,
The eyes have it.

What I see is what I aye.

They edited the way i spelled 'love' in the confessions of those would-be nights of us-ness, as if my life was a piece of their published genius. They told me, I'd have to see and learn and break exactly how the legends in the field have, if it were all to mean anything. They told me there was a rule to how all this worked, that the heart would break into exactly 999.9 pieces, shapes might vary though. (Well, thank god for that!) They told me I wasn't what I thought I was when I was the most me in your arms. 

I hiccuped endlessly to word out the mushy goo in my head, to unsay the sighs they mistook for words of conformation, within every jerking cell of my body raising an urge to connect the dots quicker than I ever would imagine to be possible. 

Hurriedly, yet ever-so tenderly,

I pluck out my eyes-

yes, those beautiful brown eyes, 

for I can aye no more. 

p.s: shared with Magpie tales and Thursday poets rally# 45

The Cry of the buzzing neurons

Tu es belle, they say.

Wake up one day and walk away,
Done with all the weighing and thinking
'To love or lie? or leave?'

Here,
Head turned into a glorified waste,
Senses as useful as fused light bulbs,
The speech-bubbles over my head
rubbed off with a cheap eraser.
Eyes, the rolling eyes of a, once-friendly, doll.

Dreams are a measure of time.
Nightmares, time itself.
Undo the future for me,
for I seem to be undone by time.

Wake up one day and walk away.
Every blink, every sigh crushed under your steps.
If the choices are
to lie or to leave...
Pray, leave me now and
At least leave me beautiful.

Thanx for the award. I nominate Deepti from 'Mine'

PS : I have posted this story under the topic "What does Real Beauty mean to you?" for Yahoo! Real Beauty.
To read other entries, click here.
To vote for me, sign into IndiBlogger and promote my post here.

Happily ever after

Like any other muse she was a mystery.
Like any other beloved she was pedestaled.
Like any other masterpiece she was written in an unknown foreign language.

Like any other creator he was bemused.
Like any other beholder he was glued.
Like any other reader he was lost and content.

This is their eternal story.

Reverie

...for in your fleeting touch I found a thousand forgotten nights of love and then some. 

Till the end of time?

Polithinks: Thinking of all the people I've waved goodbyes to, all the heartbreaks, of all those sweet 'forevers' turned into 'once upon a stupid time', I realized that there is no such thing as 'ex(s)' or 'current(s)', there is only the love that will persist and the ones which will not.

The Dreamer

The sky was black. Not the black that leads you to despair, but the black that makes you want to lie back and gaze at it, and for some unknown reason count the glittering, luminous spheres of plasma spread over it generously. I was, however, too self-involved to even care.

***

Just last Sunday, in one of his restless, philosophizing mood, he had told me, 'I know my dream is to be the guy who has everything -immeasurable, insane amount of money, women , crazy, easy success and all of this without the side effects, of course. I want a peace too, you see.  ' After a moment's consideration, he adds, (his voice dipping, making him sound more sincere, less pretentious) ' You'd think having lived all this while shaping a dream this elaborate and to die young, before achieving it would be a tragedy but the catch is that you would have already achieved it in a way then. How? You would then become the person who had almost superhuman potentials a perfect entity, the guy-who-could-have-achieved-anything-he-put-his-mind-to. Your self-doubt, your moments of excruciating insecurities  and over-critical self-reflection would then vanish and would have existed in vain. For you, apparently, had what it took to be what you dreamt of.'' His eyes glued to the screen, not staring at anything in particular, just seemed to have forgotten my presence next to him. 

The next moment we are busy watching a mindless comedy and laughing our guts out just for the heck of it.  He had always been a little strange; 'eccentric', he liked to call himself. This is, probably, why he was the one guy whom I trusted since I was a kid. Maybe his was   a case of borderline neurosis, but he knew the line between being selfish and being a cold hearted betrayer and he had always respected it...until one day when he decided to betray my faith on his insanity and jump off the roof.

He just let me stand by and watch him die.

He may have meant it for me to be a part of his grand scheme, his master-plan to make sure he achieves everything he but I refuse not to feel betrayed just because he is dead.
I did not ask to be a part of this and be damned for ever.

***

Today as I saw the twilight hue fade to give way to the black sky, I noticed the sky and the ever-so-many twinkles from the beautiful explosions of gas, performing, as it seemed to me, specially for me. 

Picture credit: Xavier Photography

The Fall

‘Today, I refuse to use my wings. Let’s just fall.’, mused the angel, standing at the edge, with an awkward grin.

‘I guess this is how He felt when he fell. Although, the whole falling part isn’t all that bad- it’s rather exciting- I am curious how the experience of landing was.’

Sudden realization: ‘Ouch!’ 

shared with G-man.

Every one have a kick-ass Easter and try not to fall without precautions, or you'll miss out on all the yum easter eggs. 

Summer Poetry (Guest post)

Finally she found that one fault that would lead to her final redemption. The exaltation in her cry ran deep, as did the moan that finally died within the dark pit in her body. The sense of geography was lost as the dislocation settled. She would finally leave his poetry, poetry that was for her, about her, was her- for she was 'Kobita'.As she found that one fault in him, she knew- so did he- that she was beyond his realm, and for forever.

This is a guest post written, graciously(under short notice and amidst exams), by one of my favourite bloggers, dearest beloveds and spunkiest punks Miss Pepper-Polo aka Paulami. Thank you. 

mea máxima culpa

It rained today. A lot. I sat in my room and got to thinking about the things I've done and the things I plan to do in the years ahead. Suddenly my thoughts were clouded by a memory, which now seems very distant, almost as if it never happened.

I killed Nadia Joseph. Calling the authorities will be pointless. They won't find anything. I've spent years thinking over every detail.

I can still see it vividly-  breathing her last few, painful, breaths. Her eyes look so un-Nadia- like. Cold, dim, fixed on a distant vision of the forgotten past-on a regret.

We were seven when we first met- Nadia and I. I knew then that one day she would die and that it would be me who would kill her. Her family had moved in into the next apartment. I was on the swing trying to touch the leaves of the low branch hanging over the swing with my feet.  Nadia, wearing a yellow bib dress and flip flops runs down with her locks flowing like a cape behind her. Without a word, she grabs my arm, pulls me off the swing, sits on the swing and swings higher and higher in a mysterious bliss, which I was not a part of. I stared at her, dumbfounded. She tossed back her hair, flashed the first of many gorgeous smiles I’d learn to loathe, and went higher with her toes stretched to touch the wet leaves I had set my eyes on.

I began to plot her death.  I thought it noble and poetic to use my own bare hands, the very ones she grabbed that day and fixed the venue in the park by the swing. It was months later when I actually made an attempt. It was late evening and we were playing in the park. She was excitedly talking about the presents she got for her birthday last night. I could not bear the ring in her voice, the aura around her and that wretched incredible smile. 

Without much conscious efforts, I pushed her hard from the back. She fell, face down. I ran quickly and smothered her face harder into the soil. Her socked feet  flailing, and hands trying to grab on to something- maybe to life- encouraged me. A few moments passed, she went limp. I turned her around. She lay there with her dress muddy and her face smeared with dirt.  I cleaned her face. It was beautiful. Ran my fingers over her brows and kissed her forehead.

I could have sworn she smiled.

Pretend

Thanking Jingle for the award

You move into a new city.
Away from the madness and the past.
You find a new job and with it, independence.
First day at work, your eyes spot him in the crowd.
He is incredibly handsome;
Incredibly out of your league.
But for some strange reason he spots you too.
And he'd like to fuck you!
He steals you away from the loaded work-table,
And takes you to an unmade, well-slept in bed.



Your head screams out all the things you saw in the mirror each day-
hideous, unattractive, rejected and always unwanted.
Before you question him-
'why do you want me?'
-He pretends that your curves are delectable 
and your scars sexy. 
His voice sounds like soft silken touch 
as he moans your name gently into your ears.


And you ...
You shut out your screaming head,
Close your eyes tight, 
And pretend he didn't talk to other girls like that.


shared with poetry potluck. and Thursday Poets' Rally#42.

Rescue

The dawn felt like the warm something she felt while spreading a good helping of nutella over bread for her mid-night snack. It had been over 2 days now. She knew she just had to keep awake for a few more hours and someone would come and pull her out of this hell.

Value added Services

Dear The One,

I haven't met you yet; or maybe I have and  am unaware. This is to let you know that you are being thought of very fondly this moment.

Sincerely, Me

Image credit: Aby Abraham

p.s: shared with Monkey Man as a Sunday 160.
Like to text? Say what you want to in 160 characters, including spaces.
If you're brave enough give it a go - it's not as easy as it looks!

Favourited Vol. IX ('To read and to fuck')

“Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck is infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes for peace.” 

— 2666, Roberto Bolaño

In the mood for some rose today.

thanks Jingle
for the award. I'd like to nominate Haggishead 

1

(mood)

In the mood for some prose today;
Some Chat from Chaupati, Bombay.

In the mood for some prose today;
A favourite playlist put on replay.

In the mood for some prose today;
 To look at you in slumber sitting by where you lay.

In the mood for some prose today
A bookmark on a page, crying over its overstay.

In the mood for some prose today;
Lazy blinks glued to liquid crystal TV display.


In the mood for some prose today.


2
(the morning after)

I cracked a joke and laughed myself.'At least that's 50% of the crowd.'

I looked into my eyes and complimented.'At least I still find a mystery in them.'

I made some pancakes and had it myself. 'At least someone likes what I cook.'

I read a book and smiled to myself. 'At least The book knows I smiled.'

I looked at you and turned to my side. 'At least someone's not lying next to a beloved-dead(*checks her own heart beat*)'

p.s: shared with Thursdays Poets’ Rally week 41

Rainbow chicken

pick any color for just 3 each.

I've seen the best minds of my time, lost in finals, Facebook & fornication.
Liberated within the walls of over-accomplishments
Garbed in their colored sameness.



p.s: shared with Monkey Man as a Sunday 160.
Say what you want to in 160 characters, including spaces.
It's probably all that texting across the classroom that inspired the idea.If you're brave enough give it a go - it's not as easy as it looks!

All the blues

Written on the morning after the nightlong party the entire country(and the countrymen staying elsewhere in the world) had on 30th march, 2011, this post is a dedication to the game, the sentiments, the players and every Indian.

So I've decided to go blue for a while. Here is a list of all the things blue in my room, in my life:

• Blue nail colour
• Blue ink(i hate writing with blue ink, still).
• Blue scrunchy/rubber band to tie my hair.
• Blue bedsheets and pillow cover.
• Blue towel.
• Blue post its/prompts
• Blue book marks
• Blue desktop wallpaper.
• Blue for washing clothes.
• Blue funk
• will write 'BLUE' before/after every text.
• Blue-orning (blue morning) and blue night wishes.
• Blue instead of 'hello' when I pick up the call.
• 'Feel blue' (by some Slovak :P) as ringtone.
• I'd have really bleed blue too if I were a  MIB-fame ET.Serious. (darn biology.)

Nightmare

...you wake up in a dream, I wander through the streets of memories once lived.
'do you hear me? I am talking to you'
craving to make the same mistakes, same crimes
over and over;
and
over and over.

I must write.
Must breathe.
I must suck the lifeless throbbing joy out of their veins.
*sigh*
I must, like the growing, brandishing corporate deity,
grip them with a disarming smile and make myself inevitable.
I must, like Macbeth's valentine, absolve my hands of the blood
which reeks of the transgressions I chose to so conveniently forget.
I must cry, and squirm, and cry some more-
"Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!"
A whimper of the bang that wasn't.

You wake up, this time in a real dream.

p.s.: shared with Thursday Poets Rally Week 40

After the farewell

Remember how I touched your face , when you kissed me this morning?
I see my fingers and they remind me they are no longer touching you.
I hear my breath not falling over your shoulder, in your embrace.
I feel a tear falling over my cheek where there was once the brush of your two-day grown beard.

To my dearest birthday girl

We walked through the springs and purple summers,
Playing ring-a-ring-a-roses with many hands.
But found each other at sudden moments of shared aloneness.

We were here, there, everywhere.
Breakfast,lunch and dinner...spices and desserts.
Through Kundru(s)and pav bhajis, subways and hics!

Knocks on the early morning sleepy doors.
Walks replaced by other dear ones.
Closing up chapters of lives as allies in crimes.

Closing years are still to arrive!
The fun-ning dance and the eff-ing yum guy.
You and I, a repeat, only you and I.

*--*

p.s: 1) you know I am not a poet.

2) Tried. sorry for the lameness. I don't do 'happy' too well.

3) Happy birthday, my dear girl. <3

The Castle of Crossed Destinies

Wayanad, Kerela

 (I know)

Wings, I gave up

To hide in the web 

Which keeps me tangled, sad, content.

*

(Therefore I am)


We walked tipsy, intoxicated, mildly happy
Exchanged numbers, smiles, a few dance moves and secrets.
Betraying the web, seething to strangle the last smiles out of the beautiful slurring lips.

*

p.s.: 1)This Post is being written for THE POETRY CONTEST at Blogjunta.com as a part of WOMEN & BLOGGING month

2)shared with Haiku Heights prompt #34
3) A special thanks to the photographer, Naveen for the beautiful picture. 

The accident

My trembling fingers slip into your frozen palm,

Our eyes meet;mine searching,

Yours looking at me- lifeless.

Picture credit: Christophe Vanfleteren

 

 

 

shared with Haiku heights Prompt #33