Simon Cuddlebug

Your smells of a warm winter,
a warm embrace and an icy kiss.
I love your winter flavours on my lips ––
taste of summers I do not miss.

Your cinnamon, musk smells
waft through my lungs and heart.
You say we can’t be lovers,
we are from two worlds apart.

The winter comes and goes,
sometimes lovers do return.
But, on the diaphanous wings of a moth
I place my love, for it to burn.

Because there is pure love after selfish love,
an ambrosial potion, sweetest.
And generous, golden sunshine
after tumultuous tempest. 

And so I love you, Simon Cuddlebug,
just like a child does her favorite friend.
There is only a love filled warm heart,
nothing feels broken – no more a need to mend.

And because each story needs a complete end…

On quiet nights we chase shadows,
watch a distant star.
Hold hands like children in love
while I fall in love with your eyebrow scar.

Surreptitious movements of the clouds

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Squint and you will discover
blue islands in orange-red flaming oceans.
The deceptive breaking of tides
is her stretching her naked limbs
as she wakes up from a lazy slumber.
A fusion of eclectic behaviour of dream patterns
created such projections
of the most vibrant of colours
those that rose from the depths of these strange oceans.
She was a purple green creature
who lived beneath these tidal waves
while he took flights in the pristine air above.
Tiny red hyperopia circles on the surface,
these oceans keep an eye on
the surreptitious movements of the clouds.
19.03.2013
(Photo by David Maisel~ Library of Dust)

What does happiness mean to you?

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Happiness to me is
forgetting binoculars at home,
and finding the need for none.
For the bright bird perched too close and
and whistled a delicate song, privately for me.

Happiness to me is
forgetting my drawing book at home,
and finding a few crisp blank pages
at the start and also at the end
of my new favourite poetry book,
Simic’s That Little Something.

Forgetting my chocolate ration,
and finding a kind co-traveller
who offers me coconut sweet
made in home made ghee
served with a beautiful smile.

Forgetting my playlist at home,
but finding in every stop
buses that played melodies
one after another
filling the moist skies with lovely notes.

Forgetting my worries at home,
and finding the need for none,
no reason to worry about
in these ghats
soaked in rains
and where birds make homes
in dead trees.

Photo taken at Redstone Eco Centre

For life will go on even without us

Dara14
A window that
streams in
your child-like laughter
and soulful songs.
 
The only door
in my house
opens to your light-house
A sweep of glorious white light
to guide my ship
that sails to you
braving high, unforgiving waters.
 
In my dreams
I water my amaranths, wilted and shy,
thinking about carmine roses
that bloom in your garden
 
Step aside for a moment now,
for life will go on even without us
Let’s steal a moment of abandon
and worry about tomorrow
some other day.
(The poem was originally written for a dear friend, Dara Okat. Photo of Dara Okat,2015)

Silent song of the sky men

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A strange winter that was.
The trees bore no fruits
the skies showed no sign of clouds.
Where have the sky-men gone?
I last saw them dance on the mountain peaks
in their cotton-seed light vessels that floated endlessly.
What a song that was
when prayer flags fluttered in the night skies.
I once saw  moon rise from behind the mountain peak
and sing sorrowful serenades to the beautiful valley.

In the city-scape filled with poles
that hold conversations about jobs and new apartments bought.
Where has the carefree noon gone?
A walk alone to where the sky-men lived
a cup of cinnamon coffee,
a winter-flavoured bidi’s warmth
and the truth about why we should live.
My sky-men,
they flew on giant inflated sails
against blue skies and floated above the clouds so high.
The lines like strings of a harp
they played a song so silent,
it floated and nestled in my heart.
I carry in my heart, silent song of the sky-men.
I carry in my palm fortunes intangible.
I carry in my heart only love songs of silence.

Your tawny little kittens

Your tawny little kittens
purring little mosaics of life
Your quartet of snuggle bugs
warming up to new life behind an old  TV set.

Peering into their basket
we watch, one and a half eyes open yet
The mother lolls insouciantly
to our two sets of leery eyes.

Your tawny little kittens

You’ve always had them around
in different sizes, colors and temperaments
Enough to match each one’s type to
a member of the family or a friend.

There’s always been cat books in your shelves
Kitten paintings on your walls
cat hair in your house
and cat poop in your beautiful garden.

There were brief seasons of no cats
but somehow a vagabond cat
always made your house its home,
a lost kitten nestled in your lap.

There’s always been the sounds of
chanting, tea boiling and a cat meowing in your house.
Your tawny little kittens
purring little mosaics of life
You’ve always had them around.

(For a dear friend, Shasha and her many cats)

When a Wood Elf turns into a City Hulk

30,000 feet below,
the rise and fall of lush green landscapes
was slowly replaced with symmetrical patches of predictability.
Where once she stood,
swathed in mist and warm morning sunlight,
stand towers that will perhaps broadcast my elegy.
The wood elf slowly turning into a city hulk.
And my only wish is not to land,
but crash-land into the bosom
of that very viridian valley
plush with the scarlet of rhododendrons.
in whose glory Minivets sang.

Twelve Moons

 

Meenakshi
Twelve black moons in your eyes
I wait for them to rise.
Twelve kisses unaccounted,
to sequin your moon-face.
Twelve dreams, nascent
tucked away in twelve corners.
Twelve more lives to be lived,
in twelve planets yet to arrive.
Twelve galaxies to saunter through,
twelve bodies to adorn.
Twelve magicians barefeet
twelve tricks sublime.
Twelve long years to salvation.