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.

Silent song of the sky men

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.

Unnoticed is the river inside of us

Vagaries of the weather outside
make it to the newsrooms,
but nobody notices
the changing of weather inside.

Unnoticed remain,
the churning of
mind’s meterological phantoms
that play havoc in some mind-scapes.

Unnoticed is,
the river inside of us
swelling, surging over the banks of
‘I will fight this melancholy today’.

These are torrential rains
we can not take cover from.
We are holding onto
life in any form that we can.

Please know, inside of us there are rivers too,
transboundary between madness and insanity –
that we swim in.
And on some days we drown
in our own body of river waters.

Road Trippin – 4670 miles along the coast

4670 miles along the coast
I have meticulously packed,
camera and microphones
cables, cards and chords.
I am leaving behind a few things,
randomization of worries and distractions
that yield just black frames
that add nothing to the film on life.
‘Black’ in timeline is necessary though
at the start and at the end,
similar to zero at birth
and zero at death.
But in between, black is just black,
and my love for colours
has me pleading the universe
to grant me tetrachromacy.

I have swaddled in my heart
warmth of a bird’s plumage
and nature’s love for itself.
I am not a banyan tree anymore, fixed and rigid
I am a mangrove tree
leaving behind roots of the past,
constantly growing new roots,
reaching from A to B, B to C
from old patterns to new oddity.

Metta. An RHCP favourite for you.

You be my favourite birder and I will be your Rosefinch

This one is for my favourite birder and a friend,
Christy, who has a lovely blog where he posts photos of birds, writes poetry that makes one’s heart ache for its beauty, and magically weaves words and thoughts to make a warm blanket for his readers, followers, fans alike. I often put this blanket on, on cold misty days and find solace.
I offer you
the entire gamut of colours
on all the birds that fly or that don’t.
I offer you
every single juvenile and adult,
female and male chirp and tweet.
I offer you
their wings and feathers,
their flights and descent.
I offer you
their open vast skies,
their swamps and their woven nests.
I offer you
their plumaged warmth,
their tetrachromacy.
I offer you their bills,
their egg-shells, their mating calls.
I offer you
their nocturnal songs,
their mobbing and their swoops.
And if I could I would
turn into a bird,
perhaps your favourite one.
Make it happen somehow,
sprinkle some pixie dust or pinch
‘You be my favourite birder and I will be your Rosefinch.’