Saturday, February 20, 2010

Sunday

Where do dreams go after they die?
Or do we just conclude that they are dead?
Do they ever die or do they simply lie?
Somewhere deep down, dormant;
Till that one day, when it’s their time.

Would you be prepared,
If they would return;
Welcome them with your
Hand stretched out
For something you once, had to let go.

Some nameless and some mass graves.
Well, how many tombstones
Bear the names of dead and gone.
Yet, not a graveyard for dreams
You would find, out in the open.

Waiting for faith to takeover
And roll the stone over.
They lie in lone tombs that lay hidden within.
The moment you believe
These dreams will rise, yet again.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

napkin notes

Dimly lit evening
Five friends, a camera
A moment of perennial life, frozen

A still night
A cup of Ceylon tea
In a land of unrest

Green roof, cobble stone floor
A filling of conversations and furniture
Winter eve at an outdoor café

A summer in prison
With just one possession
A window full of clear blue sky

Humid noon at home
Counted stars under the ceiling
Lying down but not alone

Tilted heads, locked lips
Between conversations
Lies an awkward silence

At a terrace in twilight
Juggling fire between fingers and lips
She stood draped in a veil of smoke

Friday, February 05, 2010

Babble at the Table

Post noon
The salt and pepper shakers
A match
Made perfect
In concurrence
With every taste bud
Sat as a pair
In silent confab

Late evening
The spoon and the plate
Tried to keep it hush-hush
But made all the noise
Plotting to elope
That night
While the cow
Leaped over the moon

Mid-night
A glass and a bottle
Cheered for each other
Got nostalgic
Wasted wisdom
Emptied their woe
And finished at dawn
With a hangover

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Return

A hiatus ends
And here I am;
Scribbling again.
Not that I had stopped,
I just paused.
But only for a while;
I stood still,
On my toes,
Waiting;
For a moment
To pass.
But realized much before
The moment had gone.
What’s the point?
I just thought,
Let me scribble
As I whirl in the storm.
Gaze into its eye.
Maybe, that’s my way out.
It looks unusually calm
And unlike, what it is
In here.
In the belly of the blizzard.
Blinded without an iris
It twirls without
A set path or map.
I’ll fix my eyes
On that light.
Which isn’t just
The way out.
It is my way up.
Now, another hiatus begins.
This may,
Simply, never end.
And that is
From being dormant.