Marigold

I will let you in on a mystery, if you are for keeps
Been harboring it for days, in my slience
habitual denial and hurt held in heaps
Obtaining the past lost and timeless

I wanted to say , you needed to be told
this journey of heartless to heartfelt
to be able to feel and believe manifold
It beats again, a thump and a sudden melt

Surrounded by a sea of unknown and cries
I lay my letter on you with a marigold
today, I could have said it with my eyes,
Our favorite orange- yet our story untold.

Halo

She stated endlessly
beyond the lights
ahead of the dulling horizon
It was not over, she felt
something in her soul was lit,
a fire of must do's and can be's
she felt light,
as if a weight had lifted

The wheelchair seemed easy to maneuver
If not the Olympics,
there was always the para Olympics,
Behind her, the light sparkled
like a halo of faith.

Boxing

She woke up,
tied her hair,
wore the bright neon pink saree
the tattoo showed on her biceps,
as she rode her Harley

Yes, she defined her own box 

Soul food

I am tired of a lot of things,
tired of trivialities and mundane-ness,
everyone running this endless race,
competing hurt, unsatisfied,
yet running.

I really don't have patience anymore
for this chase, the corporate rigmarole,
and passionless existence
It annoys me when no one
really understands the
true essence of life

It is not a pot of gold or the designation,
where is the contentment and inner peace,
where is the soul really?
I am annoyed and am impatient
I need to do so much, see so much
feel so much.

I need to live, to love, to cry, and to fly
to discover and  to loose myself in the process,
yet, find and pick up the scattered pieces
of my soul,
Yes, I need to
and I need to now
Do you too?

He

He was the silver lining,
and he was the cloud,
 he was the rain,
and he was the rainbow,
He was the faith yet an illusion

Infinite

If I could be infinite,
I would be infinite with you.
The pastels on my paintbrush,
can never reflect the colors,
I saw with you.

I can smell only your fragrance,
in the woody misty air,
amidst a fresh forest.
I extend my hand to caress the air,
which you walked in,
So, I find a part of you.

I look to recreate my soul,
with your memories.
Your long dark tresses,
caressing your face,
the slight swing of the hip,
caught only by my lusty eyes.

You made me love and lust,
with equal measure.
The kind beyond definitions,
cause love without lust, is meaningless,
and lust without love, hollow.

My soul yearns for yours,
if I could be infinite,
I would be infinite with you.

Sitara

In star spangled skies,
or the moonless starless nights,
I search the lone shooting star,
that shone and left.
I used to call her my “Sitara”. 

Mirror

 Mirror Peaks and troughs galore, 

engulfing the auburn sky, 

shades of life it bore, 

uneven lows and familiar highs, 

ocean’s blue is no compare, 

to the mist borne hues, 

mountains shout out a dare, 

nature in its glory gives a cue,

 the spellbound dreamy mortal, 

stares in lost disbelief, 

the sights which mirror the soul, 

an abyss of unquenched belief.

Perfect Harmony

Every day he would go for his stroll around 6 pm. The dusk somehow always beckoned. It was always the same routine where he would wear his favorite hat and walk down the cobbled path just around the bend of the “rosewood road”. The Church was rarely visited now, the stained-glass window was broken, the creeper once laden with white roses, today, was just a mess of cobbled twigs and the bench which was once green and welcoming, was full of moss. 

Yet, the gray called out to him. Though uncanny, the place in its entirety made sense, forgotten, untouched, laden with memories of yester years. It was comforting. It reassured him, that, even in today’s fast changing world there was some constant. A place, he could visit everyday devoid of the constant flux. No one bothered visiting it or sprucing it up. The shiny white Church with the Saturday choir and the Sunday fest was more attractive to most.

Each day the routine was the same. The walk took him thirty minutes down the cobbled path, past the post box at the corner of Cobalt, past De’ Souza’s Patisserie, up the small hillock and then around the bend. It would take him exactly 28 minutes. He had timed it on multiple occasions. The Church did not have a name, the signboard was long gone. He had named it “Church of Harmony”. Its existence and serene surroundings created a melody which somehow sang a tune of perfect harmony.

He would sit there every day till 7:10 pm when the sun would set admiring the myriad of colors splashed during sunset. As the colors splashed, the sun would leave for its heavenly abode, he would take out his mouth organ and play the same tune, “ a melody, he wrote, years ago”. He could never give words to the tune but it did seem to have a beginning, middle and an end… As the evening gave way to night, he would walk back down the same path home…

………

She had wandered off the group. The school trip was so not fun. The teacher had promised a day of fun and games but this educational tour was not what she had signed up for. She remembered fighting with her mom, insisting that this trip was compulsory