Heartwarming Winter!

Good morning,
fog and frost...
A bit I struggle,
the hazy dreams,
then snuggle,
hide my face from
the cold stares of
a winter morning sun.

There, I find warmth
in the heart
that sings my lullaby
these nights so long.

The Young Son

The father,
a man,
the alpha of their world,
sweats and toils,
scavenges for twigs,
dry leaves
and some spirit
to light up
their lives...
For the son, angry,
will set in a bit.
The sun will leave his home,
chasing flesh,
in the dark recesses
of his fiery
red mind.

wallpaper.free-photograph.net

Blurry Love

Can’t wipe it clean,

my vision,

to fathom the girth of

the pillars,

the depth in 

those bleary eyes

that watch over me;

I guard ’em too.

But they look distant,

I strain my neck, I can’t see...

The morning mist

smudges my roots

as I fight lethargy,

and a stiff ego,

to look back and capture

the trio shimmer in

the golden yellow

wash of Sodium.

Much before the gold

showered by the sun 

reach a shopaholic town,

it’s Onam.

I leave in haste n waste,

as the blurred 

image of my genes

remind me of karma,

of honesty,

of the simple beauty in love.

Ode to Longing

I long...
I long to
slip and fall,
walking the tear-washed
green carpet,
sprouted overnight,
through many a
long nights, in fact;
too long,
I long...

To fall...
Run home in the rain,
wiping my tears
and muddy pride,
to the hot brew
in a steel bowl,
it's always steamy,
ready for me
on a cloudy day;
the fall...
 
I long...
For I am
too sure-footed to fall
in these insignificant puddles;
have too little time to cry,
too much of anger
to fear the stare
from those eyes
that taught me to love;
to LOVE...

The Night Rain

The droplets on
your neck
glow in the dark,
sway with the tunes,
I wipe the trickle
with my lips.

It rained,
in a dream,
on the balcony,
cleansing the tan;
all white and misty
when the morning
rays overwhelmed
the red, scented candle
I left burning,
by our bed, last night.

Pic: Wallpaperest.com

The Bad Son

Like the helpless
roots I crush,
with her gift,
they bleed tears
for the deceased,
my soul...
 
Boiled and strained,
a pale, lifeless
piece of ginger;
it adds spice,
yet the bad son leaves;
a bitter taste, all that's left...

That bad son
I can never be,
but the bad son,
indeed, I really am!

Pic courtesy: One Bad Son, Canadian rock band

The Hatchback of Notre-Dame

As I reached
the climax,
as the cadence of
my sonnet picked up
for the final yards,
I could see the

insignificant cabinet ministers, 
honking and coercing
their hatchbacks to work; 
in sorry solitude, 
moored in sombre delusions, 
secluded from the love
only an early morning
spring sun shares.

Hunched over a

wheel of less fortune,

towards Notre-Dame,

from Tuglak's ruins,

towards false promises...

The forgotten

ugly bastards

of a Millenium City.

Pic: s13.zetaboards.com

Legacy Doodles

There is a time
when time itself  
stands still. 
Long enough 
for us to kneel 
and draw doodles 
on the loose sand 
while out for a tan.  

On a beach 
we paint our legacy, 
build skyscrapers, 
a few dreams; 
and let time, after its siesta, 
blow its storm to prove again 
that it's ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust!

Pic: Wikipedia

Ode to Insomnia

No, awake I was,
I strained to hear
ye breath in the darkness,
awake I remain...

Into the sleep patterns
I knock n enter,
I mock n leave,
For sleep is death,
death of love,
I fear death...

Pic: wallpapers4u.net