Attic

 

All my journals are stored in the attic-

along with albums, letters and what not. 

For years on they will remain there static

till they just become some entangled knots. 

Sometimes I pass by and look up at them-

silently they sit with a calm repose. 

Filled with my thoughts and writings are these gems-

and my picture with a beautiful pose. 

I climb the attic to clear the old web. 

Could I discard these memories for space?

Tears flow, emotions at their lowest ebb-

but soon this maze new tidings shall replace. 

New books, new photos- the attic ages.

And yet remains the scent of those pages. 

Monsoon

 

Rain pelts its relentless spears. 

Few shelters, few souls they pierce. 

Drenched in water, thirst not quenched-

I guzzle couple of beers. 

Bathtub

 

I immerse myself in a hot bathtub.

Foam spreads its warmth across my tired body.

With a perfumed soap lazily I scrub,

and close my eyes thinking of nobody.

The bubbles rise, fall and burst everywhere-

mingle with the froth of icy champagne.

My limbs get pampered, my bones are repaired

as the scented vapour relieves my pain.

I sip the sparkling wine with eyes still closed.

But sense the twirls of steam float in the air.

Invisible fingers massage my brows.

The music I hum has a heady flair.

Pleasure courses through, despair disappears-

could the clock stop - the future not appear?

Gannu

 

Roly-poly round belly

with the prankster mouse pious-

he sits with a look airy

on the great royal dais. 

His large ears hear all our chants

while the little eyes twinkle. 

His nose twirls as in a dance,

and irons out our wrinkles. 

But soon comes time for good-bye-

we immerse, He will stand by. 

Janmashtami

 

Embodying divine spirits

the human pyramid soared.

Swaying with colourful wits,

the souls danced as the rain poured.

And amidst the bells of joy,

a small boy climbed to the top.

Mischievous appearing coy,

he broke the clay yogurt pot.

And as the white honey flew-

deep inside me a conch blew.

Cause

I hurry because I fear. 

Worry for the path unclear. 

All I do is fuss about 

for I am somewhere though here. 

Bookaholic

Pages of a book unfold. 

Or the kindle-mate lights up. 

Day begins with folklores old

‘fore  the morning tea is slurped. 

As the stories roll and stir - 

every word is scrutinised. 

In the silence of murmur

a peppery tale is diced. 

The scent of the texts galore

with the allure of a lore.