I still feel I am unknown
though have lived here for a while.
I possess but do not own.
And less I see people smile.
The old streets look new to me.
And colder are the warm nights.
Tell me a place I can be
where I can sense some sunlight.
Belittle not what you view-
I am no stranger than you.
The first sip of whiskey burned down my throat.
It was a bit bitter as expected.
But soon hit me hard and I was afloat.
I drank to be socially accepted.
In my teens it was just random drinking.
In my middle age I learnt to savour-
unaware that I was slowly sinking,
and not doing anyone a favour.
I thought whiskey and I could coexist.
Telling myself it was a way of life.
But deep I sank unable to resist.
My mind and body at bittersweet strife.
Amid the lies and unwanted advice -
I surface to breathe - know wise from the vice.
He looked afraid on the stage.
Stuttered and fumbled for words.
And people were quick to gauge,
branding him a no-good-nerd.
Was he really a fool,
and his stumbling act just guile?
For though his gaffes looked awful,
he could not resist a smile.
Unaware, we fussed and cursed,
this prankster with a purpose.
In the hour of dawn when the moon still glowed,
I opened the rusted memory tap.
Stories dribbled with a sputtering flow
as if woken by hiccups from a nap.
Some were lukewarm and worth reminiscing.
Few should have remained like a distant haze.
Some tasted like a sweet cake with icing.
Some left a bad taste - could not be erased.
I switched off the tap for a few minutes.
But I could still sense the gurgle of tales.
I savoured all and sundry and tidbits.,
and will not let the flow stop nor run stale.
As I soak and sink into this outpour-
my sink overflows yet I ask for more.
He calls you with a sweet smile.
Then knocks on wood and whistles.
All set to polish in style
with wax, cream and brush bristles.
He could tell some funny tales
that just don’t make boots shine.
He would fix a shoe that ails,
and your petty daily whines.
He knows every shoe unknown.
Just by the way it is worn.
She brings her chair to the beach.
A flask of hot chai - her friend.
As the morning sun glows peach,
the moon fades - its vigil ends.
The sea takes back little sand.
Her chair slides one inch deeper.
Today, she has time on hand.
Nature is the time keeper.
Walkers pass by, wave from miles.
She squints her eyes with a smile.
Here rests an old friend in peace
that often eluded him.
Though he was on a short lease-
Alas! It was further trimmed.
He lived a colourful prime
of guzzling beers and ghazals.
Perhaps aware of less time
with a mind full of puzzles.
He is wheeled on a gurney.
Thus begins his next journey.
