Swaminarayan Temple - Bhuj

The white marble pillars stand.

Ooze warmth - by touch icy cold.

Chiseled with magical hand.

Tales engraved of history old.

Heaven-high shine the gold domes,

like descendants of the sun.

And the bells toll, echoes roam,

alluring far horizon.

Sculptor charms the creator.

Sculpture is the narrator.

Hyena

The evil lurked in the dark

as its hunger pangs grumbled.

The intent -  brutal and stark.

The laugh  - foxy preamble.

It limped away through a bush,

scenting and stalking its prey.

Skilled to create an ambush,

swift with razored teeth to slay.
Fooled not be by gait so slack.

Whistle could bring in its pack.

White Desert - Bhuj

The sun takes its golden dip.

Full moon splashes snowy glow.

Spellbound by the artist’s grip.

The cold winds whistle and blow.

Deep, beyond the vastness spread.

Shrouded by a salt carpet.

The pinch of the desert’s bed -

offers to tickle us wet.

Cheers echo as mugs clink.

Our silhouettes watch us drink.

Shuttle

The restless feathers ruffled on a cone

when the game began in an open court.

Passions would collide to vie for the throne,

as the shuttle whirled and flew, back and forth.

The crowd oohed to the rhythm of the squeaks.

Their heads yo-yoed to track the plumy bird.

Louder than the action the echoes speak.

The pace so furious that sighting is blurred.

The shuttle shuttles like an emotion -

soars and dips to our whimsical fancies.

Sometimes it thuds on the web it can’t shun,

and the wings wither while its powers cease.

The game may end, and players play their part.

But the drama is instilled in each one’s heart.

Bumsy Chuchi

Seems not long ago when you first rolled your bubbly eyes.

Little did I know, chocolates would cease the drama-cries.

Ice cream became your food, pasta the staple diet.

Now all you do is wag your bumsy and flash that smile.

Crossroads

Muses lay dormant in a cauldron.

When some logs fuel and crackle,

emotions ramble around and burn.

As paths clear - fear not what appear.

It is time the excesses offload.

Beliefs that were ramshackle

would wither as you stand at crossroads.

Traffic

Vehicles clutter the road,

and bustle to reach somewhere.

Amidst mayhem the car groans,

puffs its anger in the air.

Horns moan when lights change colour,

tho the path makes no headway.

In search of unknown wonder

people jostle night and day.

And all we do is adjust.

The web of thoughts collects dust.