Birthday

 

She would wear a new saree,

and wait with a plate and knife.

Bindi, bangles, eyes sparkly

for the cake would soon arrive.

Smile broadened when we entered-

we touched her feet, hugged her tight.

And as the emotions stirred,

she blessed us with all her might.

Would a cake now taste yummy?

Happy birthday to mummy.

Liar

 

When the silver sands of the beach beckon,

I tell myself that I don't want to roll.

What does a lone ship at the sea reckon 

when I sail not but she can read my soul?

Though far away, I hear the mountains call-

I tell my limbs you are too old to climb.

And the echoes of the valleys recall

but I fear that I am not in my prime.

And when the long gliders fly in the sky

I close my eyes for they seem just too high.

But I am awake when the seagulls cry

for even daring to dream I am shy. 

How far do horizons appear to lie?

Or is it just me I wonder and sigh.

War-Cry

 

War is over and fewer men return

now aware that it wasn’t yet their turn.

The teary eyes thirsty for a long sleep

but pillows will dry after nightmares burn.

Butterfly And Bee

 

I would want to be a pink butterfly

basking in the yellow morning sunshine.

I would flap my colourful wings to fly,

and hop from flower to flower to dine.

Or rather I live as a honey bee,

and make the golden liquid of pleasure?

I will disguise it from those eyes greedy,

and shall use my sting to guard the treasure.

But a honey bee buzzes all the while-

for people like us who steal her nectar.

And the poor butterfly is so docile

that it lives to please us like an actor.

If ever fate gives me a choice of role-

I would not know on which path I would roll.

Sketch

 

What I sketched took shape elsewhere

my dreamy mind had conjured.

The same deep eyes, fluffy hair-

an image appeared from blur.

When I coloured her red heart-

it began to beat somewhere.

Now all the paints of my art

this art-born woman will wear.

Here she is on my canvas-

and there she lives amongst us.

Hurry

 

How has this clock with two swords

wrapped us around its fingers.

The tick tocks and chiming chords

have cast a spell that lingers.

We hasten as strike the wands

and drift nowhere from somewhere.

What magic lies far beyond

that this hour seems so unfair?

But time heeds to no worries-

Is there a need to hurry?

Jug

 

A jug of whiskey with spice

for the two mischievous old.

Bouts of fire on cubes of ice-

the hazy stories retold.

Sweeter rumbled the mumbles,

and louder the glasses clinked.

Woozily tales just tumbled

as the oldies laughed and blinked.

Giddier turned every verse

till the sun donned new colours.