Wait: Part II

Wait: Part II

Waiting for the words,
like a brooding hen waiting for the eggs to hatch –
patiently;
doesn’t let any visitors nearby.

Waiting for words
like a fountain pen with numerous verses in mind,
waiting to be dipped in the inkpot.

Waiting for words
like an unpublished drunk poetess,
waits for her letter of acceptance –
rushes to her mailbox six times a day.

Waiting for words
like a convicted criminal
waiting for a miracle to happen
at the gallows;
the executioner sharpening his blades.

Waiting for words
like an army of frogs
waiting for the first rain to platter on the pond –
to utter their croak in the mightiest fashion.

Waiting for words
like the English miner from the 19th century,
painted with coal dust
coughing, spitting,
waiting for his weekly cheque.

Waiting for words
like a man stuck in traffic,
waiting to go home
while his lover awaits –
at home –
legs parted.

***

Art by Sushil Chhabra

Convincingly Real Dreams: Part II

Convincingly Real Dreams: Part II

Sleeping the weariness off in the evening
after soaking my lungs with nicotine –
I have a clean bed with purple flower patterns
on the bedsheet –

I dream of this girl
who has:
emerald green eyes
through which she glances wistfully
at the leaves soaked by the kisses of rain.

She holds my hand and dances –
her feet touch the ground –
tap-tap sound;
my hand slide through hers
and she doesn’t miss a move;
I am a terrible dancer.

She follows me through the puddles,
fuming traffic,
asking me questions about
my personal well-being,
and I answer truthfully –
to lie to her would be
smashing a bottleful of Georgian wine
on the parched, summer-beaten ground,
or staring at the sunny side until it burns you
to a crisp.

I say:
I am terribly lonely.

Like a Venus flytrap,
she embraces me in her arms
and I let my muscles, bones, mind
dissolve –
she takes good care of them all;
the Cupid, hidden in the dark grey clouds,
smiles in extreme notoriety
and it starts raining –
crystals falling from the sky,
turning into gems.

Earlier today,
I wrote a poem for her:

Untie your hair
and let it crash
like the waves of the untamed sea.

Blink your eyes,
and shed your wrath –
hell resides in my heart –
the fire of which you kindled.

Part your lips,
for mine are parched,
waiting to be mushed
by the swarm of your uncivilised kisses.

***

Art by Sir Josef.

Ultra Smooth Haiku

Ultra Smooth Haiku

Chasing your shadow
in the night, I realise that
you have been long dead.

***

Come to me, my love
and taste the nectar from
my garden of Eden.

***

A drought in monsoon
brings to me the flood of your
cherished memories.

***

A dusty road leads
me to a place I call home –
the warmth of your breasts.

***

Gallows are my home,
for I have notoriously
sinned to be your lover.

***

The winter night sends
familiar chills down my spine –
you stole my fire away.

***

Mornings find a lover
in bed, a cigarette to smoke,
and a song to sing.

***

Wake up to a day
where I braid your golden hair
into silver locks.

***

Oh, my love! Won’t you
practice charity – won’t you
look at me for once?

***

The wind blows from south
and brings to me the scent of
your freshly-washed hair.

***

Find the art here.

Molten Mahogany

Molten Mahogany

Making a path through
dingy, unwashed lanes
to avoid your eyes that seem to follow me
and trace my movements at the galleries,
organised gatherings,
post-midnight drinking sessions in the company of wayward friends,
and sound dreams while sleeping inside a nailed coffin.

Your eyes:
Blasphemic, showering sins on the common, country folks with grey and
wrinkled coats –
face deprived of moisture.

Your eyes that watch me,
are barkish brown in colour and reflects the light
like a 3.3 billion-year-old bright, bright glittering diamond,
which has just seen the sun
and was once a burning piece of charcoal.

Your eyes that follow me
are framed with lashes so black
that the darkness shies away.

Sometimes the moans of a jovial maiden
are heard in my dreams,
giving me a sense of upliftment –
I smile in my sleep  –
content like the lips locked in the last kiss
of parting lovers.

Waking up,
your eyes greet me again,
to the sunshine which I now carry,
tied on my weary shoulders
to offer you when darkness arrives
and becomes your only companion.

And yet,
you refuse,
to be seen by me.

***

Title courtesy: Seher Dareen. Read her beautiful blog here.
Art by Patrick Ogle.

 

¿¡Everything Rhymes with Orange!?

¿¡Everything Rhymes with Orange!?

Flower petals withering
in the season of spring,
talking in whispers
to the orange-painted walls of a place
I have learnt to call home –
Everything rhymes with rain
and I love you
with a SIDEWAYS EIGHT.

Panting dogs
eye me at the corner of a street
and I eye you
as you pass me by –
your leather shoe soles
kissing the dust painted streets
where we once held hands in my dream
where a serpent got hold of me and
injected poison in my heart.
And now I rest my heart – size of a fist –
in the closed chambers,
the keys of which only you have the skills
to mould.
Everything rhymes with cobwebs,
and when you rejected me,
you left me with a little COLON, APOSTROPHE, OPEN PARENTHESES.

The owls only hoot
in the clock-ticking hours of the night
to remind me of a life
I have long wanted to live
while I paint myself with
self-consuming gloom.
Everything rhymes with TICK-TOCK,
and it’s not my fault that I decorated
you with a LESS THAN SIGN, SLASH, THREE.

A mirage of life
was dug up in my grave
so I buried my words
and decided to live
with a
DASH, UNDERSCORE, DASH.
Nothing rhymes with orange.

Inspired by ShadowPuppeteer’ ¿¡Everything Rhymes with Orange!?.

Art by Sharon Cummings.

Roaring Rhymes – Couplets For You

Roaring Rhymes – Couplets For You

The big, black clouds engulf the sky
where dusk-winged birds to home they fly,
the flutter of which does stir the air –
carries to me the scent of your hair.

Thus I approach the pattering drops
that drench the waiting, golden crops,
fill the air with an earth-like smell,
flushes my cheeks – oh, much too pale.

The doors are shut – no visitors to come,
to tease the rain, a flask of rum;
to wish that you were here with me too,
would drain the flask and paint me blue.

So while you wait and count your days
in your dainty and sparkling ways,
I count my nights too – lying awake,
and write to invite you for my wake.

 

Art: ‘Morning On The Seine In The Rain’ by Claude Monet

Poems for Summer: Part 2

You invited me today,
finally, to your home,
but I refused –
my legs are tired in your pursuit.

***

Under the fan, I sit
and see it spinning like
my mind spins
when you are near.

***

My clothes smell of you
after you pressed your warm body
against mine.

My laundry basket is empty.

***

While I wait for
the veggies to fry,
I write her a letter –
seventh one this week.

***

A month later
I remember
that I have forgotten you.