Cold Winter night

* I don’t think this really qualifies as a poem, there is no rhyming scheme, don’t think it can be a song either. Call it whatever you want after reading*

This cold winter night,
I feel a shiver just thinking of you.
Thoughts of what could have been
but was never meant to be,
linger in my silly little brain.
The reins of my thoughts take
me back to the last winter
when you were around.
Now the days are spent
wishing you had hung on
and nights crying, thinking of you.
It is this cold winter night,
when I realize you are long gone.
In the eerie silence of the night
your absence haunts me
and the tears come gushing out.
I pined you to be close by,
but this cold winter night
I know, you won’t be.
It is time to let go,
that’s what I tell myself,
for it was never meant to be.

Alone

In the middle of the night,

when the darkness was the only dweller.

I  walked,

strolling all alone

in the deserted alley,

where only the shadows lurked.

My thoughts reflected in those shadows.

There were words left unspoken,

as the distances had grown.

Time had gone by,

the voices of the memories

that were now a past, lingered

in my rusted head.

The sweet voices of us laughing

and giggling together.

We climbed the trees

with our skinny hands and legs

and played in the greens

where the daffodils bloomed in glory.

We were young and believed

this was all ever-lasting.

That was before you turned ,

into the devil you are now.

The time snapped the ties

we thought were eternal.

Now it was just me left alone,

walking with my shadow.

And you, my brother

have flown with tides of time.

The sound of the leaves

Two days back I was walking down the street back from college after an exam. Exhausted, with my earphones plugged in, devoid of everything around me. There was a gap between the two songs, my earphones went silent for a moment and that’s when I heard that particular sound, the sound of the leaves, it was a windy day. I had not noticed the beautiful weather until I heard that sound, that’s when I removed my earphones and thought of what I write in this prose.

The maple tree leaves rustled,

as the wind whisked them,

the wind grew mightier.

The leaves whistled,

a soft whistle,

as if they had something to say,

but not a soul heard.

They cried out loud,

hoping somebody, somewhere would listen.

The beholder just turned a deaf ear to them leaves,

ignored the plea and scurried to look for cover from the wind.

But what exactly did the sound leaves want to say?

Was it a warning?

Every passer-by seemed to pay no heed.

They had forgotten to pay attention to

the little things in their lives,

so caught were they in running

through the wind.

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A tribute

I write this piece as a tribute to the blast victims in the world, those who lost their lives and those who witnessed the heinous terrorist attacks. The few seconds that changed their lives just because they were in the wrong place or should I say some cruel soul devised, planned the mass murder, the murder of humanity. There is a terrorist attack nearly everyday in some corner of the world, it is condemned but I have a question. When will it stop? Haven’t we had enough?

The young, the old all scurried for shelter.

Ran from here to there helter skelter.

They had no inkling what was to come their way,

when they left home.

It shook every bone inside them,

no one knew what had happened for the first few moments.

Until they saw blood being shed,

the blast had changed the entire tableau in a jiffy.

The convivial market place had collapsed,

they saw it crumble in front of their eyes.

The mother screamed in search of her three year old,

the old father looked for someone who could

help in rushing his twenty year old son to a hospital.

There was a havoc, all over,

everyone needed help,

a stranger assisted another stranger to help the lady who had lost a limb.

What had happened?

The feeling was just not sinking, they were all hapless,

all they wanted was a safe place to hide.

They were caught in a horrendous terrorist blast,

the terrible criminals had targeted them,

they could not have imagined in their wildest dreams

to be the victims of a bomb blast.

Few lost their organs, few their lives,

few their loved ones and

those lucky ones who survived were scarred for the rest of their lives,

scarred with a fear of the unknown.

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A few feet under

Its hard to wade through these water.

I am drowning in this monstrous sea.

Its taking me deep inside,

the more I try to cling to the sea side,

the more these angry waves engulf me.

The roar of the monster sea is cacophonous.

I wonder what does it mean.

Does the mighty sea want to tell me something

or is it just showing its anger towards me?

Or perhaps its just being provocative to make me swim across it,

 across its wild waters.

Teach me the lesson of life,

 show me what it is to sail without a ship.

There is agony, despair, desolation on the surface

but deep inside the wet world is dazzling, divine, devoid of the roar of the waves.

All I need to do is go a few feet under

to see the beautiful world and obliterate myself from the misery on top.

 

The Solitary Being in Spring.

Dahlias are blooming;

Marigolds are sunshine yellow.

Pastures are green;

Winds are swirling the trees.

Amidst all the beautiful foliage

there’s a doleful face

all by himself, the solitary being,

no one knows what thoughts engulf him.

He envies the beauty of Dahlias,

the sunshine bright marigolds,

the green pastures and the swirling trees.

The snowy winter has gone by and

given way to a new and fresh world.

Spring is here.

The solitary being wonders

when will the spring of his life arrive.

No one knows, no one understands

what has bereaved this solitary being that he sits all by himself.

Some think he is a fool,

some just call him insane but not a soul understood his pain.

The pain of the solitary man in winter awaiting his spring.

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