Posted in Epics, Poetry

A phased out bond

Never did a man fancy
Ribbons or bows
Till a tiny tot
Tugged at his toes.

Promptly, but not intentionally
I snatched the place of his lady love-
And she was now bound to be on
Either side of my glove.

Everything he bought for her
Now came in a pair of two
But somehow the reverse
Was barely ever true.

It was never a matter of shame
To serve him by pulling out his socks
And he could be the one
To get me into frocks.

Our bond was a fresh example of faith
As when he would fling me up in the sky
Even a perfect couple remained curious
For when I would let out a cry.

As time flew by
Puberty struck me
Mild touches turned awkward
Not even with the exception of a bruised knee.

Tantrums no longer worked in my favour
Nor could I argue that red wasn’t close to pink
Instead he was ready with a cane
Somehow that was enough to loosen our link.

I met my love in my later years
But he couldn’t perceive my emotions
Instead he disapproved with a countless explanations
And subsequently cited what I felt as notions.

He appeared to be friendly
Yet failed at being a friend
Because when I needed support
He seemed preoccupied even on the weekend.

Gone were those days
Of not being tied down by restrictions
But now when he comes home late
My heart develops a series of intuitions.

His fragile arm sticks out
From his flannel shirt
Aimlessly flicking through channels
As I stretch my little skirt.

He passes the salad bowl
From across the table
And mashes up his food to cover
His worry of my being stable.

~Poem 21

Some bonds are magical
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

U-turn

Thrice upon a time,
I chose the glossy finished wood
It seemed like a dime,
From where I stood.

An ounce of forgiveness,
Along with a downpour of the holy river
Has only caused me to be a mess
And a walking wound generator.

Even the banyan tree shakes its head,
And lowers its prop roots further
To say I don’t deserve even a death bed,
Let alone being pardoned by a mother.

Throughout the path,
I subconsciously got tangled in ivy
Assuming I wouldn’t require a calamine bath,
And brush everything off slyly.

Now I sit here by the lake,
All alone on a slimy wooden log
For my own goodness’ sake,
Passing the buck on the fog.

I can easily ask for a third second chance,
And after yet another repeated sigh
I will vow not to call it a happenstance,
But the real doubt is- Will I?

Oh! How foolish was I to think,
That because counting deeds is a sin
Draining my misdeeds in the sink,
Would mean they’d flow into the mouth of a bin.
_
A day will come when I will stop my search,
For a u-turn in a one way
But, my soul will continue to lurch,
As that day will be doomsday.
~Poem 20

Searching for a U-turn in a one way
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

Park bench sayings

Prologue
An evil eye spots them
It sees them canoodling
Its eyes bleed the colour of blood

And its face catches that of fungi.

Chapter 1

Back in the days,
When love wasn’t synonymous
With the act of treachery
Two lovebirds came and perched on my lap.

One was the girl next door

The other a charming lad
She would hesitate while lifting her lashes
While he couldn’t resist peeking from beneath.

With a little mischiefs here and there

They quarrelled for the space
That belonged right under the tree shade
Or the one far from the water spout.

Chapter 2

His excuse was to collect her tidbits
Hers was to take a stroll
Soon, they became frequent visitors
And I a constant medium for the same.

Out of all my guests

They happened to be my dearest
As I got to witness and devour
The purest emotion of all.

In order to serve them

With the best of my potential
I would fan myself diligently
When the rain showed no mercy on me.

Chapter 3
Once she was sobbing
Draining all of her energy
Just then he came along
And entwined his breaths with hers.

On the contrary,

She poked his wounds,
Even when they’d turned into scabs
For the scars still remained.

It was never to trigger him
Or fiddle with his emotions
But it was to make him feel;
Make him feel how it is to feel.

Chapter 4- Plot twist
Everything was going smoothly
And a lover’s tiff was usual
Until a garden wall full of creepers
Popped right out of the blue.

It was a third party

That couldn’t stand them as one
So it ignited a fire around the two
And pretended to be the extinguisher!

The plan worked accordingly
To what the extra human had in mind
And despite my sincere plea
They sought the path of destruction.

Chapter 5
Everything had changed
As their egos turned into a new sense organ
Thus, they could no longer see the tolerance
Between the butterflies and the bees.

Now when her tears were evident

He looked past it, and when he did showcase
A decent amount of concern
It came out a bit ruthlessly.

Whereas for me it was like losing a leg
And being in a perpetual state of disequilibrium
Where winters occurred 365 days a year
And the fate of a rusted swing.

Epilogue
They lived happily never after.

Alternate Ending

They returned one fine evening
To collect what they had misplaced,
In the first place-
Their unsaid oaths of love.

The End

~Poem 19

Sincerely, a park bench
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

Classic Novel

They do not know, what it is
To be inked down by heaven
Especially in typewriter font,
Be romanticised alongside
Novels, logs and even more novels,
In a ridiculously fragile binding,
That has been marred by an iron grill
Tainted with tea stains
And yellowed by an overdose of spring.
Our words may be missing,
Our insides may be stuck,
Our edges may be cut
But,
We never miscommunicate
We overcome those hindrances
We don’t let a page number define our togetherness.
They call our papery pages
Grey, gray and boring
When they are just a wilted rose
That travels through each chapter
Without grasping anything,
Or,
When they are just a postage stamp
That guarantees to send our message across
Without knowing its contents.
Darling, they’ll probably never figure out
That we are a classic novel
Getting published as we go on.

 

~Poem 18

 

Classic Novel
(PIcture credits: Unknown; Source: We Heart it)
 

Posted in Epics, Poetry

Picnic

Fruity scent
Cotton clouds
Criss-cross baskets
And extravagant supplies.

Notorious squirrels
Fluffy rabbits
And other furry pals
Gobble up our buttery fries.

A giant cheese ball,
Dripping honey
Grassy plot,
And embroidered butterflies.

Carefree mate
Some age-old games
With velvet petals
To make flowery ties.

Tropical nuts
Cherry berries
Evergreen pines
And wrinkled skies.

Their round faces
Bring winter hues
On a summer solstice
Taking you away from rotten lies.

Straw hats
Fancy lemon rinds
Red and white checks
And finely sliced pies.

A lazy afternoon
Spent describing things
The much-deserved break
Gets disrupted by bothersome flies.

Rotating wheels
Cascading waters
Feathery overalls
And stripping the regular disguise.

All in all
A magnificent picnic
Ends with the punctual twilight
And the sun basking in our eyes.

~Poem 17

The much-needed break
(PIcture credits: Unknown; Source: Google images)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

Sleeping in Blue Jeans

So, another gloomy moment,
Passes by, under a haphazard blanket,
Brooding over what hope really means,
And from a moment, it evolves into a fortnight.
 
The prime hour to repent,
Then hatches a drenched silhouette,
They say it’s okay, however when one leans
Their act is claimed as a call for the limelight.

Legs akimbo and spirit spent,
Wrapped neither in georgette, nor in velvet,
But, in a pair of tapered jeans,
Anticipating a flash of a spotlight.

When confined to bricks and cement,
All one has is a bottomless palette,
Dreary enough to drain the greens,
Yet brimming with yellows and blues in hindsight.

As dawn sprays its everlasting scent,
The sun will gradually blush scarlet,
Let this torture sprout like a stalk of beans
Because I am sleeping in my Blue Jeans tonight.

~Poem 16
Sleeping in blue jeans
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Piccsy)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

Ode to the Fall Leaves

Each colour of the autumn leaves have been given a name:
Pink- Cherry Blossoms
Red- Auburn Bricks
Yellow- Sweet Ambers
Purple- Mulberry Fruits
Brown- Toasted Coconuts
 
One of my friends once told me
There are various dimensions
To how you can love another
Citing an instance of the exquisite Fall Leaves.
 
From Fall to Fall, they fall
Harnessing a myriad of shades
With each shade bearing a trait
Of a particular kind of love.
 
The first place is ranked by
Pretty little Cherry Blossoms
Who hold more than an aesthetic delight
Albeit, less than divine ties.
 
And that’s exactly where and when
The magical Auburn Bricks step in
Suddenly telepathy begins to make sense
However, their spell strikes back abruptly.
 
Their mystic charm depletes
Leaving behind warm Sweet Ambers
Who try and heal your sensitive spots
But, you promptly seal it again.
 
You choose companionship o’er courtship
Letting the obsessive Mulberry Fruits crawl out
Then, ranging from slits to scars
They slide to tremendous extents.

They take offerings to the next level
And the crushed Toasted Coconuts wonder
If their sacrifices would ever turn fruitful
Or whether their sufferings are worthy enough.
 
She presented her theory so beautifully
That it now resides on my fingertips
Love may be quite flexible
Yet, it remains as marvellous as a mosaic.

 

~Poem 10

 

She explained it over tea
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)
 
 

Posted in Epics, Poetry

Cottage

 
How gullible is this little empress 
So unaware of these shenanigans 
She embosoms a pretentious sleeping face 
And nibbles at my sideburns
 
As she chants her dulcet hums 
I capture each and every inch 
Of her niveous complexion 
That eclipses the spirit of wintertide
 
Dawn being an escape artist 
Leaves her heartfelt tunes 
To grow a bit morose 
Because it’s time for us to run errands
 
For a while I’m left wondering 
If in downtown we were to dwell 
Would she be as doleful as she is now 
Once the clock struck aubade?
 
Or would her doting nature 
Vanish with the morning haze? 
In a jiffy my thoughts are shushed down 
And that’s exactly why I call her my Pumpkin
 
But why is she busy contemplating 
On what she must prepare for grub 
When she knows I will be appeased 
With just some cottage cheese, tofu and malt?
 
The wind snatches her handmade tents
I open my semi-closed eyelids questioning her mien
Then again I grasp her natural foundation 
While she finishes ruffling my hair
 
She nods her head sideways saying she is amused 
Oh! And all along I believed she was pure blank! 
“By the way, Good Morrow Dear,”
Her wordy grape-like eyes slowly speak.
 
 
Somewhere in what we call a fortress
Under the balmy skies and woven cardigans
He nestles up merrily to my embrace
With daydreams of a child, skipping about ferns
 
His false, heavy breaths tickle my eardrums
And simultaneously compete with our goldfinch
To win my soft chuckles and flushing reflection
However, I feel he has something to confide
 
His right clenched fist
Tells me his mind is forming dunes
Out of a blooming rose
Reducing our love to gerunds
 
But even if he kept me on a broken swing
In a deserted warehouse or a pumpkin shell
My soul would always be ready to bow
Bow down to him, just like a barricade
 
His head-rest, my cross-legged posture
Then guides him through this vulnerable phase
I would grab the hems of my worn-out gown
And fling all those question marks towards a bin
 
Now I shall carry on fixing
A somewhat banquet in our castle’s hub
And in the process of my being teased
A deep serenade comes to a halt
 
Glistening dewdrops wet our hung-out garments
The ultimate incandescence also hits our screen
Brightening up our mere accommodation
Though just his view, can beat its flair
 
He tilts his front as if I were bemused
When actually, I hadn’t fallen prey to his prank
“Well, Good Morrow Reindeer,”
He swiftly responds, with a lopsided cheek.
 
~Poem 9
 
 
Cottage
Cottage
(Picture credits- Nami)
 
Posted in Epics, Poetry

Entwined

You came, all smirks and colognes,
A crisp button down, a contrasting necktie,
But involuntarily, you built a reflex.

In me, to hide my discoloured teeth,
Gather my umbrella cut creases,
And look down at crooked toes.

Still, you yanked my halterneck,
Not for a better view,
Instead trace my bruised spine.

Then, to attain a perfect grip,
On a pair of drooping shoulders,
You let yourself also melt.

Now ready and set to twirl me around,
You stapled that skater shift back,
And let me go about, like a spinning top.

However, towards the end,
I clutched onto my sleeve,
To the much hyped, “Shall we dance?”

 
~Poem 8

Did they really dance?
(Picture credits: Richard S. Johnson)
Posted in Epics, Poetry

That "Heidi" inside you

Wipe out the mist, but condense your sight
Picture yourself standing at wuthering heights
 
Spring up and about, don’t stay put
Hop off your porch and go gallivanting barefoot
 
Gallop over the pastures like jolly fillies
Wonder what spiders have to do with lilies
 
Start by searching for snowdrops
Turn baskets and berries into your props
 
Tag along with some other species
Chase after them, then fall on your knees
 
Form a circle around the mighty Alp
Witness the breeze trace your scalp
 
Impersonate those thick clouds
While you sprawl on flowery mounds
 
Let the docile daisies govern your motion
And be sure to gulp down their divine potion
 
Open up your heart to Eastertide
Tell all the bitterness to run and hide
 
Gleam and rejoice with a mere pretzel
Now, impregnate that “Heidi” buried in your vessel.

~Poem 7

There is a child buried in all of us and we must set it free
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source Pinterest)