Screen

A screened door;
Dynamic patterns on the floor
Elongating and shrinking
And measuring time.

Transport

Which bus are you waiting for?
And which one will you take?
Who will sit next to you ?
And what would the conversation be?

What will he talk?
And what will you?

Where will he get down?
And when?
When will you?
And where?.

Who will write this?
And who will read?

Drop

A dew drop on the window grill
quivering in the wind.

Images - yours and mine
along with that glint in our eyes;
All in that drop.

Stage, backdrop and prop
All, a quivering drop.

Hi

me : hi
friend : hi

me:how do you do?
friend :fine, and u?

me:fine, what's up?
friend: nothing much, on your side?

me:nothing much.

Wondering what this is?
Remember oldtimes?
A friendly stare and a blink;
That the creatures of same species share
Coldly acknowledging one another
That they are alive.

This has the same warmth to it.

Gloomy lot

Poets are a gloomy lot
They are either reminscing in the past
Or dreaming in future.
They carry a blame
of not living the present.

An idea pops up
And they put it down too fast
Making the present, past.

Just Checking

Saw the past through present's lens
And viceversa;
And I ended up
myopic.

This time that is all
the poetic licensing I've got.

The truth is , a rumour infact
That a beauty was there in the clinic
peeping into your eyes;
Just checking.

I went there.
"Can you read those letters?"
"Now?"
'no'
"now? "
'no';

"now?"

She was so close.

Pattern

Have you seen any pattern
in the wilderness of graveyard?
Death seems to elude design
Just like life.

You had a hunch
You would end in that armchair
but suddenly there was a gaping noise
And a flying glass caught you.

But you were lucky in a way;
In one piece now you tend
the flowers over your bosom.

Others lie scattered.

Trodden

Silence surrounds
As if a promise was found, vacuous;
We sit around the dinner table
Together for one (last) time.

We expect the paths to cross again
pray that it should happen
but not too soon.

The smiles of inevitability
cast a spell across, and we
Break off into stories
reminiscing the trodden path.

Taking notes

So many metaphors
still the truth lies veiled;

Will the space be a little translucent?
And time a little slow, for me
to see things still, and take notes.

Stillness when desired , evades
But when it dawns the desire fades.
So, I sit in a corner and craft the story
Ignoring
A curtainful of possibilities.

Out of the blues

I write mostly melancholies
Only them, I remember to pen down
Not that there is no happiness;
But it is more fleeting.

Joy and sadness come in cycle
Knowing this and after writing this
Can I not see one in another?

Sometimes the thinking takes me
to an objective space and I
with equal ease , witness joy and sadness
Until suddenly waking up to a jittery feeling.

Lace work

I would interlace the stories
And form a curtain;
And hiding behind that
I would laugh at you;
At your ability to see through.

The stories would be molded
With your wild imagination
that paints beautiful flowers
shrouding me.

Under the wild flowery bed
I hide,talking and laughing,to my echo
While more frescoes are created
On the now wall-like curtain.

Moments

Were the good days old?
Were the old days good?
The mime of the present is staged
to the music of nostalgia.

Suddenly we hear silence
people come out of the still frames;
pages from the book we read
turn into little boats, trying hard
to float in the puddle (of life).

Rain against the window knocks
as a distant memory earnestly invites
To come out and get drenched.