Friday, 28 May 2010

Happy song

I don't know, I feel tappy...
Just happy to be happy...
Happy because I am not sad,
Happy because I know all are not bad.
Happy to be alive,
Happy to survive;
Happy that I have friends like you,
Happy that all are happy too!

Thursday, 27 May 2010

A love song

Oh how my heart skips a beat,
How the skin longs for a touch,
How my fingers search for a pair
When you pass by my chair.

Hours of talking sweet nothings,
Hours of yearning follows then,
Hours of dreaming, praying, wanting,
How my heart longs for your chest!

The pleasure in those eyes,
The warmth in the smiles,
The love that drips down the sweaty skin,
Oh I wish I had them for ever...

Wednesday, 19 May 2010

The Bodies Speak

How does
The rub of bare skin against another
Rouse so much pleasure
As to release a burden
And lighten your mind?
Why does it
Lead to so much thoughts
and feelings and expectations
And judgements on values and mores?

One wonder, unquenched,
Is the pleasure of my skin on you.
How do we lick away so lustfully
The sweat of pleasure as if they were dew?
What do you see in my eyes
That makes you smile so heartily?
Why do I let you touch me deep
And return the pleasure as greedily?
One mystery, undeciphered,
Is the love that increases with each pain.

Tuesday, 11 May 2010

A tribute to pastoral life

I ambled through the village roads,
An occasional bus, car or bike
hooting its way around the treacherous curves
Even as I heard the echo of my footsteps in the idyllic calm.

Far below,
In the valley,
Shades of green cheated my eyes of their colour differentiation power.
The silent tiled houses
And pious little churches, mosques and temples
Stood testimony to a life of simplicity.
While smiles and greetings of long-distance neighbours
hugged each other across the roads,
Trees and milestones by the sides
Seemed to wave good-day to me.
Ruminating cattle and barfing roadside weeds
bid me silent welcome.

I walked on,
Surprised by a glimpse of life in the innards of my city.
Where did I live?

Escapist's poems

So very weirdly,
Everyone cribs about work,
Love and Life.

About how your work
Leaves no time for anything else
And how love is lacking,
Life is slacking.

When something decides to show up,
We run around trying to hide.

We are driven,
Not by courage,
Not by lust,
Nor curiosity,
But by escapism.

From life, love, work
And the self.

When we open our old drawers
And find those sheets
of tidily jotted scribbles,
We are torn between
Wanting to throw them
and cherishing their memory.

There was once a 'me'
That loved these, we say,
and shut those drawers again.

The little self
scribbled on those sheets
Go back to sleep,
annoyed for having been woken.

And we get back to the tidying
Unaware and unattending
to the shards of self scattered all over,
Too scared to put them together.

We talk of old romances,
of little love notes
and stolen kisses,
And joke about how silly we were.

But somewhere deep inside,
We nurture those seeds
Or pamper those wounds,
And yet close our minds on them
So we can live peacefully -
Or so we think.