Monday, 22 December 2014

Short, fat and ugly

'Am I pretty?' Her brow twitched
'Could beautiful hold synonymy?'
And her head itched
Musing o'er the archaic dichotomy

Apparelled in an ill-fitted apron
A dame perches on a pouffe
With a paperback as her patron
She espouses the term aloof

Neighbouring her rippled reflection
She skims through the same page
And is foxed by its diction
But heedless of the savvy sage

Secretly phrased as a puppet
She loses herself in a fictional realm
Again deceived by a leaflet
Which she plucked from an elm

A sudden discernment crashes
That even fables aren't fair
For 'tis either those fluttering eyelashes
Or that unkempt hair

Her quest drags on, of whether
One would fall in, or simply fall for
As she lets go of its tether 
She rants mutely at her mentor-

'How plain can Jane be?'
And she spilt 'A cup of tea!'

~Poem 4
A question I ask myself daily
(Picture credits- Piccsy images)

Saturday, 6 December 2014

Dusk's Kiss

Dusk had fallen in all of our lives as a sign for each one of us to leave every ray of hope for the next morning. The azure skies dived into the sun-kissed sea, adding a tinge of grey-rose to itself, while mellow doves glided back to their harbours. In the midst of all the mayhem, that eventually sought cosmos, we somehow stumbled across each other, and since then our courtship has been of great admiration. 
His love for me was certainly undeniable and the witness to the same was the way he overlooked my flaws. He would delay his departure for me while the other celestial bodies stuck to their own routine of prancing around the orb of the mightiest star. 
However, his paused flight lasted for barely a second extra. 'Just a second more,' spoke my naïve eyes, in hope of being heard, but he only shrugged at my silent plea. I tried to convince myself to accept it as God's command and overcome this plight by treasuring whatever I received.
Albeit he was bound by His mystic spells, he vowed to prove his love for me, when he knew very well it wasn't required. Like always he got his way, and I, like a lamb, surrendered. I geared up for the event wanting to look my best. I liberated all the contents of my drawer, which were alien to me until now. 
"What a sight it is to see her fidget with her mascara and be so generous with her gloss," my luminous companions jabbered amongst themselves and gleamed from corner to corner with ecstasy. 'Anyone would think it was their big day and not mine,' I cracked a joke to myself, while I spent yet another hour taming and defining my curls.
They wished me luck as I turned around to meet my beloved, Dusk. He smiled at my sincere efforts put in just to appear presentable and again pretended not to notice how I still managed to be clumsy. He brought a gusty breeze with himself that proved my various clips and conditioners as unjust. It made my locks go all haywire, which he then settled like a gentleman.
With the expertise of his fingers, he pulled the strands behind my ear and sneaked up to nuzzle its lobe. I bit my lip, ending up all crimson, at the touch of his stubble and the way it tickled my skin.
His smirk let me understand his little mischief, so I planned to avenge his misdeed in my mind. I signalled his ear, calling him down, acting as if I wanted to whisper a secret and planted a kiss instead. He laughed his very own cowboy laugh at my childish absurdness and I reduced to the bashful dwarf!
"O dear Crescent, what will I ever do without you?" His mellifluous yet rich baritone left me mesmerised for the umpteenth time. Even when I would arrive in my gibbous form, he'd call me that, much to my liking. He brushed his honeydew lips with mine, filling me with all of his love and fled towards the heavens in the blink of an eye.
A bitter-sweet tear drizzled over my deepest crater, while the brief contact was made. It slipped right through the rim and hit the core, dampening it slightly. I was glad that it happened but crestfallen as the moment ceased.
Suddenly, dawn breaks and so does her dream.


The brief contact
(Picture credits:Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Saturday, 22 November 2014

Parched souls

My Mascot of glee, Lord
Has granted my wish
He presents her a euthanasia
As promised.

Her eyelids seal eternally
With all their might
Making my love for her
Spring up again.

At the last second of their closure
She feels relieved and soothed
Silver-blue droplets fall on her remains
Beseeching her to come back to life.

They drown her bronze casket,
But strengthen her soul
The various rituals proceed
And eulogies along with regrets soak her.

She floats across the stairway to heaven
With a beatific smile pasted on her lips
My constant tabs on the sundial
Finally show a positive result.

It is time; time for her soul to release
She elevates to the entrance
Clad in an ivory gown that drapes
Handsomely, on the surface of the clouds.

Even Aphrodite bows down
In front of her
Ready to crown her
As the new symbol of beauty.

She writhes with the hems
Of her dress
And her lively girls
Continuously nudge her.

She trips over its pleats
And sinks into my arms
But her friends grab her by her elbows,
Pulling her away from me.

I somehow manage to see her
Put on a scarlet blush
Her only make-up
Through her netted veil.

She's let her hair fall
Fall, out of waterfall braids
And her velvet curls trickle down
Bewitchingly to her bosoms.

Her soft palms hold chrysanthemums
That look dull next to her charm
I fix my tie and she giggles
With another stroke of blush.

Every step she takes leaves impressions
Of her soles on the stark white carpet
Beautifying its simplicity
As well as her own.

Dandelions halt in their respective paths
Only to cherish a glimpse of her view
And end up awestruck
By her alluring self.

A rainbow shoots up and then down
In the worst of all droughts
Attempting fruitlessly
To mirror her glory.

"I now pronounce you as husband and wife,"
Chants Eros and we put on halos,
Emblems of our platonic love,
Above each other.

Though our wedding
Was rejected back then
Our marriage sustains
In the laps of heaven.

We sway together to the symphonies
Celebrating our triumph
Over the battle against the world
As earth stands by our side.

And as we dance
Hand in hand
To the tunes
‘We’ turns into ‘us.'

The word eternity
Regains its lost meaning
Our parched souls drink in love
Eventually quenching their thirst.

~Poem 3


Made in heaven, literally
(Picture credits: Ron Coleman)

Monday, 17 November 2014

Decoding the Solitary Reaper

The Cuckoo bird recited a symphony
Whilst caravans continuously whistled
'Twas a new genre called harmonic cacophony
Then I received His verbal epistle

My flesh and bones stood still
Bulks o'er my lashes flexed
Straight from a window sill
I'd landed to an annex

There, He's conducting an orchestra
And awaiting an audience
I lay shackled by His aura
As an archangel latched the fence

A lonely lass lead the choir
Though without her knowledge, hummed
To herself and reached the foyer
Where He swallowed, what she succumbed

Lord unnoticed her misdeeds
Loosened tangles and softened blades
Bestowed blankets of divine seeds
And bridged her from all masquerades

Her melancholic melodies were lyrics
That belonged to our Keeper
Carved out from an onyx
Alas! I'd decoded the solitary reaper.


~Poem 2


Yon solitary lass
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Google images)

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

As sweet as Mithu

Emerald feathers would caress me
For a promising good morning
While a booful beak would squirm
With the art of perfection
The way he adored seasonings
That matched his skin and soul
And his little mild leaps
Could leave a beast in awe
The few vowels he uttered
In reality were a ballad, however
The lone perceiver couldn't predict 
That it was time for an elegy
He once confided, he longed to flap
Not to escape, but hold on
Show the world he had winds
When he only wished for air
His fellow flocks would poke fun
And others eyed his beauty
But now he's soaring high
High above the heavens.


~Poem 1

A tribute to a wonderful birdie
(Picture credits: National Geographic)

Sunday, 19 October 2014

Writing Blues

I had started to bear all the symptoms; from repelling the butter-like flow of pens to finding the sight of a journal disturbing. Every time I gathered enough of strength to hold a pen, my fingers would glaciate, and believe me it was worse than a frostbite. These were only the subtle signs, the worse were on their way, or rather had just finished unpacking. At times I would manage to scribble a word, a monosyllable to be more precise.
Even this didn't satisfy the supernatural force, which tried to chew up my passion. It spoke to me once,"your writings are pathetic." It showed me a world map that demarcated millions and millions of better aspiring writers. That was enough to kill my spirit. I also received a complimentary gift, a reality check. I felt as if the only things I knew were how to play scrabble and jumbled words. I would take a brief glance at other's works and feel demotivated.
I blamed people who eyed my talent and various other nonsensical omens as the source of my ink's contamination. The very contamination that had spread right through my veins to the nib of my fingers. Though afterwards I realised my recovery lied in my soul only. I traced back to the day I was overjoyed by the fact that my Lego's and Cobi's could join but forlorn as I was still running short of bricks. The spring break was on, and so was my white frock with red polka dots. Guess I was fashionable even then! I was busy building the foundation of my dream house. All my attempts to fix it went in vain. I wanted it to be a mansion, but at the same time I didn't want to waste my favourite red tiles just for the base. I kept struggling and seeing this my Dad got up from his work and told me the most important thing was the base. And if it wasn't strong enough my house wouldn't stand for long.
Little me was too stubborn to listen then. Though later it hit me like a wrecking ball. I knew what I was lacking, self confidence; the very root of all aspirations and the only supplements for my deficiency.
I recalled how my dainty fingers had once touched a dusty Heidi. She taught me how to live a carefree life and believe in myself. While Matilda, well, she showed me how to be unique like everyone else.
My thought process seemed to grow and I began to feel myself develop as a writer. Critiques helped me a lot instead of leaving me dejected. Soon I mastered the art of getting inspiration from contemporaries and not envying them. My writing blues ceased and thankfully by His grace I've now caught the writer's hand.


Writer's hand
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We Heart It)

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

The Girl in the Corridor

Yes, that's exactly who I'm pointing at, maybe unfortunate for you, but it IS HER only whom I'm talking about. Displeased? So is it the first time you turned around to look at her? Yes? Well make it your last because just as you think she's not worthy enough to be friends with you because of your high status, even you don't deserve her attention. Maybe you won't care enough to look again and before I pointed out at her, you wouldn't have even bothered to acknowledge her mere existence.
Or maybe you knew and you along with your friends must have viewed her as a laughing stock. No, I'm not accusing you of bullying or anything. A random thought, have you ever wondered why she agreed to help you with your homework and assignments? Well, it wasn't because of some silly, stupid reason. Perhaps she genuinely wanted to be your friend. But everyone including you wanted to call her a name, maybe an attention-seeker or what's that new slang word in Hindi which refers to someone with extra adhesive? You got the point, right? Of course not, I don't want you to go and make friends with her just to spite me. But could you just show a little humanity by not making a joke out of everything she does?
Maybe she has a dark side, a story which you might not be aware of. I agree, she maybe a little weird, always glued to her seat in the corner with a book, unable to make sense of the fact that the school uniform is meant to be worn with style. Low waist, tight fittings, ankle socks, low slung bags, you name it, she DOESN'T have it. So we come to the conclusion that she doesn't belong to the cheerleader group(not sure whether they exist in our various campuses, but since the IPL has made a huge impact, let's dream on), nor the studious group and not even the sports club. How about average? I hope she fills in the category you felt apt for her.
But you know what? That's exactly where she doesn't want to fit in. Oh, I see...She doesn't have a say in this, right? Okay no worries. Just to let you know she wanted to sit at the writer's desk. Hahaha-no that's not me laughing, it's you who is and was and will forever go on until you get a dosage of the same treatment. I know you think she's not capable of even dreaming about that, but my friend(I hope it's safe to call you that), you might be reading her post that's actually about you and you are still staring at the screen, scratching your head(dandruff, I suppose), unable to figure out who she's referring to!
Hahaha- now there, that's her laughing!


With her only friend
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)