My women

Burning Star

She is no tragic hero, she may be a soft sweetness or a calm sultry afternoon, the kind when one takes a siesta.

I shall always associate her with the counted days which never fail to surprise me with their visit every year between spring and summer.

The erratic weather of this city she thinks she breathes in might suit her too.

I paint her shade in the canvas of my mind. It is generally the picture of an exquisite, warm cloak which freezes nights and plays with handfuls of fates. A shield protects at the cost of its beauty.

But then, everyday, her smile brushes away the dull clouds of my mind. Hers are rays which peep out, tempt and make me wonder before blinding me with their golden brightness. My eyes always get accustomed to it with time.

I wish to see her in my arms and whisper sweet lullabies till she falls asleep.

Stars burn bright

And then they die

All they leave behind

Are gaping black holes.

What then is eternal my love? All I can picture right now is your beautiful smile.

Mellifluous Murmurs

I see glazed eyes staring into space.

Is she writing poetry?

How many notes till she reaches an end?

She spins gossamer wings with her voice and wraps them around her.

Oh she’s pretty. Unusually so.

Her long, dark tresses need no moon or stars to remind one of sweet dreamy nights.

She builds, breaks and rebuilds a happy home with four strong walls. It has quaint windows of sweet spring and a door knob of wintry snow.

One can knock but not turn the knob from the outside.

She’ll open up, slowly like a bud blooming into a flower.

Lonely rivers and a glass palace will welcome her for she may grow children of happiness for them.

Or she may just turn around and break some thoughts into tiny pieces.

The shards stay memories.

We’ll all pick them up for her. We love her.

Grace is but an ivy which climbs silently around her. And she cares and loves like no other.

Sing, my Mynah

And we’ll think of times long forgotten

Lend letters and music to our nascent dreams

For a while, every day, we’ll learn our lessons from your sweetness.

It’s you I keep going back to every time I lose the soft pillow I trusted with hopes of my peaceful sleep.

Dreamer

Did she step out of a book?

Or did she become that one character in all books?

Maybe she’s just here, changing shapes, swimming in bucketfuls of cushioned rainbows, giggling all the while at our incredulity.

 Running through lanes of hazy memories, I end up coming across the face of a child, a child who changes her eyes, nose, and words each time. Innocence stays her parent, marrying her to her own breath and letting her sleep peacefully in wars of anger and lust. She doesn’t remind me of an image. She flows and floats in different dimensions while we jump around trying to touch the base of the dreams she lives in. Some smiles reinstate faith in joys one tends to forget while being swept away by the waves of time. Hers is a smile which makes me believe in a cluster of jumbled up anecdotes of life. Her stories may be cheerful or despairing. They never cease to spark an interest in an otherwise seemingly dull life. She always wakes me up from uncomfortable, delirious slumbers.

My child woman

The moon’s never too far, the stars a little close by

Sublime tragedies are laughed at, you understand

You create your own worlds and they slowly revolve at your will.

Mushrooms cook remedies in their bellies and fairies hold your fingers tight. You live in a fantasy more real than our realities. Your presence stays a rare absolution of the mind.