A Prose

For hours he had been sitting on his chair, with his hands on his head and eyes closed. His notebook and pen lay in front of him. He had been thinking about writing a poem.A brimming ashtray ,half written and stricken sentences bore testimony to the sincerity of his effort. What could he think that could turn into a poem? He mulled over his childhood, his youth, his daily routine for some inspiration. Nothing poetic came out of it.He observed his surroundings. A dim lit room, faint smell of tobacco,books that he had read many times, a ticking clock, an old fan with a worn out bearing, nothing peculiar, nothing fascinating enough to make him pick up his pen. Perhaps his flair was in writing prose.

Anonymous

Some feelings have no name for them

what do you feel?

when the cool mountain air
sweeps through your body and your spirit
declares- it is free and botherless.

when you lie outside in the winter sun
and bask in the warmth of ennui
without a care in the world.

when you read a line in a book
that enunciates a thought you had since long
and you stop to read it again.

when a childhood memory emerges
from the depths of your being
and you understand a part of yourself,
a little better.

when you remember a conversation
with an old friend
and a forgotten smile reaches your face

What do you call them?

when a thought lingers on your mind for days
and you ache for that moment of solitude
to find the right words
and turn it into a beautiful poem,like-
"She smelled the flowers
and knew she was in love."

once a fire

There is a smolder in these white ashes
somewhere, refusing to extinguish
waiting to flicker
one more time,
in the damp breeze
and fill the night
with its mellow glow.
Yes, there was once a fire here,
whose flames rose to meet the sky.

my goodbye to you

one day,
we would meet again,
in a different bent of
space and time

free from
the restrains of today
the flaws of yesterday
with only us between ourselves
that day
we would let our hearts
do the reasoning

words would convey what we mean
no emotion would fumble expression
no desires would be left lurking
to form a dark memory

but until that day,
remember me,
my friend

this is my goodbye to you.

a thought to linger on

another day ended after a long evening
the last sun rays receded in the sky
leaving behind shades of darkness

the tender night caught the falling sky
into her arms and sang a lullaby
everything slowed as
time adjusted to its melody

everyone hushed for the day to sleep
everyone had a thought
to linger on tonight

The Little White Cloud

Tired of wandering
on whims of the wind
the little white cloud
stopped in the blue sky

For many days
it had swirled and tumbled
in the vast skies,
and had grown weary
like a lone traveler
the last few turns
it cannot remember

It hung in the sky
motionless
with all its resilience

It wanted to be free
from the fetish of the wind
left alone in the vast expanse
with a compass of its own

It wanted to soak the seas
smell the mountains
and perhaps
inspire a poet
on its way.

Black and White

I found an old photograph
of yours
in a book of mine

Your portrait,
black and white
placed like a bookmark,
between tainted pages,
reminding me
that I had left the story
unfinished

You looked like
a delicate dream
that had realized
it was just a dream,
a void, caught in the net of reality

I read a few pages
and thought it was absurd
to read the same story
again.