A world waiting to be explored

I reek of you

At the edge of the rock,
as I sat with my legs suspended in air,
I harked back to sitting by the pool,
when late at night,
legs submerged in water then;
I spoke with someone,
of distance and hope

Can I help but wonder,
how we did not align,
just like the things we talked of

Reek of us the towns of time
as they watch me go by
just as silently as artists of mime

Witness us in separation,
does the sand sneaking under our feet,
while stealing some of us,
to hand out, at every sea’s greet

So, under the cover of stars,
philosophizes the man,
who has now known
the greatest longing that there is,
of him who has remained invested
in all the rights, at all the wrongs

Thus by the river, the wind blows
a fierce rhythm as it speaks to me,
and speaks of what, I know not,
as I travel to the one who knew her odds

Who hushing words into my ear,
like the old winds did,
made me feel alive once,
the way a tickle inside did

And suddenly, I see,
the pages of my diary
that have been blank so long
are all filled out at once
in remembrance of the forgone.


Hurried, rushed past
and before I could catch hold of a few,
they had watered down me,
washed me over
Brimmed in an empty cabin,
the old rusty gates had flung open again,
and the crystal paperweights
reeked of nostalgia,
nostalgia long forgotten they say
As I speak of reeking,
I speak of the pickle,
and of the sweet dish
only she could make,
my grandmother long gone,
would make my funny bone tickle
An agony aunt,
an ally in disguise,
we crossed roads,
on and off it alike
My smuggler was she,
her smuggler, I,
we made a team to last forever,
yes, I fell for this lie
Because a day she sang,
the next she coughed,
and amidst gentlemen dressed in white,
was my last sight of her
Adorned with tubes,
her eyelids didn’t flutter,
and as her heart rate fell,
voices inside me began to stutter
Within hours, her possessions were left behind,
in a jar of pickles
and a bottle of stories,
clothes that smelled of her,
were our years full of her memories
Since then,
I have draped her in my heart,
as my eyes share the brim,
and while a little always pops over,
there’s a raging sea inside to swim

Love is not lukewarm

In the brokenness of your being, 
when the wind holds you a second longer,
and the night speaks to you,
telling tales of the dark,
you know you have known love

Like a silent conversation,
like comfort in the crowd;
Love that is teenage, 
and love that is senile
Love that is not only counting stars by the beach,
but also counting pebbles by the shore

Love that is not the perfect letter;
instead the hundred discarded drafts in the bin,
Love that is not the perfect photograph,
instead the shared coyness when fingers graze

Let love not be known by the anxiety during falling out,
let love be the distance you didn’t care for,
or the mountains that your emotions echoed with

Let love be the last lap of your race,
let love be the philosophy you barter your sleep for,
let love be the metaphor you resonate with,
let love be the song you made your symphonies for

And yet if love cannot find a testimony today,
regret the hesitance you took to,
repent the uncertain wobble you couldn’t look over,
blame yourself for how love couldn’t seek you

Because love is to dive into the waves, 
and to fly into the valleys,
it is not a step back,
it is a kiss later
because love, my friend, is not lukewarm;
Love is intense,
love is a poem in conflict,
a poem by the sea in fury.


This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 58; the fifty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Saravana Kumar Murugan, the editor of Shades Of Life book series.
The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own

With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places

Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears

For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return

For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return

To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home

When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon58 & #Aativas50. Participation Count: 13.

And I'd wonder again

Sometimes, one of these days when it rains,
I want to sit by the window sill,
And read her my favourite book,
And watch her wonder at the rain drops

But before there were rains,
There had been a summer,
Never the same, but this,
Not quite like any other

Sure not like her first
When she’d crawl more and walk less,
Garble more and talk less,
Yet each time her lips parted,
She brought me a feeling uncharted.
A myriad, not one, I’ll always be swarmed
She’ll giggle away and I’ll be disarmed

In summers to follow,
She’d put on her school dress,
Wave out to me
Like a sun in her prowess,
Then there was a period when she sketched,
That was also the time she started caring for her tress

Season changed, and cold was common again,
To give her company, I too would feign a pain,
She had started dancing now,
Sometimes I’d shake a leg too,
Solving her math problems,
I’d learn some math too
But there were lessons,
A little few on hope too
Because that’s how I kept up,
I could’ve given up too

And then came the last summer,
The one that was unlike none,
We drove around a lot,
And stopovers for lemonades were fun

Last summer, our car broke down a lot too,
Fixing it was hard, but fixing it was what we had to

Soon, she took to a habit,
That of me fixing it for her,
So, when doctors took her to the Operating unit,
She said, my daddy would fix me sir

Who was to say what Daddy could do?
He was no doctor, had only hope to cling on to
The hope that he had taught her,
Today was Daddy’s test,
One he couldn’t falter

So that’s what I have been telling you,
Now you tell me something too,

Sometimes one of these days when it rains,
Should I not want to sit by the window sill?
And read her my favourite book?
Should I or should I not?

Want to watch her wonder at the rain drops again.
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