art · blogs · earth · poem · Poetry · Uncategorized · winter

Winter’s final assault

Outside, the Sun rests
In the laps of his mistresses,
The rays, gorgeously gravitating
Towards the earth, still nursing
Her wounds of winter,
Covering her naked self with fallen leaves
Of a dying tree, who has fought bravely,
A battle that was not meant to be won.
The window pane has a splotch of fog
Perhaps the fist mark of our nemesis,
Spring is yet to prepare and
Summer is stuck in far east
We must escape before
The moon turns pale again.
Bring out the boats,
We must skate through this icy river.
He will come back, one more time
For his final assault, the winter.

Featured Image- ‘The Winter Scene’ (Hendrick Avercamp, 1620) 

childhood · children · destiny · dreams · friends · night · Poetry · poverty · secrets · sky · stars · talking · winter

Talking to the stars

During those melancholy midnights when slumber sleeps far away

His concrete walkway bed seems an enemy as the night quietly passes

His eyes wide open, brimmed with dreams undaunted by the forces of reality

Reality that embraces his fragile frame with all the compassion and warmth,

While other kids of his age are treated with the tales of moon every night,

He is often seen befriending the neighbors of the lunar god who reside beyond the dark.

Stars like him back too, he is different, they often discuss,

Unlike others, he never tries to count them or find them when they are lost

He simply goes to them when he is lonely and his dreams are dwindling

He goes to them to seek their light and company

Unlike others, he is not finicky in his choice nor is he clichéd

He talks to them all, whoever is available,

Even to those who were left alone when galaxies were to be formed

And them, the miserable ones, who couldn’t fit in any constellation

They like him, o yes they do,

They like him for his dreams might be surreal

But he plans them oh so well in his little mind

Now, he knows a few dirty starry secrets too

For one, those tiny pin-ups aren’t quite fond of the moon

The self proclaimed wannabe lunar god who is smaller than the smallest of them

He has also unlocked a few myths with their help,

For one, not all of them belong to the Milky Way

That there is no such grandma with a spinner or a boy named frost on the moon

Stars have shared all they know but he must stay hush

For only then, his dreams can come true

They show him their scripts, as testimony to their vows

For they say about his destiny, it’s written in the stars.

Poetry · poverty · winter

A winter morning!

One pale winter morrow,

A man was trying to sleep draping all his quilts

Oh it was so cold and sun was so lukewarm

The unsuccessful poor man was out of all his wits.

Did I say the mattress had its share of holes?

Did I say the quilts were torn?

Did I say his wife had died last night?

Leaving him dry and alone to mourn…

Through the big parts apart of the grass roof

The sun would throw his rays on his lids

His hut was in the marketplace to make the things worse

The same marketplace where lived a widow with her five crying kids…

I wish he could have slept sound that morrow

But his only sweater was his skin

Yeah the poor old sweater of his gave way to things to come

Sun shone bright over his dead body pale, lean and thin…