Creatively Written

The place to us, convergence

We come, meet and submerge.

Each to the whole of us.

Our faces glowing in incandescence

Adorned with smiles that emerge,

from the ever enveloping fuss.

The place to her, sustenance

Where the chopped jackfruit

Fueled her for years.

The onions hold her still!!!

Heart and hearth –burning

Fanned by her tears.

The table to us, recluse

From the noisy net

Of work and world.

Where from tossings

Of losses yet winnings –

Not sniffles, but smiles unfurled.

The table to her, aliment -

Whose deposit dust

Her fingers pearled

Into little lolly beads,

filling her little lad’s bellies.

In serene sleep thus they lulled.

That Mundane Morning

That mundane morning, I met You.

I saw you;

perched on the wooden bench.

They all ambled about doing their chores;

Some were playing cards, some sat discussing politics.

I wonder

why they giggled, while you sat sobbing.

They passed past blowing your hair, not seeing

your swollen eyes and your tiny nose that glowed red.

I doubt

if you knew anyone around

not so impossibly inhuman to leave you there;

battling lone with your heart aching hard.

That mundane morning, I fell for you.

That mundane morning

There was spark, fantasy, hope, ecstasy;

That mundane morning

There was dawn, light, ways, might;

That mundane morning

The Breath was faster, the Breath, warmer, the Breath, scented;

That mundane morning

The Breath was You.

That mundane morning

It all made sense;

Mundanely,

There was Life.

That Mundane Morning, I met We.

Red. White. Blue.

Red, White, Blue buses barging

onto our way; as we had to pass.

Young, middle-aged, aged ran racing

along with us; as we had to cross.

They ran. They ran fast past us.

All around jammed of them,

the hounding hurrying herd -

to each, his breed; to all, their need;

Solved solely by the papyrus reed;

At its feet, the full fleet.

When red radiated risk

and quadruplets diverged,

behind fetters, did await the

mass, in uniforms of haste;

Harsh halt, yet break of breath.

The rapid revenant check

on the circling needles; only if,

they were slight servile;

then either black or white dial

with slower strides would run.

Every morn a run,

Players all and rules none;

The push-and-rush game,

They alloy, all acclaim;

Urchin’s play, they do not play.

Daring the blazing baron,

bare they bask in his fiefdom;

brows wet with arid throat,

the armies march to test;

little pain, meagre, for rice’s price.

Red, White, Blue-

converge and diverge;

buses and bosses; gate

and wait; sun and burn;

Today for tomorrow.

Your Closed Eyes

(I)

I wondered how you looked

while you slept.

How you curled up

your curls while still unkempt.

When silent streets

are filled with street dog cries,

I dreamt of dreams beneath

Your closed eyes.

(II)

Our curved crescent crept

in stealth - simmering silently.

Mellow moonlight mocked -

Vividly, voicelessly, violently.

Yet, silver light – delightfully unaware,

blissfully blind – did rise

to light my dreams of dreams beneath

Your closed eyes.

(III)

Our breaths basking beauty

in madly moulded magic -

Constantly converging the hounding hurdles,

So totally, trivially tragic.

We barge - boldly brash,

Onto one’s heightened highs,

So dare We dream of dreams beneath

Your closed eyes.