Let’s go back to the caves
Bury our screams in silence
Discard our deadly weapons
In the deepest darkness
For they fill us with bravado
So false, instill us with prowess
So misguided, that our world
Slowly crumbles around us
Just stones, as cold as our hearts
Drowned in brown
I am wading through
Frothy waves,
It’s a bit much
This aroma of coffee
At the corner cafe;
Faint guitar strings
Click of Scrabble tiles
Or keys on a laptop
Clatter, chatter
A little laughter
Just another evening
As the sun dissolves
Into another cup
Staining the bottom
With a rust orb –
The circle of life!
Two decades back when coffee cafes started blooming in Indian cities, this was a common sight in the evenings with young people, mostly IT employees, converging at the cafes. It was part of being hep. It could be overwhelming for the loners, yet alluring. Coffee cafes are nostalgic. It signaled the coming of age, of a new, aspiring India that could stay awake all night with evening coffee in the veins.
I’ve got something in my pocket
Tiny glass orbs
Colors of the kaleidoscope
Crinkly toffee wrappers
A dried leaf
A crumpled petal
A rock so smooth
A broken pencil
A wish that the sun stays
On the horizon, for a bit more
So that childhood can play
Just a tad longer
Wrapped in muslin
Gentle dreams lie so still
Spreading over eyelids
Like a subtle touch of lace
Vast longings, latent until
Caressed by time and destiny
Fresh buds unfold in glory
Of spring in bloom, and
All hopes glow crimson
As petals of the Gulmohar
Ablaze in the glare of summer!
Unsaid expressions shroud
A poet’s clamorous mind;
Floating paper clouds
On which words abound
As dark specks of starlings
Hungry for raindrops
On cotton candy canvas
Verses sprayed in pastels
Songs flutter as festoons
In the distant summer
Or cuddle under afghans
Wary of an icy winter
This poem was well received by the writing community:
Blue Pen Strokes 