Winter

She rubbed her palms heavily,
Stamped with her yellow shoes.
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
To turn pages all day,
To hear the roar outside,
The million welled up things within,
Songs scrapped, tunes to hide.
To bury a sigh in the blanket
To dig for memories in the overcoat,
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
Today passed on the streets,
Tomorrow travelled too,
Trepidity danced in vacant rooms,
Hope lay on dirty floors,
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
They came, and they came,
He went on,
He went away,
She folded away happiness,
Left hope on the shabby roof,
The memories gasped a little
Tried hanging on windows.
Like the wailing mist around,
She could see sorrow grow.
The aloofness of shrivelled jasmine,
The surrender of coffee-mugs,
The sound of tired flutes,
She gathers them and throws.
Like the wailing mist around
She now lets sorrow grow.

Let there be Light!

In an act much inspired by spirited, happy-morningy rom-coms, Hollywood flicks, television, Maa's habit, or may be by some hit Hindi film song...can't exactly pin down THE inspiration...I pull back my window-curtains first thing in the morning. Much like a faithful one remembering his deity...
There is this strange connection between my choice of the MOOD OF THE DAY and the way the light is outside the window. Too much of the Sun and I know there is a huge workload ahead. If there isn't a workload, I imagine one. Remember...I am choosing the mood. If its sombre and gray, its a nostalgia-day. And if the light is just about pleasant and mild, I declare it a picnic-day...a day you ought to spend away...away from work...as the weather wants you to. Mind you, you do not need to have an actual PICNIC. The idea is...even with work around, you needn't give one hundred percent to it. To work whole-heartedly on a picnic-day is sheer cowardice...
Nostalgia-days are great for writing. If you are an eternal cribber and lamenter like yours truly, you wouldnt dread them. The intolerable ones are the bright-light, 100 watts-days, where the glare is too much on life, work, life and more work. Too bad I tell you...I am not even describing them!
Picnic days are my favourites you see...Prayers work. They do! I have often gone out with hopes of seeing clouds on an unbearably bright morn...the morn that carries the face of a teasing Sun..have often got ready praying to some invisible force to send some lazy, rolling clouds overhead...that would defeat the glare. And lo! It has worked! Gape as you might...shrug as you may...in disbelief. But, it works! By lunch the Clouds arrive...By tea-time, it even drizzles! :P
Like always, am itching to come up with my MORAL OF THE STORY. It goes something like this..."You may wake up under any Sky, but you can always choose the light that colours your Life!" :P

Attempts

How long will you wait?
I imagine the wrinkled eyes.
The withering effort of sooty years.

Night falls again here.
Today is eternal.
No one remembered you.
No one sighed,
No one mumbled those words today.
But the Moon I know is no longer white.

The Tree looks scarred to me.
My mind.
It is inside it.

From all the words and glances,
I choose a smile,
Sad and pale,
But yours.

That broken star,
I see it does not gaze.
Tie it to the chariot.
Let us now Sunwards go...

The barriers the Sky puts up,
The gaps the Earth digs forth,
I will one day,
Find you out.

That crumpled promise renewed,
The Moonlight burnt,
To shed hopes,
I yesterday borrowed...