The Stars Are With Me Tonight

            the sky is a dark yard,
            and the moon dimly lit alone,
            all the lullabies of the night are silent,
cicadas quiet,          
fireflies not glowing bright.
There is stillness in the night,
for the stars are with me tonight.


Bitter Sweet Love

In your fragrant memories,
I relive the days of our yore.

We fly above the clouds,
holding dreams in our eyes,
of a life we once wished for us.

Together we stand,
beneath the same moon,
you on one shore and I on another.

If only,
time could turn,
shores could meet.

this is,
a kind of love,
love bitter sweet.


What Dreams Are made Of?

Ask a child what dreams are made of?
For a child,
Dreams are dipped in chocolate and marmalade,
A yummy sweet candy and uncountable holidays.

Ask a bird what dreams are made of?
For a bird,
Dreams are seeds, spread lavishly,
A cage free life, flying refreshingly.

Ask a youth what dreams are made of?
For a youth,
Dreams are conquering the impossible,
Rising towards the sky unstoppable.

Ask an old man what dreams are made of?
For an old man,
Dreams are nothing, but scattered imaginations,
For him they are just whims and fascinations.

Ask a wanderer what dreams are made of?
A wanderer,
Dreams of a perfect world,
A world welcoming all, where truth unfurls.


Secret Desires

Secret desires,
flow through,
my flesh,
in your aroma.

As night,
with her moon,
our thoughts,
become one.


Who Is Who?

Oh! Great Saints,
my mind hurts in vain,
heal my soul,
relieve me from this pain,
and the questions unanswered…………….

We dance to the universal rhythms,
the cosmic vibrations we unknowingly follow,
thinking of them as our great endeavours.

Everything is set,
the pattern, the path, the words,
we merely step on them,
and consider as our chosen world.

Call it hard work, luck or destiny,
we fail, we rise, we do what we do,
and name it our will.

But, who is pulling the strings?
Who is the master puppeteer?

The one with the trident?
Our mind’s own fallacies?

{Note: In Hinduism, God Shiva holds Trident.}


Autumn in City

On these long trailing charcoal roads,
colourful leaves loiter around,
 a nature's carpet on  concrete.

City dwellers rejoice the scene,
this tiny thing of joy,
paints the landscape in between.

A city that shines in neon lights,
knows not of earthy lights,
prays to the sky, moon and stars,
to sprinkle glitter on the dark.

A balmy air with scented leaves,
reminds the city of autumnal treats.


The Tiny Seed

The tiny seed,
knows not of its power,
that sleeps within.

Fertile ground,
its nurturing sound,
a home the tiny seed has found.

Rainy love,
from skies above,
drenches the seed,
shaping its need.

Buds sprout,
happily spring out,
a labour of love.

Shoots gaze,
to the blue yonder with maze,
dreaming of it unfazed.

The tree rises,
step by step
up and up.

The power of seed,
this tree holds.

A story of faith,
the tiny seed unfolds.

First published in "The Ashvamegh International Journal & Literary Magazine"