Thursday, February 26, 2009

the teddy bear

The Girl had just joined school, and
the First day, was an occasion to Cry,
No assurance could console her, not so easily,
Finally, at the promise of a sure present,
She Relented, the father Heaved Relief.

Evening unfurled, she screeched to be rushed home,
Expectations of what would be waiting over-flowed,
There it lay on her bed wrapped in glittery paper,
Tearing it up, ears popping out first, limbs followed,
Then glowed at her those deep smiling eyes, A Teddy Bear.

It transformed into an imaginary playmate, As it could
Assume any role the girl wished it to be, it would don.
Someone to laugh with, Someone to cry to,
Someone to carry along, Someone to care for,
The teddy stayed close to the girls heart.
School ended, the Teddy's lavish lifestyle withered,
The girl now wished for something more, someone new.
Someone to take her out, to make her laugh,
Someone to talk with, someone to sing with, While
The Teddy gradually kept climbing up the shelves.

A few more years passed, the age for marriage,
The teddy was gathering dust, almost forgotten.
The day was chosen, Another occasion to cry,
In all the chaos, amidst the hundreds of voices,
Glimpses of memories whizzed by the father&daughter.

She left for another home, one for rest of her life,
She left her father an empty room, intangible space.
He searched for something tangible and up above found the teddy,
That night the Teddy descended, a new home for it.
On a corner table, those deep smiling eyes, near the father.

Memories whizzed by him again, Another Occasion to Cry.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

The Anniversary

Wait, wait, Let Me wait,
She surely must know,
Twenty days past new year's eve,
Was when we first shrtmsgsrvcd..

Why Hasn't he called, Why? Why?
Is it not a day to remember?
Or is it so trivial?
The day the first sparks flew..

The day dragged into night, 
And none made the first move,
As The beautiful day came to a close,
That could have been much more,
At 0 hours, arrived in tandem from each,


the end.....
to wait or to not to,

Monday, February 9, 2009


Haiku is a form of poetry, originating from Japan. It consists of 3 parts in a line, made of 5,7 and 5 phonetic sounds respectively. For the english version, writers generally make the 3 parts as 3 lines and the sounds as words. Also, in a traditional Haiku, the first 2 lines must be independent of each, and the last line will contain the answer or the subject which is described in the first two.
Here are my first few..


Caste, Religion, Language no Bar,
A Billion voices blending, Patriotism soaring high, 
And India wins the game. 

Wishing, the scars vanish away,
Convinced, none other could be so beautiful,
Mirror speaks, The Seer Listens.

Temptation, to shut the eyes, 
Guilt, if more I did not cram,
Exam on the following day.

And finally,

I tried in utter vain,
It vanished before I could savour it,
Anger On A Loved One.

X-(   ....    :-|     ..... :-)

Saturday, February 7, 2009

The Park Bench

The Sun had started to sink,
Reaching to heights where,
Without having to Raise his head,
The Eyes Of the Old Man Could see. 

So it was time, And he ventured out,
To the park, to his bench,
Walking a few steps, Pausing,
A few more steps, and Pausing some more.

He enters the Green Domain, and
Circles along the Cobbled path,
Once, And then slowly another.
Approaching finally to his Seat.

No One Sat there except Him,
As it was understood it was His,
The unsuspecting newcomers would be,
Shooed away by the regulars, Politely.

And When the temple bells sounded nearby,
He Would feed the little birds that arrived.
He Conversed with them, and the flowers around,
As none other would listen, nor could hear.

From this perch of his, he viewed
People, from his point of view :-
-- Kids screeching, that pierced his ears,
-- He Recollected If he too had been so noisy.
~~ Young couples embracing and staring into each,
~~ He Searched Within, to Remember, to Feel, how it felt.
++ And Looking at those just like as he, He wondered
++ Whom He Wished to be and, Who all Wished to be him.

His Time Came eventually, He left,
Never Again did the park see the old man,
Though He Soon Became a Fleeting Memory,
There Was Always his Empty Park bench,

And When The Temple Bells Tolled nearby,
There arrived always His little birds,
And His Flowers drooped solemnly in the breeze,
Missing The Talks Of their Old Man.