A Piece Of Creator's Art.

One lazy holiday morning, 
When I was a silent small kid
with all the mischiefs kept inside
wanted to climb the small hill
nearby my aunt's dwelling.


Those untouched red rocks were calling me 
it read my restless mind plea
"what is there over you
i could only see the sky blue 
when i peek through the window'
there the pretty white and yellow flowers
hugging the rocks says; we possess each other, 
the unnamed unseen little beauty; 
i would love to take a breath from you
want to kiss you 
nothing else which bothers your splendour.


I grabbed a hand of my companion
my childhood companion
Climbed and climbed 
I am there at last, 
I couldn't breath
the beauty of a land made my mind hover
its heaven or may be its broken foyer.


The golden grasses aslant in the wind
and few trees old and strong on background.
and an antique piece of men's art
a half wrecked building halt
yet another tenure
named and seen everywhere.


year and years passed 
am still amazed of that beauty of creation
the creator's hand is always perfect.

My Wish.

My wish,

i wished to be a lover;

Lover of words and letters.

I wanted to read

and once i loved

i read my brother’s junk books i got from the attic.

I read.

some other time later

when i really craved for books

i combed the  libraries

i took some , they had good names, titles;

i read.

but was immovable

with the words, phrases and meanings

i wanted to toss them ,but i never did so,

 something changed ,

the love for someone else's words.

I had pain,

i cried.

It didn’t heal

i had pain, fear, questions

and more than enough

more than enough for a teen.

I wrote;

my pain ,passion , fear, everything

then i felt my mind;

clear and content.

I loved rain,

murmurings of leaves in rain,

i smelled i felt i grabbed,

i wrote.

it was my time with a fire inside

i wrote.

that was it, the best of all time.

Now,

i don’t know what i do

There may be a spring inside.

But feel useless

Like a lifeless tree

hands up asking sun for a rebirth

and feet grounded, asking soil for a regeneration.

oh my creator,

 i also want,

i want my renaissance.

......those old paddy fields.

Its a painful feel,
i know,
everyday i pass
losing something
which belongs to the best part of my life
those paddy field,
where i saw the seasons change
the lush green babies
and the heaps of golden hays.
And those tiny flowers,
born after the first summer rain;
are the most prettiest of world.
The small fishes
caught by hands and towels.

It is painful,
there are no kids in the summer fields
making clay pots ,
plucking wild berries from fence shrubs.
and no loud noises of children playing in the heat,
no grazing cows,
no narrow streams of springs.
There is only the wheeze
of cross cultured trees,
and smells ashes of burned paddy.
things changed
but still from the dark ;
frogs cry like calling the death towards....

A lovely summer morning walk..........

A tiring long night
usually fed with good sleep
but that day eyes just kept awake
maybe of,
the frames flashed
far from memory;
a useless teen
a colored childhood,
pain and complain,
or like always
an unreasoned thought.

I could see the streaks of light just born,
through my half curtained window
squeaking tiny birds in the purple sky.
cycle bells
newspaper shouts
speedy morning footsteps
and the smell of a new summer morning.

"awake"
"eyes and thoughts clashed
between i lost my sweet dark maze"
a warm hug;
eyes smiled childish
being kissed lovely
fresh and fresh
without even a sleep.

A pair of our favorite clay cups
seemed waiting
for their hot tea
and to have lip kissed.

"too early"
"lets walk in the mist"
i loved it
i always love to walk with him
as i love a mere presence of him,
the robbed looks,
i love to walk on his legs;
hands round on his waist
up to the door,
he is the best gift i ever had.

we walked through the narrow roads,
houses disciplined
with a plot just covering their home
and lots of flowers in that limited place
bougainvillea ,shoe flowers, rose,
more and more
yellow and purple ones.

Mist wet roads black,
and the sky;
red and violet
with the fully bloomed
old big trees.

morning fresh clean market
the vegetable trolley men
keeping their goodies neatly
green yellow red
veggies shows their shine
reflects the sky.
the bookshop just opened
smells the new paper bits.

its a special feel
to see a very crowded old street
in the mist,
with few old men jogging,
and some of them sharing their news n walks
with a cup of hot filter coffee and
fresh newspaper
on old cement benches
beside the road.

the purple flowered trees
the pensioners and the very old streets
the cement benches
the antique trolleys
and
a silent sign of summer.