Sea Shores

On these abandoned shores of poetries ,

again my heart meanders and listens

to the same rhythm of these excited waves.

As ever they produce familiar chants.

It takes me back to those phases of life

when I resembled them in every way,

and stroke these ridges with similar rage.

Desiring things distanced from reality.

Yes it is true I too was once a poet,

and life was full of useless metaphors ,

I used to trespass realms of poetry

in to a world of unapprehensiveness.

But my prosaic mind now only can dream,

about those times when these words were hand picked,

and fairy tales were penned down with ease,

those times when I wrote you in my pages.

Yes it is true ,that you were my verses,

on this very shore ,I used to sit and

weave a poem for you and then carefully

paint those wishful words in my skies as well.

But now those paintings stay hidden some where,

some how my skies these days stay mum and quiet,

now they do not express their wishfulness ,

they now know dreams usually fade away

I wish to forget you, your thoughts haunt me,

I want these shores to drown themselves in sea,

but then I know these thoughts are my only

reason to smile , these shores are my home.

I keep on coming back to these vast shores,

and see you sail away from me some where,

I know my voice does not reach any more

yet this heart calls you with same monotone.

I know you will never ever return

to my verses again or to my world,

yet my words try to beat in the same rhythm ,

they will never under stand this fact that

"I am not the same old poet anymore".

Nights and Mornings :)

As this moon descends,

my thoughts once again near,

those endearing nights.

Those nights ,

when moon was a post man,

and I was a poet.

While I wrote

my heart beats down,

it dropped them

in your heart.

Those nights,

When I was buried,

in your stargazes,

and my love toyed,

with those hour glasses.

Flipping them over

never mattered to me.

As the morning rays

fill this night glass again.

I wish those

old mornings are back.

Those mornings,

when my alarm clock,

spoke your voice,

and my bed tea,

had your warmth.

When in morning walks,

I searched your traces,

in settled dew drops,

with my silly verses.

But then I would always

get lost somewhere ,

in between those days and nights.

As this night leaves,

and morning smiles,

I wish time stops again,

like it usually did.

This time of the year

This time of the year,
climate can get clammy
here in my place.
I see it is too white outside.
Sky is white, Earth is white,
and everything else is also white.
Panoramas come along like infinite
blank pages to me with
empty expressions.

Some times I hear them call me too,
they wish to have that
priming of green back on them,
they wish to live another story.
But then it is too long now,
that I have picked up my pen,
I ignore their voice,
as I hear yet another knocking,
of mists on my window pane,
I dont open my doors,
to wishful now.

I see it is long,
that I have left this seat,
beside this fireplace.
Probably due to
the sole reason that,
only thing worth noticing,
in this iciness,
are those burning logs.

As this flame hums itself mildly,
I see my thoughts,
again meander in the same,
poetic paths,
They always take me
to different places.
Places where flowers blossom,
and sun shines,
No wonder, thoughts can be
naive sometimes.
So most of the times,
I neglect them.

This time of the year,
nights are longer,
and days hide behind clouds.
Evenings dont exist,
and mornings are lost in
afternoons.
Only thing I miss is
that amble down the hills,
It is long I visited
your street corner,
but then I know,
I am too matured ,
to go out in this chill.

This time of the year,
it mostly snows,
everything else ceases.