Winter Sky

Not a leaf stirred

winter sky standing still

in an unbearable silence

like the burdened soul.

Distant thunder

threatening to unleash

the torrential 

downpour,any moment.

How will  I face you

after years of placidity,desolation

I am so used to

my limits of solitude

your domain

spreading to eternity

so much freedom,so much space.

I feel lost

like desperate hands grappling

with uncontrollable waves

of the vast turbulant ocean

and time stood still 

like the overcast winter sky.

Books and Me

When I fell in love with books

fell madly, passionately in love,

you didn’t tell me that

I can’t live without books.

When you made the introductions

that I was committed

to the little kitchen set

in my toy trunk

that it was only

a matter of our

growing up.

Now that I blame you,

but it’s just that

bookcases don’t fit in kitchens

and

it’s a long walk to the library.

Besides,

who doesn’t know that

love and loyalty

can be tiring,

tearing,

when they are different.

A Childish Desire

Often a childish desire

Comes to my mind

Alas! It may be  

much  pleasant

If we could delay childhood

for some  years!

Parents rather think

 their children

 grow up

and take some breath

of their responsibilities.

I remember of

my twin nieces

Whenever I visit her

Fell asleep

After, a tired journey

They, played with my hairs 
putting rubber in it
extend their imagination
to the next gen arts

I rather try to hide my face.

Imagination

where comes

to these kids

why not to the elders

I surprise often.

Had god given wings

to the kids

Flying in the distant sky

they rather realize
Sky is not limit.

Thinking

                                                                 The more I think

The less I act,

thinking is coeval with action

and coterminous with inaction.

I always think, but never

consistently,

for  consistency is the fruit of

clearsightedness.

I know thought engenders thought,

but can I fathom my mind

which is a well of thought,

a bottomless pit?

I always overthink –

A streak of Hamlet, perhaps.

The more I learn to think,

I forget what I thought.

It is a vortex from which

Perhaps no traveller returned.