Goodbye

Some goodbyes are meant to be written,
May be in the poetry, may be in the lyrics,
May be in the tale of tales, certain.

One such goodbye, notes to the town,
Old in culture, in folk and folklores,
In the lullaby of the night amidst the clouds.

One such goodbye, counts for the season,
Coastal breeze of summer, months from bloom to fall,
Mist of the winter and the pouring rain, sudden.

One such goodbye, pens for the memories.
Memories of days date back to the decade,
Of boundless joys and innumerous stories.

One such goodbye, is bade to the story,
that was supposed to be paged by both the ends,
But chose to remain incomplete.

Some goodbyes are meant to be written,
Maybe in the poetry, maybe in the lyrics,
Maybe in the tale of tales, certain.

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The Hidden Arts
Sometimes, the sphere of life, needs the art of 'Unlearning'.
Unlearning the vices,
Unlearning the desire of lies,
Unlearning the excessive of anything,
Unlearning a little bit of life.

Sometimes, the sphere of life, needs the art of unveiling.
Unveiling the beauty of the sky,
Unveiling the elegance of poetry,
Unveiling the magic of strings,
Unveiling the odes of life.

Sometimes, the sphere of life, needs the art of unloving.
Unloving the wrongs,
Unloving the dark time,
Unloving the emotional imbalance,
Unloving the bitterness of life.

Sometimes, the sphere of life, needs the art of unappealing.
Unappealing the dark thoughts,
Unappealing overthinking to extreme heights,
Unappealing the ingenuinety,
Unappealing the sours of life.

Sometimes, the sphere of life,
Needs these arts, hidden.
Little precious, little important,
Added by the prefix 'un-'.

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Walk under the Moonlight

From the solitude,
Post, a good food,
Switching off the lights,
I got out of my house.

Old town's, new lane, it is.
My little home is at the corner, extreme,
From where I started to walk,
All by myself, just the moon accompanied.

The broad alley I am walking on,
Was empty, silent and seemed alone.
The buildings on one side and huge ground on the other,
Never been this deserted, since dawn.

The lamps on the left, and house lights on the right,
Are perfectly synced, are perfectly aligned.
It enlightens the pathway, and stresses out the moon,
As it fails to conquer amidst the city lights.

Some walkers did I pass by,
Passing smiles at each other, as a virtue meanwhile.
This night walk calmed the self a little down,
Gesturing to be an ardent need in the chaotic life.

Struck by a realisation, under this moonlight,
While seeing the day turning into a tired night.
In the horde of reaching the destination early,
We forget to enjoy the journey even for a certain while.

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Memory of the Last Trip

Do you remember our last visit to these dales?
They wrote our story and recited our tale.

We sat by the railing which opens up to their snowcapped view,
With the crimson sunrise falling upon them, fresh and new.

They were picturesque, they were cinematic,
With my ginger tea and your cup of coffee, amidst.

Did you know by then, that was my first visit to mountains?
It turned into a poetry, you being the metaphor
and a precious refrain.

The Himalayas chant the hymn of life.
Seeing it turn chromatic, calmed the self,
to sunset from sunrise.

As Ruskin Bond says, "Once you lived with the mountains,
you belong to them",
From planning that trip to living it, to this saying,
I admitted.

So, my dearest beloved traveller,
How about one more trip, may be to the sea
Or in the woods, somewhere?

-

A Letter to the Self

We need to see each other once,
For a little time may be,
But ensuring the only demand,
It is just you and me.

We need to sit by each other,
Or may be facing each other.
Those unsaid tales urge to be spoken.
And I will ear to all the unheard desires.

We need to talk a little more,
May be with the silence suppressed within.
That silence needs to be sensed stronger,
Or ardently understood, maybe.

We need to find each other,
In the crowd of the city and city life.
We need to learn the art of sharing
And being that comfortable shelter, meanwhile.

In this horde of happenings,
And making those happenings work,
That one spark we miss,
Requires to be searched, as the life's precious perk.

So, my dearest lost self,
Where do we meet?
Somewhere under moonlight in serenity,
Or on a rainy evening, within the four boundaries?

-

Monsoon of this Town

The monsoon of this town,
Is way too vintage.
Some walk on the footpath, in soft drizzle,
Some sit with a cup of tea, from teen to old age.

The monsoon of this town,
Witnesses the street drenched in the shower.
It witnesses the subtle and still black clouds
In the sky, north-eastern.

The monsoon of this town,
Is like old-school love,
Where the petrichor is the perfume on the letter,
And the strong breeze is the manipulation, of the clouds above.

The monsoon of this town,
Is a little strange.
It makes a chaos and turbulence while pouring,
And immediately, turns tranquil, after dousing the existence.

The monsoon of this town,
Is something I long for,
Throughout the months, throughout the season,
As my only beloved, now, after and before.

-

An Old Photograph

The album was half filled,
With the last photograph dated a decade back.
More than even a decade, it can be,
With a glimpse, occurs, a flashback.

That photograph holds a childhood,
innocent, away from the maze of life.
It holds a place, which is still,
Just, in between, years have crossed meanwhile.

That photograph preserves smile,
Chin upon the hand, just to pose for the camera.
It preserves stairs, which are still red in colour,
Just the memories of those evenings turned subtle,
recurring as anaphora.

That photograph, is a detour
to the down memory lane.
Days of vacations, days of happy life,
Laughters as the cherished gain.

That photograph has my old lady-love.
My treasure of stories, my treasure of tales, was her.
The album remains half-filled, with that photograph.
Last photograph of the lady-my childhood's precious chapter.

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One Such Day

That day, some talks were left.
Left to make the ends meet;
Left to answer the unsaid questions;
Left, for a little more, by each other, to sit.

That day, some silence was meant to share.
Share the comfort of each other;
Share the respect of differences;
Share the positivity, of being there, for each other.

That day, a little longer walk was anticipated.
Anticipated, a little more time;
Anticipated, a company, soothing;
Anticipated, a little bit of us, meanwhile.

That day, some talks, some silence, some walks remain unfinished.
It metaphored a quest of find ourselves within, this story, incomplete.

-

The School Corridors

Those corridors of the school,
Hold more stories than the entire premise,
Some small, short, sweet tales,
Some unforgettable incidents meanwhile.

Lost in the blankness of the corridor,
Was a guilty pleasure back then,
Just to be brought back to class,
When nudged by the bench-mate.

That little walk around
in the interval of subjects,
And running back to the classroom,
sensing the teachers' footsteps.

'No-one will stand in the corridor'
'No-one will roam around'
Were the warnings of school days,
Now, nowhere to be found.

May it be recess, may it be a leisure,
Standing by the corridor, with small talks amidst.
Those stories of school,
That school corridor, now, is always being missed.

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The Last Meet

When we met last, it was a feeling, known-unknown,
A little strange yet my very own.

It was serene,
As the petrichor of the first monsoon;
As the gentle raindrops on the sea surface;
As the rain's freshly drenched town.

It was exciting,
As the ice-cream cone in a scorching heat;
As the most awaited trip to the mountains;
As the essence of the sea, carried by the wind.

It was awkward,
As the last word of the quatrain, non-rhymed;
As the loss of words in a meet and greet;
As the chaos in a comfortable silence, meanwhile.

It was a moment,
To be placed in the couplet of the poetry;
To be the metaphor of many blank verse;
To be loved and re-loved again and again, eternally.

So, leaving it as being unsure,
Whether that was a last meet,
Or a meet, that meant to last forever,
Through the seasons, like that breeze, unseen.

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