Monthly Archives: March 2018

Silence Is Golden


Nothing to do
on certain days
I remain happy.

Takes place once in a way
most I work hard
wish for a pause.

Around the house
I go up and down in frequence
a part of my nature.

Check the emails
every now and then
as though I am a celebrity.

Receive incessant calls,
answer in a hurry,
as if I cannot spare a minute.

Active inside the house
do not intend to go out,
sweat and fret within the walls.

An alibi I follow for decades
meet few regulars
stay  cheerful at home.

Love to continue like this
confined to solitude
Silence brings immense pleasure.

 

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Water–An Ounce


An acquaintance and I
talked all day
over a jug of plain water.

How many glasses I drank?
I lose  count,
must be seven.

She is a poor eater
just pieces and morsels,
I notice.

She consumes  less water
limited, I can say.
Takes a mouthful and sets aside.

How does she survive?
I wonder. She has no
health issues.

We rise from the chair,
at the end of our dialogue
exchange warm smile.

I note a quarter ounce of water
left in her glass. Is it etiquette
or  fashion? I deliberate.

Water is a coveted commodity.
It is treason to leave an ounce
It irks.

Gold is alluring, people yearn
Water is essential, we need
for sustenance.

That is the distinction.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Times


I see a lengthy queue,
squeeze and thrust forward,
curious to find out the reason.

Those ahead look daggers at me,
I make my way
braving humiliations.

At my destination I discover
nothing exciting.
What could it be?

Thinking aloud I swing right,
my eyes rest on water melons
and tender coconuts.

Notice a lively sale. The queuers
assuage their thirst. Walk feeling
refreshed.

The vendor’s revenue
increases manifold.
Happy times for him

Acute Summer


The grass is yellow,
green no more.

The coconut fronds reveal
a creamy brown hue.

The curry leaves curl,
succumb to a virus.

The flowers wilt
a pathetic sight almost.

The sights around me
are intimidating..

The early summer is acute,
not a drop of water to drink.

Rose Of Gold Foil


A rose made of gold foil
catches my attention.

The flower looks delicate
glimmers in the sunlight.

It is a beautiful souvenir,
I decide to buy.

Bargaining is a part of me,
I commence my dialogue.

“Ask half the price of the quote”
whispers my aunt.

I converse with the seller,
who demands an unimaginable price.

I express concern
The dealer glances at me with contempt.

He puts back the rose in its place
bids  me to quit. I depart.

On the way, I find another dealer
courteous and condescending.

I purchase the rose for a fair value
not for half the price.

This fellow shows business acumen
enhanced by a benign smile

His ethics play the sport.
Tremendous is the compensation.

Hanging Garden of Babylon


I find petite figures on the wall.
Some are modern art.
Few  resemble dance postures.

I watch them for a while,
as they waltz merrily.
with the breeze
.
They look pale and fragile.
Each one  is distinct.
Intensive in most places.

Clothed in light beige,
the attire lacks sheen.
torn in places.

Around the light fixtures
and in the intersections
I see them suspended.

In haste strike them
with the vacuum cleaner.
The best of them go inside.

Settle  exhausted.
unaware of the hanging garden
of Babylon right over my head.

I Cherish


It is home, I cherish.

The comforts I enjoy
might not be luxurious,
the food I relish,
may not be sumptuous,
the bed where I recline,
will not be gorgeous,
the garden where I walk
would not be picturesque,
the work force I employ
seem to be mediocre,
the cars I have
are medium-sized,
the area I live
has turned noisy,
the place of my abode
swelters  and suffocates

Nevertheless, I love my home,
Why? perhaps,
being my own.