Painting the Cold

She is lying there
On a soft silver silk, slightly wrinkled
Eyes opened to the sky
Lips colder than yesterday’s rain

I can picture her getting up and walking towards me
Unhurried and delicate
She looks exquisite as always
I continued to stand in bewilderment

I want to ask her about yesterday
About the meal she cooked,
The basil tea she made,
The painting she completed
I have hundred other things to know about yesterday

She came a lot closer or I went to her ?!
I could now see her eyelashes glued in hurt
Still smiling ?

I left her on the same silver silk robe
Eyes still opened to the sky
Still..? Yes!
Yesterday she had painted this very moment,
Me walking away with the canvas

The coldest I have ever been.

Pale

Many faces ..

like fallen pale flowers

At meeting places

Around mating grounds

At receptions

All over the sacred sanctums

On graveyards

Many faces ..

like swollen breaths

After losing

Soon after reaching

Right before accepting

While declaring

And sometimes confronting

Many faces ..

Like faraway stars

To make us wonder

To stare at the departed

For bedtime stories

To discover the beyond

Yet fail at the same

Faces change colours

But pale is the prettiest

The inevitable aesthetic Pale 🙂

Charcoal

Grains of parted ways

Rusted antiques in the corner

Dusty staircase and corridors..

They wait

Is it possible to have a little wind

To kill some erupting memories

Or is it okay to have them flaming ..

They hurt

I picture them standing

Gazing at each other

Not holding hands..

They love

Cold Pebble

Cold pebble on my palm

From the river shore I slept in calm

It brings me a smile back

It also takes an aisle back

I saw many pebbles on the shore

Only took the one in my hand

It is mossy and slippery

It also shines tricky

Reminds me of an old heart,

I found on that page set us apart

It read lies not poem

It had only me in mayhem

Night in Her

Painting by Konstantine Somov

Warmth of this quilt
Carries the weight of my dreams
It reflects in moonlight
Leaving an early invite

Only few hours to wake up
I wish the moon stays
Dreams leave
And
Warmth becomes you.

The Muse

Painting by Peter Wilhelmllsted

She left the room with a post card
Her blouse had dust and rust
Neck gleaming in sweat and regret
She walked like a silhouette discharged

Earlier she was a muse
To a man in peculiar hues
They drank poetry and blues
And slept in a treacherous bruise

She woke up to hunger
Her eyes saw another four pairs
They were small and their cries scares
She must plunder

She left the room with a postcard
Steps evenly strapped
Her mind still cramped
It looked hard and beyond

She, A muse
Card, Had many dues

Yesterday

I was tempted yesterday

To read again

To kiss and smell that skin

Skin so cold and tired

I waited until it was raining

To bathe in your shallow gazes

To sing and to be taken away

Away into that wretched land of ours

I read you my favourite lines

To plead in vain

To bring you back from the picture

Picture I had from the Beginning of Everything.

Again

There is always a weight

Weight of an old painful smile

Enough to cloud any joyous moment of mine

How frightful it is to sit amidst everything wonderful !

And..

To think of someone thinking of you

To remember the one remembering you endlessly

To leave the moments never leaving you

And then..

To say hello to happiness

To drink and dance

To live and love.

Again.

Last Visitor / Poem

She left a note , a brief one,

Few words hidden in dust and dirt

It must have been in her handbag for years now

Like a souvenir

He knew the lines, once.

He had scribbled them on a birthday

The only day she visits him..

Like an awful ritual

Today she looked different

Her hair unkempt, skin more wrinkled

But, those eyes were not meeting his,

Exactly like a decade ago

“Mother, Forgive me if possible,

Not for the crime I committed

But for the days you visit me”

She walked away slower than ever

And he, now, locked in a piece of paper

Drugged / Poem

Lights, lot of them.. in all colours

I see them getting bigger and brighter

I might be losing my mind

Or is it happening again

I should not write this down , not today

All I need to do is wait

And he will be home anytime soon

Eyes are stuck at the main door

I had asked him to paint it green

With antique carvings all over

Now the door is dusty and less green

Now it’s like me, hazy and more unseen

Door opened, I was half asleep

I saw his tired face and bulky bag

Between murmuring, my lips became wet,

Throat numb,

Body calm..

I slept again .