Nostalgia

Vanished paths

Memories of old we lived

Of moments we shared

Running and tugging

Along rustic paths

From the village church

To the dusty fields

Oblivious of our vanishing paths

Vanished paths

So far in the yonder

Of a childhood we shared

Jumbling and muddling

Like a mad man’s gig

With giggles and mumbles

Naïve of our future paths

Our vanishing paths

Vanished paths

A past of our youth

Of dreams we shared

Now washed to the distance

Hugging and haggling

Like a pair of torn shorts

Caught in the dangle and tangle

Forgetful of our vanishing paths

 

Portrait

A portrait standing stitched

Hanging covered in soot

A relic from my past

Staring down at me

Like a parenting hawk

Perched above its nest

Its eyes scanning the distance

Emotionless from ages

Crumpled in dried dust

Hiding his once loud smile

Now distorted in texture

Like an aging cobweb

Standing on my wall

Unconcerned with my presence

Evoking in me emotions

Of his sonorous laughter

Now buried in old smoke

A portrait from my past

Still seated on my walls

Like an aging noose

Entangling our paths

 

Desires

Standing undetected

Behind tensed shadows

Anxiously awaiting your coming

My eyes Stretched

Creeping out of their sockets

To catch a glimpse of you

And trace your figure

Etching it finely to my memories

As I count each step carrying you away

Taking me with you

Step by step away from you 

Back again to my shadows

 

Emotions

Sitting lonely unbent

With emotions unbearable

Distant and motionless

Eyes sucked in backwards

Dried tears drawing her cheeks

With a heavy heaving

Thundering the unbroken silence

As a new swell of tears

Bead her swollen face

Forcing a torrent

A painful reminder of their ties

Haunting her back with a vengeance

Her empty arms outstretched

Longing as a mother

For the cuddle of her own

The giggles and glances of her angel

That she begot to death 

  For all the grieving mothers, for the beautiful ladies who have gone through pain of lose

My Prayer

But again in age

It is my prayer

That I may know of your odium

That I may not live as a leper

As a sign that I am a stigmata

An impending peril of the day

But again in age

It is my prayer

That I may see the sight

So I may live not in squalor

As a sign that I am scum

An impoverished leach of the day

But again in age

It is my prayer

That I may meet your grace

So that I may never tumble on my legs

That I may count as a sage

But again in age

All is in my prayer

 

The dance

They push and pull

In whispers of silent murmurs

Wriggle and wrinkle

Springs of perspiration

Running down their spine

Heart beat to heart beat

In soft ceaseless groping

Full of hungry moans and groans

In trepidations of pleasure

To the melodies of thumping hearts

And escalated twisting and tossing

Such an involute dance

That slows in puffs and pants

With bodies dragged a part

In desires betraying the will

But with the end of the dance

Escalates another dance
 

This village

So plush this village, yet so small

With a sensual terrain

That kisses the eyes

With lush chubby lands

That lies side by side

Like two perfect mates

So orgasmic 

A pitch of endless beauty

Yet so tranquil in pith and depth

And glowing in vivacity

My arousing village, yet so small