Bed Story

When you aren't around,

And I'm nowhere to be seen

You can simply find me

On your side of the bed. 

Trying to smell the sheets,

Caressing your pillow,

Hiding under your blanket. 

It smells of linen, freshwater,

And a cozy fireplace

By which we hang Christmas stockings

And discuss the dreams

That we see for each other.

And when you return,

I breathe a sigh of relief-

I can't hold fort without you.

This bed is too big,

And I am too little without you. 

First Words

Maybe the reason why
A baby's first words are baba and mama
Isn't hidden in physiological technicalities.
Maybe the syllables are uttered
As the earliest confession
By the child
Who is trying to tell us
Who matters the most.
Creators, nurturers, providers;
Maybe the little new heart already knows
Who made it,
And has decided to pay an ode to them
With these new sounds.
Mama.
Baba.
Like the flapping of wings of a happy bird
That has finally reached home, safe and sound.
  

Epigram

That coffee and coffin

Are separated by two tiny letters

Must be an unlikely coincidence

That chose to be

Merely to tease the tongue.

Fuel your rusted engines with one,

And rest in peace in the other. 

One of life's little epigrams-

Meant to tickle, threaten and also announce

How little control we have

Over the energies on earth.

We are God's puppets, dancing,

On a tinderbox of mystique.

The Audacity Of Womankind

You might not wish to share

Your deepest thoughts;

It may seem like an audacious intrusion

And 

An unwanted attack

On your privacy, your secrecy,

Your softly uttered opinions. 

Or you may be like me-

Who adores the stage,

The spotlight, and the applause.

Who has learnt to be loud,

To yell, to roar and to sing

With abandon and gaiety and courage-

Because that is the only way

The world hears women. 

I have learnt 

To turn up the volume.

The Birth Of An Idea

In the primordium of every idea, in that primitive state of nonexistence when it isn't tangible enough for you to hold but the beginnings of the idea grip your innards like an unrelenting tendril, that is when you know that the ride will be memorable, the journey will be long. And you certainly hope that it is long; a happy, lengthy marriage of idea and execution. It is in that period that you can truly flourish and grow and enrich your life. 

You may even take a few moments now and then during this journey to imagine various future probabilities. Perhaps this shall be your ticket to greatness, to the big leagues, to the hall of fame. Perhaps this shall be your safety harness, your hidden piggy bank for financial security when and if you ever need such an armour. Perhaps this shall drive away your demons and clear your entangled thoughts.

You imagine and then create, and in the midst of this occupation, life continues to flow past like a joyous river. You contemplate jumping into the flow and going where it wishes to take you, or you just carve a boat out of falling logs and sail to your own shores. 

The path is long, the journey even longer, and your resolve the strongest.