Wednesday, April 10

Were I a Cherry Tree

Were I a cherry tree,could I blossom forth
In the season of bloom, I’d cover your sorrows
Like the season that dresses sorrows of land
Inflicted by fall, into colors cheery and vivid
Healing all bruises, letting no mark remain
Of the past, cold and cruel, pale and numb
Were I a cherry tree, had I got flowers white
I’d scatter all them, over the way you walked
Spill my fragrance, into the air you breathed
To kindle a smile, but even if I failed
For every tear, sliding on your cheeks
(Fairer than anything else around, I dare say)
I’d send a silky petal, to catch it and hold
Before soil could touch it or air could grab
Were I a cherry tree, could I offer you shade
To sit beneath and muse, read and relish
The beauty of spring and lovelier sunshine
Or when sat alone, with a sad face or  frown
I could shower on you, all my heartbeats
Soft and playful petals, countless like stars
Would hug you and tickle, until you smile
Or until the last flower on my last branch

Monday, April 8

Memories of a child labourer


To all children, little pulleys and wheels,
Of ever running, ruthless industrial machine
Helper, apprentice, assistant, many are names
Given to them; what difference they make
When the golden days of childhood, precious
Treasures of unforgettable memories to all
Worth no more than a bronze coin, spent
In exchange of a pittance, a meager reward
Innocence of their playful laughter, repressed
Under rattle of metals, screeches of machines
Lay in the base of many haughty walls
Fragrance of their gleeful games, blackened
By smears of grease and smoke of forges
Makes up the pride of many bragging mills
So much world owes to, simple games played
With handy tools, broken parts, petty things
I worked with them and played and laughed
We spent days and nights, working unstopped
Molding, sizing, bending, fitting, scrubbing
Moving, drilling, heating, punching, painting
Appliances of comfort, making lives easy
Somewhere in your house, you might have
An appliance of ease, touched and finished
With the sweat dripping from a tiny forehead,
Perchance you may see (rare, than it happens)
On some covered part , a tiny red stain
Shed from a little finger, too soft to work
These are we, this is our little contribution
To a world that couldn’t be fair to us
Nonetheless, we cared not and we care not
I see my fellows, now grew and blooming
Into days of youth, with all passion and flaws
Rough are their languages, rude is attitude yet
Behind what might seem you, so inappropriate
Lay sensible hearts and evergreen simplicity
Changed by none, though affected by much
My heart fills with joy and infinite compassion
O my fellows, I’m proud to be one of you

Saturday, April 6

Alone in the orachrd, thinking of your face


Alone in the orchard, thinking of your face
Beauty of your smile, jeweled with a grace
Beating your name, lonely heart of me
Dreams of the times, those will ever be
When the season changes, rivers run dry
When a friend departs, mountains too cry
Where green grass is, white snow ever was
Pink face of orchard, pale yellow ever was
Why should I hold then, my tears or smiles
Your absence hurts, your thought beguiles
Fleet of spring has, anchored at April bay
Shady went orchards, sunny turned the day
Pink are the peach flowers, green are trees
Happy is the singing bird, jolly honeybees
Proud stands the fence, humbly waves grass
Calm is the watercourse, like a looking glass
Earth clad in colors, blue sky stooped over
Kisses the blushing bloom, eager like a lover
Strokes of the artist, on the canvas dance
Spell bound are eyes, hearts in trance
Let me run amid them, chanting your name
Short is the life and, time is never same

Monday, April 1

Sun shines like the smile of first love,

Sun shines like the smile of first love,
Witness the hollowness of our plights,
In soft shadow of gardens, April sings
Flowery songs of short lived delights
Wearily, I watch outside the window
Looking away, the never been sights
At the window pane, a butterfly tells
The unsaid tales of needless fights
Before you lament, make sure you lost
With closed eyes, don’t blame lights

Wednesday, March 27

This ocean, the dawn, this shining bronzy hue,
They aren’t the poem, the poem are you