In search of you, my smile

A smile that I lost a few years back, was ever lost,

until my teeth spotted it two days back.

In pretence I have smiled, at debts borrowed a few,

None of them my very own, I still smiled, and within was a ‘phew’.

Iam not a loner, never been one,

Felt all alone, when she left me stunned.

Should I search for her or my smile?

Wish both were the same, to save me this pain.

Like a new born I cry and none know why,

with no words at my dispense, my tears help me write.

All who read, sing praises for my art,

they call me a poet, when Iam just a writer in distraught.

Desperate Iam not, though my cheeks and chin are,

this poem is a consolation,

cause the smile that kissed my teeth,

vanished before even it could reach my cheeks.

My lady love

The sun is up early to brighten your face,

and the creepers green for you to breath clean.

The storm abates until you pass by,

while the sand softens to cushion your feet.

The river stays still till you dip out wet,

and the roses instead have shed their red,

my lady , they know you are pained in seeing blood.

Finally when sleep hovers around,

the moon is smeared with darkness.

With nothing bright around to disturb you sleep,

and with my messengers of love always at your feet,

from the moment you rise till that you sleep ,

Iam here at peace , resting,

beneath our dried backyard leaves.

Tribute

Poets never die, poems never die.

The pen never rusts, so doesn’t the mind.

Together we flock, together we boast,

of this incredible find,

poem.

When I told her

Clasped in harmony I held her hand,

In search of destiny, early to seek.

Meters in hand, a few strides in walk,

alongside the rumbling rails that witnessed our love.

Why this day? Why this place?

If not now, would it be too late?

An urge within endorsed my yearn,

to speak my heart to my counterpart,

still hand in hand.

Though not my words, but my fidgeting hands,

and the nervous sweat let her sense my hand in hers.

Could I have ever framed those cherished moments,

In a phrase so terse,

 a tyro when he is, a lover’s curse.

Though I not green, she sans pink,

neither eyes blinked to lose a second over a wink.

‘Yes’ would spell snow and ‘no’ would leave me all alone,

Either one imminent though.

Wasn’t sunny then, yet a shade she had offered,

 ‘Yes’ in disguise, she phrased that I had so long delayed.

Was it me, was it her,

A night of illusion it wasn’t for sure.

Still hand in hand,

When mom said, wake up son.

Had you slept hands crossed all night?

A dream, it wasn’t for sure,

cause the pen I hold, It’s still her hand.