A world waiting to be explored

Love is not lukewarm


In the brokenness of your being, 
when the wind holds you a second longer,
and the night speaks to you,
telling tales of the dark,
you know you have known love

Like a silent conversation,
like comfort in the crowd;
Love that is teenage, 
and love that is senile
Love that is not only counting stars by the beach,
but also counting pebbles by the shore

Love that is not the perfect letter;
instead the hundred discarded drafts in the bin,
Love that is not the perfect photograph,
instead the shared coyness when fingers graze

Let love not be known by the anxiety during falling out,
let love be the distance you didn’t care for,
or the mountains that your emotions echoed with

Let love be the last lap of your race,
let love be the philosophy you barter your sleep for,
let love be the metaphor you resonate with,
let love be the song you made your symphonies for

And yet if love cannot find a testimony today,
regret the hesitance you took to,
repent the uncertain wobble you couldn’t look over,
blame yourself for how love couldn’t seek you

Because love is to dive into the waves, 
and to fly into the valleys,
it is not a step back,
it is a kiss later
because love, my friend, is not lukewarm;
Love is intense,
love is a poem in conflict,
a poem by the sea in fury.

Return

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 58; the fifty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​Saravana Kumar Murugan, the editor of Shades Of Life book series.
The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own

With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places

Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears

For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return

For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return

To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home

When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon58 & #Aativas50. Participation Count: 13.

And I'd wonder again

Sometimes, one of these days when it rains,
I want to sit by the window sill,
And read her my favourite book,
And watch her wonder at the rain drops

But before there were rains,
There had been a summer,
Never the same, but this,
Not quite like any other

Sure not like her first
When she’d crawl more and walk less,
Garble more and talk less,
Yet each time her lips parted,
She brought me a feeling uncharted.
A myriad, not one, I’ll always be swarmed
She’ll giggle away and I’ll be disarmed

In summers to follow,
She’d put on her school dress,
Wave out to me
Like a sun in her prowess,
Then there was a period when she sketched,
That was also the time she started caring for her tress

Season changed, and cold was common again,
To give her company, I too would feign a pain,
She had started dancing now,
Sometimes I’d shake a leg too,
Solving her math problems,
I’d learn some math too
But there were lessons,
A little few on hope too
Because that’s how I kept up,
I could’ve given up too

And then came the last summer,
The one that was unlike none,
We drove around a lot,
And stopovers for lemonades were fun

Last summer, our car broke down a lot too,
Fixing it was hard, but fixing it was what we had to

Soon, she took to a habit,
That of me fixing it for her,
So, when doctors took her to the Operating unit,
She said, my daddy would fix me sir

Who was to say what Daddy could do?
He was no doctor, had only hope to cling on to
The hope that he had taught her,
Today was Daddy’s test,
One he couldn’t falter

So that’s what I have been telling you,
Now you tell me something too,

Sometimes one of these days when it rains,
Should I not want to sit by the window sill?
And read her my favourite book?
Should I or should I not?

Want to watch her wonder at the rain drops again.

His Girl

We will be 9 again,
she will play the bride again,
Again, he will don the groom,
I, again, will pronounce them man and wife,
and there would be an omen this time,
one to announce a doom

Like the one not around,
when she ran through the gates,
Ran into his arms,
told tales of her days,
or whine about her grades,
or of setting her hair straight,
he'll make things alright,
slip her a candy,
sometimes take her to the trades

And soon I'll see,
how things are meant to be
Because while she spoke of stars,
he only spoke of her,
and as she fell asleep,
he only fell for her

So next there had to be season of the rains,
just like that, summers and winters too came,
but what didn't spring was an omen to tell
how mad and fierce
in love he fell

She'd still run to him,
and tell tales of her days,
only days were dates now,
of course he had to be at bay

I would question his ways,
curious, what made him stay?
He'd just smile and say,
there have been reasons each day

Then one night she sought him out,
Amidst black clouds asked questions all grey,
whether to marry or not was one of many,
though not for him to answer, but for her date to elate

Still, his eyes didn't budge,
his heart stayed the place
To watch over her dreams,
his own could wait

Yet, all I could tell him was,
how some things are meant to be
And you know what he said?
What is not meant to be, will never be,
So what if we can have our way
Can we not pretend just another day?

Through waters too troubled,
my heart weeps at the shore,
but he was a man,
a man more than the most

As he let go what wasn't his to keep,
I wondered how much more his heart could dare to hold
He, who played her groom once,
today stood broken at his very core,
while walking her down the aisle,
his girl wasn't his anymore.

The Forgotten Storyteller!

Beneath hovering dust and unfinished structures,
stood a three-legged stool,
the refuge of an 8-year-old,
who holds a worn pencil,
and a torn notebook,
like sacred books of yore.

His hands move, but mind faster,
and with his wandering heart, wanders mine too,
to a decade back,
when I stood outside the same room,
the wall of which I'd been leaning against.

My study, which holds worlds,
camouflaged as books,
finished, unfinished,
and the ones that left me broken,
pulls me in, despite, 
but at its doorstep, I must keep caution,
I must not enter again,
for in times of calling,
a promise had been made.

So as it goes,
I have kept my word,
but seems they have failed,
tip-toeing in my dreams,
queried and complained,
why did I leave, just like that?
one fine morning, and an abandoned hat?

And I wonder, do they not know?
That lay beside them,
a tiny little shelf too?
Next to myriad universes, waiting for my universe too?

The shelf stays still, like an empty lifeless canvas,
just as it was in the rains of '04,
just as it was in the winters of '05.

And yet all this while, 
the one promise I have kept,
the promise is of betrayal,
that I will delude,
and be disloyal.

I shift with discomfort,
and so does my sight,
the storyteller's out there,
his world alike.
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