Dreamer

A sudden gush of emotions make me print,
my breath as cold as mint.
Not knowing what the next line be,
I write my history.
Sixteen , an age of dreamers,
my face like morning sun glimmers.
My insides burning with passion,
but all this is so out of fashion.
I wish, I still lived in that age,
when people knew what they crave.
We all run in this rat race,
career being its aim.
There is no one to be blamed,
but me for things I differently named.
satisfaction as laziness,
enjoyment as luxury,
happiness as guilt,
what i have become........,i think.
This i hate,
but knowing its not too late.
I'll be okay,
as I know my way.
Although from it I sway,
I can see a bright ray.

Child artist

Simi, a young girl of five,
hardly knowing what's foul, what's fine.
One day found something,
which could be replaced by nothing.

A tracing paper she found,
layered between her mother's favourite gown.
There was a picture hung on the wall,
but poor simi was not that tall.

Taking a chair,standing on it,
adjusting herself, bending a bit,
she started drawing ,
but suddenly withdrawing.

She couldn't held it against the wall,
as there was wind in the hall.
Closing the gates, closing the fan,
climbing the chair,she resumed her plan.

With great pains, she managed to draw,
and colour the same without any flaw.
Then suddenly she heard her mother shout,
" Simi, you spoiled my gown".

Taking the picture in her hand,
she gave the picture a big bang.
In a manner very rude,
she shouted at the picture" you spoiled my mother's mood".

The mother looked at the picture after this action,
to which awe could be the only reaction.
punching a hole, she hung it on the wall,
right in the centre of the hall.

GRANDfather

Ere, the rising sun,
I would be on run.
When everyone would sleep,
I alone did dream.
How early I woke no matter,
I always found awake my grandfather.
Together sitting on his folding bed,
we watched the sun deep red.
How the sun becomes from red, to crimson, to yellow,
I often asked.
While in the sun we basked.

He was a man simple,
together we went to the temple.
There I tried hard to ring the bell,
and my grandfather busy praying in the cell.
After presenting the gods some offering,
he would pick me up so I could ring.

He bought me guavas ripe,
whose interior from my mouth I wiped.
Though I didn't like its hard cover,
I ate it lest he should discover.
He said whatever we get to eat,
is God's special treat.

He often read me scriptures,
and to illustrate showed the pictures.
He told me various tales,
of ram and krishn and his old days.

I carried meals to his room upstairs,
for that gesture he was full of blessings and prayers.
He sometimes gave me his churan tasty,
which was a part of his secret recipe.
I seldom made tea,
but whenever I made he drank it hot for me.

At night we watched the stars bright,
counted the planes and imagined their flights.
Experienced the breeze,
but in no time, time from me my childhood ceased.