Literary Thoughts of a Dragon Fly

  Prayers of worthy As I lay down under a yellow bulb, I think of all the prayers to be answered and all the praying i need to do, Should I pray for the boy to like me back, To talk to me and smile at me, Should I pray for a gentle Wednesday and not someone's scathing words to scald my heart Or should I pray for a breeze and a Rainbow, What are prayers of worthy my heart asks me, And why do I ask for such silly things, Why not a mountain or a road to walk, To turn upside down the deepest jungle, And to ride the shark, The Gentle God,the sweet dear God whispers to me,  I am the creator of the universe, won't you ask the world from me, I walk to and fro in my room, Tossing and tumbling in my head are the thoughts, My brain is the firm anchor in the roaring waves, I feel the caressing breeze, as the night passes by, What are prayers of worthy, My heart asks me again, And is it too petty of me to ask of silly things again and again. May be for peace, for love or soothing thoughts l

  Just as he sang for the first time in the morning, The sun came out to greet him, The whole of Ganges danced on his tunes, And the gentle dance witnessed by one and all, The non believers embraced faith, And the faithful chanted Hari hari bol, The river prayed may he forever sing, And on a gentle boat, a woman named Veena fell in love with him. Such are the songs of love, No one knows where do they began or end, They met in the bylanes of Kolkata, Hari and Veena, Like a simple poem completing for the first time, Voice of Hari and the soft strains of Sitar, It was another world, their little world, And hari fell for Veena , The River ganga rejoiced, And the sunset bloomed with golden colors, When the two shy lovers met, But time is a real teacher, Hari couldn't choose the fight, To fight for his country, Or to fight for his love, The strains of sitar wept softly in the night, As hari left for strange lands, Veena heartbroken, her Calcutta empty without Hari, She started learning t

  If the clock ever struck 5 , If the clock ever struck 5, I promise I would go home, The bus leaves at 6, but I promise I will go home, It’s a weary, long day and looking out of the window is my only solace, The little birds twittering around, squirrels running around, Oh but when the clock strikes one,  I can take an oath on the holy lord, then the clock doesn’t move, Between one to four, the world comes to a standstill, All you can hear slow humming of machines, the soft tapping sounds of keyboard, And a few day dreamers like me staring out of the window, There are many like me, I do feel that, We are a hidden tribe, who only want to escape work when the clock strikes 5, And its not that I dread work, I love work, It pays for my luxuries, But the constant chatting, calling, sounds, brings no peace to my little mind. A little nap should be allowed at work, I wonder why it is frowned upon, It is uncomfortable to sleep at a desk, while your colleagues are looming around, I am in my swe

 Writing after the longest time. A time block, where I thought that my creative juices have dried up and I won't be able to write anything more. But sometimes words come floating to you from nowhere and they work their mystical charm. Poems are magic.  Taking a day off from work  Taking a day off I wonder why taking a day off is so overrated, Why people criticise it and why do parents get suspicious, Taking a day off is so relaxing, Staring at the ceiling which is my sky, And the dusty fan my moon, I like the possibility of my day ahead, They show the possibility of my dreams coming true, I can see the shelves calling out to me, And the books flipping the pages gently in the winter wind, I would like draw the curtains, close the windows and cover myself with a blanket, I like the cosy conversation I have with myself in the morning, And I look for a possibility of a beautiful day ahead, The day begins with the morning sound, With the steady dripping water from the tap, The sounds fr

Singing a song for jim beam Here is to the more spirit I have in my life and in my almost empty glass, However impossible it seems, drinks are going to leave me and I am going to leave them, I am going to say good bye to my best friends to be with you, The shot glasses say one last time, And the tequila say dance with me, Its all the flavor , says Malibu rum, I will drown you in tranquility says the good ole Gin, Give my tonic, my heart says. You can always a sneak a bottle and still be a saint, One a sip is good for soul, says brandy my old friend. Remember the old days, the curtains pulled down And the glasses brought up, Lovers were just memories, The glasses were full, and you were drowned in tears, Now you have pulled the curtains apart, And you say , you are out of your fears, I see a little scare in your eyes, Will he be always there for you, my dear? Take a glass and drown out the sun,

Now a woman is a poem... Now a woman is a poem, and a man a complex web of words, A woman is a different season every day, and a man at times a calm sea and sometimes roaring waves. A woman is a poem, a beautiful, carved, shapely limb of a tree, a swaying leaf in the wind, or a piece of satin scarf drying on the clothes line. A man is a novel, a premise to be understood and followed, A pipe or a cigar or perhaps a hat, His shadows, his wants and his ambitions. A woman is a poem, filled with oh so few words, simile here, metaphor there, mostly an irony and a master in euphemism, A man is a novel, filled with infinite words, infinite possibility, limitless dreams, and grinding failure. You don't make love to a novel, You make love to a poem, You keep it beside you, perhaps a crumbled paper, hidden in a wallet, an anthem for someone or someone's slogan a vow at the wedding or a sombre word at the funeral.. But a novel at times is so much more, a