Maybe This is 'Home'

I stand here facing the horizon,
Counting the kisses,
Maybe not, maybe yes
What are you thinking?
My hands are burning
Are you still choking?
Come, let's stay here a little while,
You ,me and your wings of colour.
Our loneliness keep us moving,
Fail me not in deciphering you
You still stay numb and cold
Breaking the twigs
Making a fuss.
Maybe not, maybe yes.
I showed you,
The twinkling eyes of woodpecker.
But you,
You made me listen to the songs of nightingale.
Maybe not, maybe yes.
Your wild smell
And the breezy air
Is holding me back from return.
Your wings of fruits
And the choppy waters
Are promising a home for me.
Your wildness wonders me
spilling around me
After every drizzle.
Come hold my hand,
Let me know you,
Let me walk along you,
Cuddle me close
Your blues and greens and yellows
And their symphonies
Cause the death of my body
And float my soul.
Maybe not, maybe yes.
Your lullabies with nuances
Of a spell,
Make me guilty.
Unleashing my fears
You protect my hate.
When pangs of nostalgia still
Disturbs me,
You tether me to this cascade,
Enlightening and whistling,
'Welcome home'.
And yes, maybe this is 'home'.

A.C

Comments

All I Want for Us is to Feel Again

We were young girls Who used to play at the beach, Hugging, we watched the sun drowning. We danced till the candyman went home, Our skirts swayed with the wind, Cajoling us to stay a bit longer. We never thought this picture would fade away. I know this would never come back, But I want to feel again. I want to go back where my heart is. All I want is to be free and feel again. The colours and smell still linger with me, I miss the happiness I felt, The aches that watered me. My skin misses the way it felt, My hair misses the gentle kiss of the beach wind The bookstores and beach waters wait for us, They send a thousand silent sirens to us, When will we feel it again? The recklessness of age, the courage of freedom, the music in our brains, And the limbs that never stopped. The yellow city lights Gladly kissing the fine roads, absorbed our shadows,...

The Grendels

Horror is lurking behind every moment of darkness, Seeming to be human, we cannot distinguish you from Grendel. We see no Beowulfs coming to rip off your arms that aid you well. When every closed door warns us, Every stare seems to map our bodies, Every vehicle appears to follow us, Every touch seems to warn us, You, cultured and well behaved, You are the light of the day, You are the Lord of the people, Who metamorphose into damned dangers At the end of the day. Your venomous fangs go in search of Prey, You wait in the darkness with twinkling eyes, Admiring the power of your hands, That can open up hearts, And show the uncultured your worth. After every hunting, the sycophants who surround you, Kiss your hands and touch your feet. They wash your dirt and make your bed. They cure your sickness by gifting you scepters. Making you invisible, they uproot every Beowulfs to ensure your reign. Thus you flourish, never to die but to hunt and haunt. And behind your house, we s...

The Lost Daughter - An Ode to Motherhood and Flawed Mothers

Mothers are always praised and glorified for the sacrifices that they make and are called supermoms, if they find a balance with their family and work life. Movies have always portrayed mothers as either sacrificial or supermoms. But do all the mothers choose the same road? Maggie Gyllenhaal's 'The Lost Daughter' speaks for all the flawed unnatural mothers. People who become mothers at an early age, who feel traumatized by the whole new version of themselves, who live in fear of losing their original identity in the run for creating one for their children, who make choices selfishly regardless of their children's needs. Leda in the movie, in fear of losing her individuality in the love for her children, takes a decision to focus on her career. She finds it as an amazing experience and embraces everything that she desired, peeling off the perfect mother image that she is supposed to keep. When women are considered to have innate motherness in them, people don't re...

THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Search This Blog