THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Let's go to the fields Hand in hand And lay on the green bushes Then I would tell you strangest things- of people with a dream-head Who talks bizarre language, Of people with eyeballs pulled out by crying, Of couples turned into statues and more. Before being cloyed by the tequila sunrise, Let's make love like lovers. And when the ecstasy fades away, Let's make some pies and Sing a love song. Dressed like a dead princess, you would take me to your castle, Of crumbling walls and depleting alleys, Where I can listen to the songs from the rusted piano. When I pretend to go, you can Keep me by your side by reading out tales from your book of love, When only the scent of the old book would keep me there. Guided by the white horse we may return to the fields, Where the stories of our blind love remains unchanged. When horror chases the horse, It leaves us and seeks shelter in the evening's old stable. Before being lured by your next love song, I wou

She made a cup of tea. A cup of tea in the morning. She made a cup of tea, A cup of tea in the evening. Later did she realise she was the morning,the noon and the evening. She was the colourless alarm set for years. The first light of day pierced through her tea, Her lunch evinced the noon, The evening tea marked the end of office hours and her dinner reminded them to sleep. She saw Stale walls and stale food  scuffling before her. The clocks ticked only for her. The cats came only for the leftovers. Shrouded in the foul smell of unwashed utensils, Her kitchen turned out to be a quarantine. What else do you want? you are the second fiddle of the house. As if the second fiddle ever mattered. Love came and knocked at her door but walked away at anecdotes of children. Her bindhi exploded at the sight of mirrors and earrings stopped dangling when she opted for dazzling dishes. Her life has accepted its monotonous fate, Trying to figure out the once mopped corner.

I write poems of evening, Of day and night. I write poems as they eat me, They eat and ruminate my seasons. They spit sparrows and feathers fly away from their mouths. Talking of sealed mouths and blistered feet, They chew dirt and blood and the very soul itself. They talk of Shape shifting people and makeshift families, Disclosing or copying, They burn division and blindness. Piercing into the skin and breaking ligaments,they get into you Rupturing your eardrums and forming the new inner voice. They digest the broken souls and produce rain drenched wintry maples. Its endless mechanisms commence the quirky behaviours, To contemplate the past-made present and present-made future. Kissing and cuddling they become your slogan and anthem. Deficient and efficient, you grow and grow, Until my poem no longer exists in you existence. A.C

Robert came last week. Saw him Shouting things unfamiliar, as they dragged his healthy body over. Calm down Robert, This place will be your home now. A home where you feel homesickness, A home with walls of instabilities. Unattracted by this principle of home, Calmness was a distant reality to Robert. The stale breakfast and lunch was indifferent to him. The bedbugs embraced him with stories of former inmates. The garden seemed graveyard to him. His mouth at times pronounced beautiful female names with drools. A lone walker along the aisles of the Building, He looked through the giant gate that never opened. He talked to the trees that never replied. He sang of things unheard-of, He longed for a normal life like the guards. He who cracked knuckles frequently has lost his name, Now he is number forty. Forty of cell ten. Forty who came last week. Forty from? Forty died yesterday. Sally came today. They dragged her over while shouting things unfamiliar. N

The ghosts of evening sang a song. A song of my cabbage life. When the trees get tickled by the licking leaves, The houses shine in the lamp shades, Walking all alone,i wander with my playlists, Aimless as an owl, spreading the pessimistic winds. I see horror hiding behind the oak tree, Reluctant to come out, it crawls away to darkness. The roads with day's dirt and trodden stones, Seems to howl at me with each footsteps. When the dreams of youth form congeries of mess in the sky, I spread my arms and hugged me, At a night when glorious love songs pass from windows. I look for a drum to destroy the silence of the night, to wake up the sleeping heroes. Here, Your villain has come. Welcome me with boredom and bitterness. Spot me in the darkness of depression, Before I kill you with my inglorious stories and agitating songs. I can divide your home and shed blood. Bewitched by the noise of my drum, Your children will follow me, Like Pied Piper, I will take th

He doesn't know the nights i cried for him. He doesn't know the thoughts i had for him. He doesn't know the things I want to tell him. He doesn't know the pain of my heart every night I burst into tears. He doesn't know the happiness i wanted to share with him. He doesn't know the places I want to go with him. He doesn't know that everything will be fine. He doesn't realise I'm there for him, no matter what. He doesn't know the prayers i offered in his name. He doesn't know the times I complicated my mind for him. He doesn't know the songs i want him to listen to. He doesn't know the poems i want him to read. He doesn't know the years I waited. He doesn't know the times I was present with him, in my absence. He doesn't see the scars I bore for him. He doesn't see the fights I fought for him. And when the sun hits the ocean, The tears that flowed was enough and more for a pond. And finally as the u

Blame me for not being you. For not reflecting your perceptions. For being me. For blooming the flowers of odd hues in my garden. For carrying a heart full of poetry and mind full of seasons. For being summer than spring, For being mist than rain, For listening than speaking, And for scattering than gathering. Blame me for deviating from the ideal human, Because my pursuits of happiness are different from yours. A.C