when the telephone rang
at six in the morning
four days before Christmas Eve
   I knew
things were not right

they told me
   my father had died
   at three in the morning
   and would I please come by
   arrange for the burial
   and collect his belongings
at the senior citizens home
where he had spent
the last four years
of his life

they had rested him nicely
he looked at peace
I kissed him on his forehead
   like I always had
   at the end of my visits
and cast a last long look at his figure
   before the body would be taken away

    and suddenly I noticed
       how big his hands were
    they’d never seemed so prominent before

as if in death they sent me a reminder
of how much he had loved his hands
   for work   for play  for sports
   for fight and for survival
   to point and to gesticulate
      they held me as a baby and
         some times
      slapped me as a child
   they repaired toys   split wood
   built sheds   drove cars and motor bikes
   were patient and precise
   caressed and soothed and loved

they were his life
they held his world

my father’s hands

If the person you love
Is truly
Holding you up
Then there's no way
You could fall
For someone else

I didn't see her for three days

then she was back
but her color was not

where her hair parted
was starkly arid
on her forehead
wasn't the dot of red
and her saree was bleached white

yet nothing was amiss
she intently scaled the fishes
cut them neatly into pieces
though a piece of her went missing

She knows well
for no price
can she stop the sale.

......what an adventure would it be,
      to be burnt by those
     who burn themselves.

I am the clown
In this town.

To where i am the center
Of their teasing
And jokes
As if they never see me
Frown.

All they see is my
Joker's hat,
That everything
They throw
At me
Never hurts.

I guess that's all i
Ever be...

Perhaps it's my fault
For letting them think
That way,
I never fight
A war between egos.

Silence and smiles
Are all i ever
Masked
Myself...

Up and down the road again,
following the twists and turns
in hope to achieve and gain
I ride on though my eyes burn

My hopes painted inside my mind
where in loops past and future runs
behind the clouds my star shines
I look through it though my eyes burn

I had held too many I could pocket,
now tell less tales, became a taciturn,
hanged those round my neck in a small locket,
I keep quite though my eyes burn

The storm has done damages enough
from the winds and waves I learned
even small ships can deal with the rough
I clean the deck *though my eyes burn

Insomnia in a serving,
I have it with a head full of thoughts.
Ready pen in hand,
contemplating where they should land.

Caffeine in a gulp,
unruly chatter in the background as soundtrack.
Landing words haphazardly in ink...
Scrawls and scribbles of what I think.

Coffee breath in a cup...
A delectable complement
to a favoured pastime.
Enjoying this very moment,
as I jot down this last flavoured rhyme.