"pashmina" poems
That workaholic lady who's always on call,
keeping up with the market fall.
That newly married lady with chunky red bangles,
returning to her father's big castles.
That person who's scared to get lapse,
so stays active on the google maps.
That person who swings like a kid at the back door,
Or the one who perform calisthenics on an empty floor.
That next door girl with a red lipstick,
flicking her shinny hair & gossiping with her clique,
That dreamer gazing outside the window,
That overworked soul dozing on his elbow.
That 21st century kid,
listening to Eminem & playing video games.
Or That 90’s kid,
listening to Jenga Boys & playing outdoor games.
That banker with a big fat stomach,
filled with his beautiful wife’s love.
That lady who eats like a thief,
in her big fat bag hiding a beef.
That old man who can’t stand Bombay's winding turns.
That granny spotting & criticing every fashion trends.
That man who has Raju Rastogi’s concerns,
thinking & chanting for earns & returns.
Those kids who believe their job is to fill the voids in a battlefield,
in the still crowd surpassing like electrons into a magnetic field.
That lady sitting under cold seat like a glacial,
than standing with 7kgs in a crowded central,
& tryna stay sane listening to George Michael.
That geek who switchs from Linkedin to Arjun Reddy,
when the masses flee into the scenery.
That trader crunching numbers so rapidly,
when the stock prices go down hourly.
That person on the last seat,
diagressing from work & gazing around,
soaking in her pashmina, with a career newfound.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:35 AM UTC
the bottle is
the
bottle
is
the bottle is empty
had its contents been precariously dealt with
or
drop by drop assimilated?
assimilated?by the cloths of
silk pashmina cashmere
or the blackness of a tuxedo
i might never
ever
know, my father forgets
to the left
to
the
left
to the left of the bottle
is another bottle
quite smaller.
it is filled with
pink liquid
half full--or half empty
barely used by its
current owner
it smells like apples
and by the bottles is
and
by
the
bottles
is
and by the bottles is a ring
with two keys
that open locks somewhere
of COURSE!
why, what else would you
use a key
for?
the darkest
alternative for a key's usage, though
is to
hurt
some
body
with
it
metal
grinding the
skin
and the bottles
and
the
bottles
and the bottles thrown
the former can shatter
the latter houses a liquid
but,
but,
but,
but,
why?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
It starts like a beige tuft of fibre
Protruding from a large burlap sack.
As we pull it from the hidden source
It gradually reveals itself.
Simple and unassuming,
A uniform, coloured strand
Which we gather up into a tidy ball.
Sometimes another strand is tied
Onto the one we pull.
A different colour?
A change of texture?
And so we pull that one anew,
We build another coil,
While the original strand awaits.
The interesting new thread,
Reveals itself from the hidden reservoir.
The fibre slides through our fingers.
Slowly, when there is resistance.
Quicker, when it comes loosely.
Now coarse and wiry
Now soft and slippery,
Now thick and tufted.
Tough Scottish highlands perhaps?
Or rural Ontario?
Sometimes the hidden source seems like it may be
A hand-knit sweater that we are pulling apart.
The strands are still kinked and twisted in places,
Echoing a memory of a shape it has held for years.
We recognize bits here and there too.
Colours and textures from our own story.
"I had a pair of socks like that."
"Remember our scarves from those cold childhood winters?"
The collection of small skeins increases.
From a sheep's fleece, yes, but now too
From Alpaca, camel and rabbit.
Cashmere from Pashmina goats in Nepal?
But at last the final strand comes free.
You feel the weight of the coiled wool,
And see the diversity of the colours.
And for each coil
We remember again how it appeared
How it felt.
How the strands
Came together
And apart.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
to the beautiful quiet boy
who lives in a timezone earlier than mine
they may not know it
but your heart beats louder than how you look
i hope you're asleep
it's thirty minutes after one a.m. isn't it?
Recounting the moments i watched you sleep
With an innocent, rested face
with your hands by your sides
you're even beautiful when you sleep
but more so when those dark chocolate eyes gaze upon the windows of my soul
wish i could hold you in my arms now
Even better if you're wrapped around me
While you're with your signature turtleneck
And me with my red pashmina
These thoughts are nothing
but at least something
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
With the pashmina threads,
Someone weaves their dreams, blindly.
A new instrument being echoed through the valleys
As braiding the threads closely.
How so ?
Eyelids have opened new stories
Emotions have allowed new secrets within
Neglecting amaurotic sights
Unaware of those dark epics yet to come
How so?
Oblivious affections
That make floret and buds change their alluring aura.
Two dewdrops walking just like that,
Playing on the leaves of trees like pearls,
Opening to each other carefree.
But one separates and touches the terrain
The other continues to glisten.
How so?
Longing for that person to stand nearby
And whisper softly,
I will be your shadow , I will walk with you
And keep walking.
But being insensible forgotten that shadows run away as the sun falls.
How so?
The talk keeps going on in woven dreams and braided hopes
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 11:47 AM UTC