Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Colours curdling, water washing every *****;
Out of us evil ever going and playing on
Land of character cherished by coloured lawn.
What a scene to see! Gracious glory gone
If you miss this mesmerizing festival upon
A folly. Foolish will be called such a conn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon

Holy played in school is highly pleasing crayon,
For Kinar, Aayushi, Kunal. Aryan or John.
Monorhyme has one colour, holi many micron.
Mital, Mitesh, Vaikhu, SIddhu, Saurabh are don.
This day even principal thinks to prevent throne
And join joy with teachers - see anxiety thrown.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon

Songs, screams; dance, D.J.; homage and hymn on;
This day with Holika heavy burdens and sins thrown.
Cruel Hiranyakashyapa was killed; glory was won.
Kunal, Arpita, Sandeep, Amit and Shreyas on lawn
Play water and colours with cool Pari’s scone
In Jalgaon, Agra, Kanpur, Karanja, Surat or Bonn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon

Tumble down, fall part, fragment,
Become the figment of the imagination,
that enchanted your dreams.

Create the spell,
Beautiful and powerful, like the whispers of Merlin
Torch that dark sky.

Scorch, blacken and smoulder,
Mold thou from the ashes,
The Fortune of a Moghul.

Hold your head high,
Become that figment of your imagination,
Jiggery pokery your spell;

Roar like a Dragon,
that wit and intelligence,
The world shall bow to you.

Saurabh.

On the foggy window glass,
In the snow that raw,
My finger rubbed past the dew,
To catch a glimpse,
Of fog and benumbed,
Outside of the car window.

My eyes desire a little sunshine,
My skin, a little warmth.
Ears urge for her chirping,
Lips, the touch of hers,
Hands, a stroke in her hairs,
Body, to have a shadow besides hers.

The sun shined shyly over the meadows,
To hide back in clouds,
As if it kissed the snow - a good foggy day.
Conifers stand tall, covered in snow as if a white ghost,
Sailing with the wind, snow shifted -revealing a green arm,
Only to muddle the sleeping fox beneath.

Relishing in my state- haywired,
A smile played on her, if only, for an instant,
to leave me mortified.
My devotion for her- untouched.
Masked, my feelings rattled,
Green eyed- I explode.

Saurabh.

Jimmy Boom Semtex is into many things. Writing is one. His varied work includes poetry, prose and stories on a variety of topics. Erotica like his Fire Extinguisher Man series, poetry on current world events, horror stories and more besides. Jimmy loves getting tattooed, listening to alternative music, drinking beer and living a simple but fulfilling life. Check his Facebook page out. He's working on new ****** stories and a poetry collection. His writing career is diverse and so are the authors/poets/writers he’s collaborated with like Filipina poetess Shy Lhen Esposo and Indian Saurabh Pant. Jimmy Boom Semtex is a pen name of Nick Armbrister.

Clutched her hand, in mine
Brushed her index, with my thumb
and finally the stupidity became words
I asked

Have been in this world for long,
I want a world of my own
Would you be that?
Would you be that?

The answer,
quite sure,
I knew before
yet

The question still lingers,
in the aura of the silence
in the beauty of the moment
in the warmth of her touch

Sheepishly she snapped,
what if, I accept
Our story 'll be,
just another one of thousands

Aye,
it 'll be one of the thousands
though
it 'll be the only one in my world.

Entangled in herself,
Beaming in her past,
the one glaze she passed
made the answer quite clear, yet

The question still lingers,
in the aura of her silence
in the beauty of the moment
in the warmth of her touch.

Saurabh.

We are, but stories - walking and talkin,
each one unique, each one gawkin,
Stories unheard and unseen,
waiting to be heard and waiting to be seen.

Saurabh.

I could never fathom how he did
it;
shoulders broad, eyes bright and
warm, and a suitcase chained to
his arm.
For thirty odd years--
rain, drought and loveless
afternoons--
he did it. Every single day.
I never knew the weight of the
suitcase untill I was a man
myself.

He must be made out of rocks,
I thought, young.
Bone made out of iron,
Black opal eyes and skin as rough
and old as lump of coal.
Yet every night there emerged a
candy out of his pocket,
and filled my mouth with luxuries
we couldn't dream of.
There was a garden in this
coal-filled landscape, and for
years hence, I still savour those
candies borne out of them.

Today he is fraile and tiny,
the chain on his suitcase is
broken,
it's mine now.
Yet, whenever these chain grow
too heavy on me,
he soothes me with a promise:
that he would put on all the
chains in these world if it means
saving me from the world that
eats me every night.

The man with a smile,
Oh, how could he smile every
day?
How could he?
-Saurabh Kokane