nightingale

a long wait,

for the roof, I call home,

for the mellow rain overhead,

on all levels except physical,

I stroll through a park on the hills,

wild roses of which offer a glimpse of grandmother's love for her man,

when he went the whole nine yards towards the summit.

her tunes give elocution to a mute hometown child,

her drawings cushion a vulnerable pair of eyes with hues.

mornings refuse to wake till she sings,

midnights echo tales of lost history.

every city, every avenue I run,

both outside and inside,

with agonizing patience,

i will always find my way back home.

                                                 - isha

what do we call this day?

picture this:

humans toiling over sincere projects,

far from acting like pieces of work,

inching towards generosity,

without breathing in abysmal notions.

but with egotism ensnaring me,

what do I paint this with?

I want to live in strength and spright,

but you keep modifying me

with reality possessing dying embers.

away from cynical manipulations,

I want to eyeball people drowning themselves in nobility,

not setting in motion the vicious cycle of qualms,

in which diplomacy illustrates the opposite of oaths taken.

I want to evolve,

but you keep modifying me.

                                                -isha

pearls to dust

not forever wanders the day,

when the sky's at its bluest,

in mild shades of summer,

with trees at their greenest.

hanging leaves not forever quiver, 

through the howling wind of chime,

light of the sun grows dim,

like the grudges you hold prime.

not forever is your breath robbed,

when damp pages flutter on dusty guitars,

not forever caresses the breeze,

nor do the nights devoted to counting stars.

                                                            - isha

past 6:30

it's gray in a city this vivid,

the pauses and delays, furls and frenzies,

dreams take a twisted route,

according to her whims and fancies.

bare hands pen down their stories,

as the last ray fades,

while burning the midnight oil,

our fraught splinters build grim grenades.

it's sick in this city slow on remorse,

lessoning me to bet on myself without fail,

crashing into chaos on stops and slopes,

pedestrian lanes are growing pale.

jumbled work jostles for attention,

and hustling leaves a hundred scars,

we sweep the dirt under a rug,

stashing musings in glass jars.

on sullen dusks, ever so slightly,

some hearts yearn for a leap,

in a city so sour, 

remembering to tread lightly,

those breaths collapse in a sobbing heap.

                 - isha

under the monsoon sun

while soaking up the smell of all books i bought last winter,

i mused on the question of scrolling trying to replace the sound of flipping pages.
biting on bitter cocoa easy on the pocketbook,
on days of introspection swiveling in my chair,
dawns reflections edified me on laws of reality,
making me fall into reveries on the fluttering grass.

i despise roses,
only to effortlessly discover their foxily alluring thorns,
beguiling a part of me into loving them.
coming to terms with the likelihood of not wanting our lives interwoven.
having this penchant for clicking pictures,
on every level in a parallel universe,
I'd unquestionably don the finest coat of an impassioned docent.

these pangs and aches irk me,
until the pain disperses amid the monsoon breeze,
like mist.
I smile reckoning it isn't momentous in the grand scheme of articles.
granting time for those massive psychological scars to heal,
piecing the jigsaw together.
                                              - isha

dazed dots

we welcomed a lackluster summer,
wanting sights and sounds,
startled by a paradigm of bits and pieces,
humans trying to get stronger in leaps and bounds.
myriads of thoughts danced in my head ceaselessly,
trying not to fall asleep when it rained,
sipping piping hot coffee,
ruminating on the animals chained.

the guitar piling up dust in the drawing room was strummed every morning.
for the first time in months, the patio wasn't empty.
park never looked so untrodden.
love breathed in abundance.

we allowed our minds to saunter.
minds seized by cellphones.

i grew accustomed to smiling at tetchy Mrs. D'Souza across the hallway,
tirelessly searching for her lost gemstones.
no end to my family's chaotic idiocy,
wishing we were hallucinating,
eardrums craved to tether this lunacy.
yet,
love did breathe in abundance

                         - Isha 

                         

luna

she gazed at the orchestrated constellations.

but every single time the moon rose and hovered over her head,

she was struck by it.

the sun cleared the way for the moon.

slowly.

it was more than watching the rays of light lose their brightness.

opening doors for things that were left unsaid.

the clouds hid the moon every time she felt powerless.

as if people wouldn't admire her and take oaths of their love.

the moon is filled with gratitude for the tremendous love that she's showered with.

a love that seldom gets a chance to survive.

the one that makes her look picturesque every night.

so altruistic that she dazzles like a diamond.

the luminous glow of the celestite in her hand mumbled,

i won't let a sole fragment scar you. 
                                                          - Isha