THE SEVEN-O-CLOCK-BUS-O-PHOBIA!

Since this bug bit me,

Couldn’t defy my senses ,

To haul over the coals ,

the dynamics drawn in.

 

My ‘hottest’ enemy,  Diwali.

Flame and fire, sundry ,

Like my house and  T.Nagar,

Where Kumbhmela swarms perennially.

 

Next whine, my college ,

Placed to make T.Nagar bisect ,

Exasperating , to soak busses ,

And my robe , gapping festive heat.

 

Very much avoidable, but,

Glares in me a Diabetic,

Imposing a 2.5km stroll,

Amidst all Vijay posters.

 

The terrible sight of all,

To quote my friend ,

“Its indeed an Art to,

strike a place ,Amidst hordes.”

When the God himself COMPOSED .....

He resides just streets away,
But lives wherever air has its say,
His first take, Shot him,
Not to the 15 min fame, but eternal glory,
Amidst a cut throat competition,
But still low key as if lame.
When blown, his head doesn’t weigh a ton,
When pricked down, from there will heave a piquant don,
Just like air, without confines he rules.
Wedged to ground culturally,
Let loose by language, when,
The stage is all his,
Reve(Cele)bration is all that lines up.

He owns a bad habit, of adding,
Everything to his endless list,
Now the Golden Globe looks,
Really Golden besides him,
“For India” he says, with a desire,
Lurking in him, to show….
To show the nation to the world,
Through a language most twigged,
Music,
To show India’s Bombay, as it is,
Without muddling its greasepaint in SM,
‘Jai Ho Rahman’, Surely,
The Oscar isn’t so near yet so far,
And here it will come……
And this sure fires that, he is,
God’s own Rock Song!

(written before ARR won the oscars... my way of supporting him :P )

Our MOM is calling !!! Come on Guys :)

The most beautiful person, but forgotten,
Now, not by me, so I requested a meet up,
She gleamed as if ever ready,
And, I recoiled after fastening,
The hired Dove’s wings, And fluttered off,
Like a bird , which knows no visa,
No limits, to cross countries and seas,
To feel that person, Mother Nature.

It was raining there, with the drops ,
Turning into honey ,by falling on flowers,
Into food , dropping into soil,
But it spilled into my eyes,
To grow into this poem!
Some call it the shower, of mother;
still, hold hartals with ‘black’ umbrellas,
Bandhs, with closed windows.

Once she went away, the rainbow broke,
And broke into butterflies, with body art,
Capable of being a world wonder,
The wet tempted the houses to relocate,
As snails, and that was when I wished,
Being a creature there, at least,
Like the Tarzan, crafting a garland,
Throwing thread through every rain drop.

Unfortunately , couldn’t stay with her,
For long, as her campaign called her,
To fight the general elections,
Against global warming and his ,
Dim-witted candidate, Man.
But , look at right and not the might ,
Of 6 billion men; join with me to ,
Sweat for none other than our, mother.