When last Autumn I visited your house

There were lilies in your garden,
when last Autumn I visited your house
They were so large, fragrant and proud
and we stood so full of everything and sunshine.
Outside, your white walls
amidst their pink warmth,
as if sharing secrets I longed to tell you.
Amidst their numerous
And my disbelief, we discussed love
and spring.
I suppose they never told you
We talked about flower men and crushes,
How I blushed
as they swayed in laughter with the breeze
I suppose they never told you
How they felt
when you left footmarks by their side
How they missed you
And ached for your tender, warm fingers
I suppose they never told you
I too left my footmarks that morning,
I wanted yours to cover mine.
I wanted them to kiss your feet
like a dying man kisses his would be widow
for that one last time.

Sitting years later in a december afternoon
I want to go back to your autumn Lilies
Just to ask, 'Did the footprints meet?'
and leave it unspoken "Do you still grow lilies?"

Picture from the net 

Lilium Candidum by Svetlan Stefanov

I will write you letters this winter

I will write you letters this winter
When the snow falls and the fire crackles
I will race over those alphabets
Lingering on ones I felt
When I stood under the warm sluicing water
and you were mist across the shower of rain
I caught a glimpse of you in the golden sunlight
outside the deep green curtains.
I will hold you in coherent coincidences
And I will refuse to turn the page
I will sit with mulled words and live in exuberant summers
When the ascending spirals of smoke groan wet
Ebbing away the sensation that leaped up the chimney
I will know you were hanging on to the soot.
You were holding on and clinging to my roof.
I will look at you as tenderly as the moon
Looks at the frozen icicles that remain on the branches
When every living room will be swarming with unions and laughter
This Christmas
I will write you letters under the mistletoe
I will not proliferate or pluck my history from yours
I will let my now and then merge in yours
I will not let the distance long or throb
I will let us squeeze and snuggle into a poem
When passion will river on my soft swollen syllables
I will unfasten the violet from my ink
and spill all over you,on and again

I will write you letters till the winter ends.

Poor,yours and defined

I want to meet you over heartbreaks

When your eyes will caress the purple rings under mine,

I want to meet you across closed doors

When we just have memories spilled across the sides,  

I want to meet you over your crumbling years

We won't have our passionate denials,

I want to meet you over some  infidelities

I will dissolve myself in contained deities with my religion traversed.

I want to meet you over fun, frolic and picnics 

I can be wary of your eyes following  me in weightless love

I want to meet you in insomnia 

In silent darkness, on a pink bedspread, in timeless connival of moist cocoa butter

seething restless on my misty skin

I want to meet you when you walk away

When I go prophetic to deny my blinding fears

I want to meet you in a cemetery, exhausted over bodiless souls

Who knows, you may descend to the memoirs on the pungent smell

You may return to the madness of love and life 

I want to meet you in hospital beds

My last wounds will birth you in healing. 

I want to meet at the church then 

To belong and to be your bride. 

Dressed in all that finery of convictions 

Rich, poor, yours and defined.

Sometimes I Confuse You, Don't I?

Sometimes I confuse you, don't I?
Then again I love our confusion
You are like that enormous scar on my mind
Visible silence of timeless exile 
Hanging between clean and soiled
Forever hanging to unhurried seasons 
Spread out on a construct of society 
You are like that sunlight who caress the virgin snow
I sought your splendour 
To win my battles 
Your silence bristling within
Made me limp, even when I lost my strength to walk.
I love our confusion
Travelling over the crumbling, threatening clouds 
Often when dusk descended to my street and your hair 
I opened my eyes to your day sweating all over me.

I Was Living In Fragments

I was living in fragments
As I meandered in the illumined
I was living in seasons
As I wafted up the steps of time
Perhaps I found a country

coiled in your eyes

And I stood a nomad at your journeys end. 

Certain Monsoon Smell

Brown skinned men walk the street
Dark rain clouds adrift 
Deep in their travelling hair
I see a garden of pilgrim towns
Seen and Unseen. 
Lament must have been born 
Each time it promised to rain. 
As they travel this hymen of stillness 
Clung to them certain monsoon smell.

For My God

All my poetry is spent in you
Sometimes I have nothing more to offer 
Except a day's empty cup and my conditioned belief
You happen to me and then magic begins 
Of this remarkable journey 
From me to you and you to me.