Amethyst - a tribute

Gentle froth bubbles warmth,
as cupped hands hold; light within.

Voices carry, of friends – old and new,
minds congregate, culture and habits chinwag.

Purple blush, shades the cranium,
in feverish pitch to meet and succumb.

Tones of voices, linger in beany aroma,
through musings of art, and of heart.

Intoxicate your soul, infuse; live,
inebriated, even in amethyst sobriety.

Breathe air into vacuum – with words,
in this café, we found second home.

P.S - Written as a tribute from Caferati-Madras for Amethyst for playing Host. This is to be framed and presented to them.

Streaky Rain Danseuse

Dance under sunlight, brilliant in hue,
flap - yet no sound, gentle beauty,
gather in, sweetness from around,
colour palettes you touch,.

Caressing dewdrops in crystal shine,
vivid colours, exploring our landscape,
as if Godly brush splattered,
coloured polka dots, in earthy garden.

Metamorph ugly into beautiful,
bringing colour to green,
float on a wave of breeze,
winged dreams blush colourless.

If my wings were, of butterfly would be,
velvet shimmers; faintly flutter
into hearts of many
though I maybe, but tiny.

Double

Laughter fills the camphor heavy air,
tradition plays host, with pipes and drums
decked in gold, enough to tempt an invasion,
the silk route seems to have taken a diversion.

Scores of children, amongst incessant chatter,
pubescent boys eyeing teenage girls,
mothers’ showing off their eligible offspring,
bride and groom, hide shy laughter.

A day or three, festivities make colour,
cooks clamour, into gigantic vessels,
trying to appease a thousand tongues,
on elaborate banana leaves, laden to the brim.

Parents of the couple, shaken, hugged, kissed,
seem everywhere, with permanent smiles,
and frown, if ever anything is awry.
pride worn on shoulder, yet heavy bosoms plod on

Joy of meeting, sorrow of parting,
rain emotions for the new couple,
as life twists into a new road,
expectant hearts flutter to new horizons,

Friends and family surround,
smiles dazzling, dimming the golden glitter
each is now double, with another life,
many sigh, finally, two lives roll into one.

Flounders; Hands; Storyteller

Strange Title? Yeah, I know. These were three words i got at an exercise conducted by the poetry circle at BC. Had to come up with a Poem on the Spot. Let me know what you think.

The keys tapped fast on the ribbon,
the hands seemingly familiar,
no flounders on the word
and yet, the storyteller stopped.
Silence, as the typewriter rested.

As the chapter closed,
trouble began to brew,
Upstairs he ran, to publishers' galore,
but yet, none to grab his letters.

The words lie still, in his mind alone,
and on no other paper, it ever will.