Skip to main content

When the Gulmohars bloom

The Gulmohars bloom
When love flowers
in the heart of a chaste lass,
forlorn in a dream of her own.
Her passion intensifies
the shade of crimson red.
Her innocence contrasts
the near green and far blue.
The pastel of colour mix
reflects her dreams.
Love, passion and pangs
nourishes the flame!
As she looks at the tree,
they both sigh in a hushed tone;
a love story begins.
A never- ending connivance
A secret bond
A myth to live for ages.
When the Gulmohars bloom
Love has blossomed its first shower
in a heart that beats
in a rhythm that only she knows
how to hide, and not to seek.
The Gulmohars have bloomed
The horizon turns red
And she smiles beneath its branches.

Comments

  1. Great poem....hope gulmohars bloom always n she smiles forever

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

"Until we meet again"

One Two Three,they came and I lost my count. All in an embrace brown and blue with a band of white. I clutched my ring But missed the caress. The waves faded into the waves But I had no shoulder to rest. The vastness ahead swallowed my tears and echoed from a distant land "Until we meet again."

Only If I Could

The smile on her face was still the same, as I had seen her on my 7 th birthday.   But the red lipstick had lost its glow and the fair skin looked a bit tanned. It was not the red glowing sun that had baked her brown as she had been indoors for more than a dozen years. It was the dust and years of negligence. I had once shared my childhood with her. The red saree with its golden spots carefully spun had given bright colours to my dreams I had woven on yarns of childhood games. She looked like a bride in her bright red saree celebrating life with golden bangles, tingling the bell of festivity. She smelt of jasmine.           Now, her beauty is a blurred reflection of the past. The bangles are broken and red saree has faded. She now smells of kerosene that I had once accidentally spilled on her. Her smile did not elicit a smile from me. But I was tempted to pick her up from my closet. There she lay for seventeen years, uncared and...

Kochettan's 'chaya kada'

The smell of hot Samosas frying in the oil filled her with memories of a land she had long forgotten.The land of dreams,hopes,aspirations,laughter,smiles.Not to forget,the pain,tears,and wound it had left behind.The river in the picture, on the wall suddenly confluenced with the imagery in her mind of the still deep waters of Manimala.The days she had spent on the banks throwing pebbles at hoppers,creating ripples(any bum's delight)gave her an impetus to think further. All memories ushered in fresh thoughts and sour tears.The aroma of the piping hot masala tea filled her thoughts.Slowly,gradually she was sipping hot memories.There stood the small,yet happening place-Kochettan's 'chaya kada'.Home meant memories.Memories meant her village.Village meant Kochettan's 'chaya kada'. Her days started with a distant glance of the 'chayakada' from her room in the upper storey.She would peep out through the curtain at the shack, at the corner of the road.The ...