Clown, Carnival, And The Lone Sock

The garish colors seem commonplace
It is after all the Carnival
Where the awkward is on show
And despair painted on the Clown's face
One wanders into the hall of horrors
The naked you reflecting on every crevice
You point and laugh
There is you that is wide and conical
Stretched and twisted another
And then there's that one
You look, you pause, you laugh
An unsure self-depricating one
You recognize the real you
That which lies in wait to be claimed
Quite like the Lone Sock
After many cycles of wash and dry
Has lost its other somewhere
And now lies on top of the laundry
Inevitably finding its way
Pushed way back in the dresser
Remaining quite forgotten
Till you one day walk in
Looking for a pair to mismatch
Specifically
Hands reaching all the way to the back
And soon you have the war paint on
You are to make people laugh
Thats what Clowns do.

Of Scrapbooks, Closure

He felt his love stayed unrequited,
As he continued to flip through,
Another page, another story
Strangers' sagas and intimate conversations.
There were many small inside jokes,
And he checked the dates,
Wondered how another's scrapbook
Becomes another's salvation.
Maybe this would give some closure he thinks,
Ponders why she never showed up that day,
Or the next.
Was it to be another shaky movie premise?
Cary Grant was not he,
And he continues to turn page after page,
Stood up and left to deal.
Funny, he continued to look for answers,
And for some dramatic revelation.
But another page turned,
Another chapter ended,
And that one had his name on it.

Because It Isn't.

"Goldfish do it in the privacy of their bowls", Ella croons,
'Falling in love' seems to be the tune
She swooned lovesick
Moping another woe of having been parted.
Don't hurry with your condolences,
Love departed, but hardly unrequited.
So they live their lives,
Separated by timezones,
And degrees of passion felt
Conjoined in the fact that they are
Souls redeemed, soulmates found,
Enough to make the most jaded, cruelest
To waver, and melt.
Because, other than a minor inconvenience,
Of timed phone calls,
And planned online trysts,
All seemed rosy.
Hues of youth's indiscretions.
And determined promises.
Pity though that they remain,
A fragment of imagination.
Am much of a cynic to be so naive,
To have not dawned upon the realisation,
Love so perfect,
And easy,
Without its own travails,
Is no love at all.

Part Deux

There isn't much left to wish for.
So, when you see that falling star, what is it that you do?
Do you see the realities you are forced upon everyday?
Do you grow up once again,
As quickly as you had to that one time before?
Or do you stop and make a wish anyway?
Keeping alive that child in you, the optimist, the hopeful in you?
Or do you resolve, quite determinedly this time,
That there isn't much left to wish for.

Coz life after all hasn't been that bad to you.

A Curious Shade Of Pink

Pensive, you see her think.
Shadows grow longer, memories sharper
In yellow, the black and white tinged nostalgia rises to color
A color not black, testament to mourning, but one of a curious shade of pink.

Cracks on the ceiling grow, groan and moan
Perversely longing for the next rain
And in the torrential downpour, as the cracks deepen
Shadows keeping their place, unnoticed, a few tears shed remain.

She lights another candle wishing him back,
Put aside are memories bound and thick
Not in a box coated with ageing sepia, not cloaked in black
But one of a curious shade of pink.

Picture Imperfect

She was caught unaware as she chanced upon his picture today.
After years of silence, and conversations that happened but didn’t,
After hours of cloaked meaning and naked nuances.

His picture was a shock, an aging, blurring memory brought to life.
She expected a faded recollection, its corners wrinkled.
Instead it was in color. Vibrant. A stamp of not so recent past.

He wore a silly smile like he did when he was having a great time,
He smiled so wide that his eyes would crinkle, with infectious warmth.
It was disquieting to see that smile so perfectly in place.

The goofiness, a testament of seamless movement of time
The picture, a memory from someone else’s scrapbook
Fervently looking to capture that moment again, if only through the lens.

In a picture so imperfect, otherwise, perfect.

Past Loves

After making love, he loved to light up a cigarette
He’d say, “ Lets share this one”. The afternoon
Would glisten, as if it too were shaken.

She loved to take pictures. Mostly of things, of memories
Captured in ambient inanimateness scheme of things. Of vases,
Flowers, sheets and places they had been.

He would pass her notes. Only to see the flush that would
Come on her face. He loved to make her blush and for that,
He would think of a thousand ways.

She secure in the thought of being a goddess to him, would
Still test its strength. And so would innocuously flirt with other men,
Till she saw the flicker of jealousy in him.

He called her his best friend and yet was unnerved
By the unfolding passion. With a present so overwhelming, how does
One judge a future that remains unseen?

She made plans for what lay ahead. A future she saw
With glasses rose tinted. Till she began to question the passion itself,
And what it might have never meant.

Soon they came upon a road forked, of choices divided and futures
Read. He needed time, so decided to pitch a tent. She needing to
Know soon, chose to move ahead.

Many years passed since. And with time and a sepia tint, the romance
A bit jaded. Having decided not to court regret,
Quite not unhappy with what unfolded.

Having never let a thought astray, caught unaware by a bulbous
Afternoon grey. A pause in which they would have ordinarily reflected
On all that is, all that was and obviously not.

But with, a sigh and wisdom new, they now know an aging secret.
Of how a crumpled sheet doesn’t hold memories hidden, its creases
Not the treasure chests of memories for later.

Its contours, not maps of destiny written by the romantics. They just
Mean what they are. Comfort for then, for them. Comfort for that
Moment. And the comfort that comes from sleeping in, a bit longer.

O Marrakech, Of The Paisley Clad Fool

The minstrels of Marrakech, sang a fabled tale
Of a maiden so beautiful and fair
With lips so red, like the clay from deep within
Her eyes, pools of limpid hope, hardly unseen
Searching the narrow streets for the nomad who left long ago
She saw the streets anew, as if she were a Marrakech widow.
She was widowed by the city she once knew
Now lovelorn, all of her perspective was askew
She roamed those souqs, once so vibrant and alive
Where he bought many a trinket, "something to remember me by"
Except now if you went into a souq on a weary hot afternoon
You’d see the dust hovering off the ground as if in a swoon
Begins to swirl around her as if tired of lying in wait
She makes off to the next corner in great haste
Widowed by a city she was once born to
Now unfamiliar, she was a paisley clad fool.
The minstrels of Marrakech sang a fabled tale
Of a woman of passion, and faith hale
Dressed like a Berber bride, she lied in wait
Sedate, never once having questioned her fate
The bright of the day only fortifying her love and faith
Its only with the descending dusk, it begins to abate
The Djemma El-Fna comes alive with many a twinkling light
Laughter and happy chatter as lovers stroll in soft moonlight
Smell of spices in the air, sounds of the snake charmers’ tune
In that melee of all, she wills an apparition off a sand dune
They tell her, she sits in an oasis, the desert afar
How she longs to make them see, she feels like that lone star
All she wants is her love; all else is bleak and black
So she roams the streets of Marrakech, to the beginning and back

The minstrels have long gone and the fabled tale since hushed
The city, a mecca of romance, since then, many a story of love told
But none with as much passion, unquestioned faith or a fate so cruel
Was long time ago, but if you hear a deep sigh
And a rustle of cloth as someone goes by
You have met the paisley clad fool.