It was a long hot summer’s night,

Somewhere along the milestones cried a flickering light.

Fireflies beneath the stars,& the whistle of a distant train,

I fell in love with you walking down the memory lane.

The patient dewdrops appreciate the petals,

While the voyeuristic time seizes to settle.

Many moons have passed since it’s last wax and wane,

Holding hands and whispering the precious mundane,

As the steam blows from the kettle,

Passion nudges my mind and softly nestles,

As the breeze sways the waves so high,

A kiss is not a kiss without your sigh.

Once a beautiful portrait picture,

Life took a new canvas, a new aperture,

The colors were crude,

The mood never understood.

Screeching wails of the bleeding wheels,

Reckless blood disturbed the delicate heels.

The shocked pebbles and muted greens,

Witnessed the tragic scene.

Her dying eyes hoped in vain,

The slowing beats and numbing pain.

Her lips quivered, though lifeless she lay,

A hit-and-run the newspapers say.

It was a long hot summer’s night,

I saw my love in a new light,

In a new place on a new moon night,

We looked down and saw the earth shining bright.

Gyanban Thoughts – Every year the number road-rage accidents incease.Hit and run cases are the most insensitive ones.These few lines are dedicated to all those people who lost their loved ones in such accidents.And probably,and hopefully a thought inducing one,for some who were or might have been involved in such a situation.Let us all be a bit more careful, a bit more responsible,because you never know what the next bend beckons -life or death?

The woods were dark, deep and dense.The starlit sky hummed a tune so intense.They watched the firefly’s dance to the dew’s romance #love

Lips meet the lips unmet, aroma of the untouched rosette.#Virgin sequoias swayed with grace,fingers meander leaving a trace #ufascinateme

Close to the dancing lights,I stood watching in my voyeuristic plight.Her fragrance ignited my heart alight.She was to be mine tonight.#FML

Crimson dawn cloaks the starlit night,devoured flesh canvassed fright.

Crimson dawn cloaks the starlit night,devoured flesh canvassed fright.Memories flash,as moment’s lapse.Feelings trapped,my love gasped.

As the throat slit,her redness yelped in vain.The gash and gnash and the bloody vein.Arms danced in a mystic rhapsody,melancholy strain.

Her breast breathed so low,lips mellow.The dove flew from the scathing slew.Gentle drops of blood left a trace,replacing tears on my face.

The serum flows like a soothing melody,drop by drop enters my body.I lay on the table strapped;my heartbeats pound as the devil clapped.

Gyanban Thoughts – This is a story written keeping the twitter word limit in mind.These are 7 tweets of 140 characters or less each.I would like to mention here, that the effort to write a story in the form of poetry was a deliberate attempt, but restricting it to tweet limit was even more fun,and should I say more challenging.There is a clear and strong story line with an intro,body and conclusion.There is an element of screenplay as well. The element of narration from the main protagonist builds the storyline.

The story is narrated by a dying man on the execution table.His memories flas by as the lethal injection slowly enters his body.

A crime of passion or a passionate crime ?

Nick hovered around Jenny’s bed trying to figure out if she was asleep. She had her face buried in a pillow, but he could hear soft mumbles.

“Are you still up?” He asked softly.

She sat right up. ”I-I’ll call you back,” she said over the phone and turned her flaming eyes towards Nick.  ”What?”

“Who were you talking to? Its late.”

“None of your business. Isn’t it past your bed time?”

“Oh-kay. You don’t have to be like that. I need your help.”

“Oh Nick, what have you done now?”

“Nothing. Just valentines day is coming up.”

“So? You wanted to ask me what I want?”

“What? Um.. yes. Of course. That too. But see…,” he looked down and moved his feet around, “you’re a girl….”

“I’m so hoping you didn’t just realize that!”

“I mean. You’re a girl and you’d know what other girls like, right?”

“Oo-oo! Way to go lil’ brother! So who are these ‘other girls’?”

“Just ‘other girl’. What should I give her on valentines day?’

“Well, we like shoes, and hand-bags, and pretty dresses and jewelery. You know like the ring Dad got mom this year. Something shiny.”

“Where am I going to get money for that kinda stuff? I’m twelve!”

“Where are you going to get money for anything?”

“Well, I thought you’d help me out a bit.”

“How much is ‘a bit’?”

He brought out his best puppy dog expression. “All of it”.

“Now why would I do a thing like that for you?”

“I’ll ask Dad for any birthday gift that you would want. And I’ll give it to you. Promise.”

“Interesting. Okay, its a deal. You’ll ask him for an i-phone”

“I don’t even have a-phone. He’d never get me that.”

“i-pad it is then. He wants one for himself. So he’ll get you that to look good. But since, it’ll be your gift, it’ll be kept in your room. By your room, I mean my room. We might even be able to guilt him to buy some apps for us. Just make sure to bring out these puppy-dog eyes of yours that you are showing me, when you ask for it. And some tears, if needed.”

“You’re genius.”

“Evil genius, Nick. Evil. Genius.”

“I was just being polite.”

“Watch it. So forget everything I said. You should start small. We always expect something better each year. So its better not to overdo it the first time. Here’s 20 bucks. Take her to a movie.”

“What about pop-corn?”

“Okay, here’s 10 more.”

“And coke?”

She bent forward and stared into his eyes.

“You’re scaring me.” He managed.

“I’m just re-assessing whether you actually are an idiot or have just been acting that way all along. Here’s another five. I’m not giving you a penny more.”

“Thanks Jenny. You’re the best.”

“I can tell a lie when I see one.”

“Okay, you’re not-so-bad.” He ran towards his room.

“Just remember the deal – Eyes and tears. Eyes.And Tears.”

He sat, head halo’d in wispy smoke, and considered the stacks of brochures in front of him. His eyes panned side to side over the bright colors, pupils as glazed as the glossy photos on the brochures. He only had to choose a location and a hotel, but none stood out from the others.

Pastel walls and patterned bedspreads, with off white pillow cases, all surrounded by cheap and indistinct artwork and uniform furniture. What possible attraction was he supposed to feel towards any of that? Each hotel was just a different amalgation of the same parts, and each location was only a vague promise of formulaic tourist experiences, set with a different exotic background and wardrobe.

Idly, his fingers drummed at the underside of the table, and he took a deep drag off his cigarette, kicking the ashes off with a flick of his finger. The movement caught his own eye, and he looked at his fingers, and thought about her fingers in his. He saw her lithe joints, as the smooth skin traced the back of his hand and the glint of light reflecting off the stone in the ring.

And he wondered. He wondered if he was really ready to be married, to be an equal in matrimony. He wondered if he could handle it. He wondered if his dad was proud of him, or just merely placated at his choices. He wondered if, or when, he ought to consider his life successful. He wondered, more then anything, what choice would make his wife to-be happiest; Florida, Hawaii, or England. Or Paris. Or… He wondered.

He smashed the cigarette down in the ash tray and ran his hand through his hair. How much did it matter, this far along in the proceedings, whether he felt prepared or not.

You broke my walls

and stormed inside

My ego dropped

from highest height

You broke my guard

and made me fall

in love with you

and that wasn’t all

You broke my greed

You broke my pride

Broke my flight

and made me glide

You broke my dusk

You broke my dawn

And fixed a man

I gave up on.

All there on a beach we sang,

Danced and so did the dark spaces on the sand.

Moving with me, finely cut out under the sun,

They had no qualms as I, liked the run.

Queer animals I drew on the wall,

That flew and barked till lighted was the hall.

Laughing them off, I turned to another curtain,

That had a fine outline of a lady who did refrain.

Tangible circles and slender fingers set her hair

That fell cascading, would have been for a fare.

Walked, I in a moonlit night.

Stretched from my feet till my sight,

A shaded patch, until I marked my jacket latch.

Me, spread on the street, but my eyes didn’t match.

All obscure, thankfully my tears n grins didn’t matter.

But the silhouette kept following for the better.

Back sometime in bright sunlight as I looked;

Funny shaped ovals ran through my book.

And funnily I gazed at my ruffled hair,

Earphones oddly fixed into my ear.

Later, three orbited to my left on the street;

Sharpening in turns, converging at my feet.

Shadows, thanks to each passing bulb dangling,

Darkened, to fade out with a step, past future and the lingering.

Past, future and the lingering I thought,

Stared and looked at what my gait brought.

The play of the lamps in line and my pace,

Paced, as three needles of a clock, at equal space.

A barking dog distracted me,

And lost I, my shaded trinity

Her eyes closed the door to her soul-
A door that opened only for him.
Her beautiful blue eyes were lined with kohl,
But he could only see them filled to the brim

He never understood the longing of hers,
The want of having him close,
The nights of love in cold Decembers,
The passionate patch-ups after loud rows.

He thought he understood what she said
Even as she silently gazed at evening birds.
Their silent conversations misled;
The feelings needed words

They vowed to wipe off the fantasized memories
And said an unspoken goodbye.
He never believed in fairies;
But future, for her, was to merely on fate rely.

The vow was broken, thoughts kept flooding
As they gazed at shiny dewdrops.
Miles apart they were living
Joint only by her swiftly fading hopes.

As she awoke one morning,
Fate answered her teary calls;
Emotions in her dying self went soaring.
Years without him were just full of falls.

He never thought he would see her again
Much less while dressed in his white coat.
The strength in his feet seemed to drain
He could now see his life gloat.

They time they had wasted was not to come
But he would keep holding her hand now
Through the rest of life, their song he promised to hum
As before death she took her last bow…

She watched him through the kitchen window as he worked.

The blade of the hoe moved sharply, with precision, sliding under the topsoil to cut the weeds off at the root. There were few men his age in the city that could match her husband’s build, could match his thick shock of wiry hair. Broad shoulders, narrow wait, hard and heavy hands.  Built by work, cultivation, the weight of years of sod and stone.

A bowl of chopped onions, cilantro and minced serrano chilies sat next to the cutting board, waiting for her chop and add the brick-red tomatoes he had picked not even an hour ago. All of it from their garden, all of it gown by him who labored six days a week in the gardens of others just to spend half of the seventh tending his own. She drew the knife across the first tomato as she drifted back to the first time she saw him, cliff diving with his younger brother to the howls and gasps of tourists in Acapulco.

He was muscular even then, deeply tanned, grimly serious as he traced the ebb and flow of the waves to time his death-defying leaps. Oaxaca, she half-dreamt. When there were violets in my hair and the borrachos fell over themselves to offer me a song. She had come to the coast with her mother to visit a sick uncle when she spotted him. He dove all day for American dollars, and at night he spent them in the cantinas, dancing and taking every girl for her turn with him on the floor. Only once he would say, bowing, and when he kissed my cheek and took my hand and danced with me two times in a row, then three, I knew we would always dance with each other. What can I promise you? he’d asked her, the night of their first dance, and she had answered him: A garden. Promise me a garden, always, and I will promise you my love. And he told her I promise you a garden, always, and later he promised her America.

And now here they were in the home he bought her, built with his sweat and hung with his laughter, their children grown and married. Their children, who would be at the door in a matter of hours with their own children, a garden of smiling faces and round bellies and outstretched arms. As she dropped the tomatoes in the bowl and squeezed a wedge of lemon over it, stirring, she watched him working still, keeping his promise. Their back yard was small, but even so he pressed and kneaded and drew up corn and beans and vegetables, and flowers for her, always flowers, while all the neighbors scratched their heads and fought to keep their grass green. On the radio there was mariachi, and it was summer, and down the back of his shirt a wet V fell steadily from his neck like a cliff diver. So shall I keep my promise, she thought, rapping crisply on the glass and waving to him. He turned to her there and nodded, giving her a wink, shaking the soil from the hoe and mopping his face with the front of his shirt.

She wound the tips of two fingers through the juice and tomato pulp on the cutting board and let them rest between her lips for a long moment. Oaxaca, she smiled, when I was nineteen and taut and every gray hair on my father’s head. Her family had tried to warn her off, half a lifetime ago, but his eyes shone like moonlight on water and are still shining, and we knew then what they could not know. She undid the loose knot and opened up her dress to the window, where her husband was stomping his boots and collecting his tools, not looking up. She pulled a violet from the vase on the counter and slid it behind her ear.

For our age we are built well, she thought, turning to meet him as he would come through the door.