There’s a park
Right around the corner of
Mulberry Street
There’s nothing special
About it,
Just a park
With o’ergrown thistles
And rusted lamps
Along the
Broken path-
Which had often been
A river
Between mountain benches,
Or a valley
Under lava attack
Traced with chalk powder,
We skipped on stones
To escape.
A broken path
With broken things,
That led from nowhere
To nowhere.
I was happy to go nowhere then.
I still might be.
There’s a swing set too
And a see-saw
And a slide
Beside a monkey bar,
From where we ruled
A happy kingdom
Each evening
Singing bibidy bop,
As we scribbled
Our names on the swing
Scrapes of red paint
Sticking inside fingernails.
And I wonder
Who sits on
The throne
We abandoned
Long ago.
There’s gravity
That I can see
In here,
And yet I levitate
To a time
When three #friends
Two ditsy girls
And one shy boy,
Sat atop metal bars
Discussing
Pokemons
And beyblades.
Even without phones,
They would always know
Where to find
Each other
At half past five.

It’s half past five now
By a broken swing set
With tunes
Of bibbidy bop
Humming
In an abandoned park
In Mulberry Street,
And as I stand up
To leave,
Three children
Two chirping boys
And one little girl
Trailing behind,
Enter through
the creaky gateway
Of their kingdom,
And in reflex,
I look towards
Our scribbled names
Only to see
That they remain
In spite of time,
Saved perhaps
By three little children.
I smile
And take the broken path
Once again,
Turning around
And sneaking glances
At the three little children,
That now sit on
The metal bars,
Until I turn the corner
Of Mulberry Street.

#friend #yqbaba

Follow my writings on https://www.yourquote.in/radhika-sharma-9eq/quotes/ #yourquote

I am

I am fresh dew drops over cold windshields on sullen wintry daybreaks

I am Sunday morning coffee served in bed with extra cream,

I am Midsummer Night’s Dream, a couch and a blanket on wild stormy days

I am not a three-course meal in a fancy restaurant,But

I am homemade candlelight dinner at midnight after a long work day.

I am a month long poetic spell, with the right amount of emotion elixirs and word potions.
I am comfort. I am calm. I am cold. I am warmth.
I am the light that emerges from within your eyes when the bulbs go out,

I am the hue of petrichor rising from a parched earth,  

when monsoon lets down it’s gaurd.

I am the sound of a flute when hard rock starts hurting your ears.

I am a muslin cloth against a coarsed skin

I am an ocean,

reflecting and refracting light,

translucent in the day and coloured at night,

perpetually moving

and yet, unmoved.
I am acceptance. I am glow. I am spirit. I am strength.
I am the colour brown,

and not the latte or the cocoa brown that is devoured by men,

I am the colour of earth,

I am silt, that brings life to reapers.

I am dust, that rises for droplets to coalesce around and fall as rain.

I am clay, that takes shape on a potter’s wheel to tend to dearth,

I am sand, that adorns a soldier’s forehead before entering a battlefield.

I am the Sita who never waited for Ram to come,

And yet,

I am also Sati, and parts of me have been burned for far too long,

Charred by the soot,

Mucked by the ash,

I am black now.
I am hurt.

I am scarred,

Still,

I survive.

Because I know

I am my pair of ghungroo, striking the hard floor at all the correct beats and

I am my feet that balances me perfectly on hundreds of one-foot turns.

I am my diary, dissolving in the numbness of my being and

embracing the ink flowing out of my pen.

I am my pain,

That eventually leaves.

I am my breathe

That stays.
I am alive.

And,

I am willing to show you why.

I am regret.

I am power.

I am hope.

I am myself, in all the conjectures and bones.

And I am an endless expanse of I am’s:

I am Countless and indecipherable,

Like the number line stretching from minus infinity to infinity.

And only fools think that

I am measurable.

I am the soul:

Eternal and absolute.
But for now,

I will tell you this

that,

I choose to be confined

by my mother’s dal,

by my father’s scolds,

by rare hugs.

I choose to be finite

in the fleeting moments

when someone spends them on me.

I choose to be bounded,

by love.

Love

My mother told me once,

That lovers see a different moon

than those who never loved.

It glows a little more for them,

and the moonlight caresses

the curves and crevices of their bodies

to take their image on a misty white film.

She said, the moon plays a photographer

For lovers, far away.
I stagger onto your silhouette

when I look at the moon tonight,

The lady of the night

blooms on a distant wall,

fragrance and serendipity linger in the air,

indistinguishable from the cologne

you used to have on your neck.

I close my eyes and dig deep into both, 

As I used to do.

And yet, when I open them,

I know the moon and these flowers

are battered liars,

And you are no more mine to see

Or touch

Or feel,

But how can you not be mine to love?
I wonder if the moon knew this all along,

That I was never loved the same amount.

Not even half,

I don’t know if I can trust the moon,

Ever again.
I can feel magma coursing through my blood,

in a body of daunting hills and dainty valleys,

Ancient ruins are etched deep 

on a soul charred by neoteric decieves​,

And yet,

The luminescence of the moon,

Still enlightens the temple of Cupid inside my body,

On some nights.

But I don’t​ visit this temple anymore.

And even when I do,

I stand in the archway

to burn memories in front of his alter,

And when the black fumes from the flame go up 

To touch the roof,

I wonder if Cupid was never an angel,

But a demon fallen on Earth.

After all,

Love is the most savage monster.

And if it is so,

Who is more evil-

Cupid or the moon?

Or worse,

The man I loved? 

Gubbare


Khushiyan alag alag rangon mein aati hain,

Kal hii ek narangi khushi

mujhe apne gaanv ke santaron ki yaad dila gayi,

Aur Lal, meri maa ki maang mein lage uss rang ki,

Jisko aksar main apne haathon mein lekar khela karta tha.

Aur phir aaj hi ek ladki ne mujhse peele aur neele rang ki khushi khareedi,

Maano usse baarish ke baad khile

Uss aasmaan ke rangon ko dekhne ki jaldi thi.
Do rupayi ki yeh khushi,

Bade chhote golon mein aati hai.

Jebon ki mehmaan hai ye,

Mujhe kuch ameer kar, aur gareeb kar jaati hai.

Gar kisi roz

Kismat meherbaan ho, inn jebon ka maalik bana deti hai

toh shayad main bhi Company Park ke saamne khade

Ek bachche se ye phugge khareed lun,

Aur kya pata,

Shayad mai bhi tab inn phuggon ko gubbare bulane lag jaun.
Mai yeh aksar socha karta hun,

Ki helium se bhare woh phugge

Jo udd gaye, woh asal mein jaate kahan hain?

Jab galti se koi dor mere haathon se chhoot jaati hai,

Toh meri nazrein tab tak uska peecha karti hain,

Jab tak woh baadalon ki parchhai ke peechhe chhup nahi jaate,

Ek sukoon sa milta hai unhee dekhne mein,

Maano zehen ki ek khushi,

ko aazaad kar dia ho.
Tumhe sach bataun,

Toh aksar bina galti ke hii iss dor ko chhod deta hun.

Tumhe sach bataun,

Toh Khushiyan bohot hain mere paas,

Par aksar ye khwaish rehti hai,

Ki kaash inn khushiyon se main khush ho pata.

Yellow

For Arunima
On amber blue mornings,

Sunlight reflects back from your

Painted nails with chipped tips,

And filters from the gaps between your teeth onto your tongue,

So I ask you,

How does sunshine taste?

And covering a bumpy smile against your flawless lips,

You answer,

It tastes yellow,

Not like a lime yellow, but a custard yellow

in a vanilla coated mouth.
I will remember you in custard.
I learned at school

that one part red mix one part green

makes the colour that I hated:

Yellow

I learned at life

that love was a bloody red

and compromise was a glorious green,

But,

I learned from you,

That loving was a mix of both

And so, loving was yellow,

the kind of yellow witnessed at dawn with a little red, a tinge of purple

like God’s own canvas against an appalling battleground

quenching the eyes’ thirst for spirit,

so that your ardor is your armour now,

And axioms a sword

To take on a bleak cosmos

And make it into a parasiadical one.
I will remember you in the mixing pallette, a canvas and loving the world.
Did I ever tell you, that your laugh reminds me of cinnamon rolls

garnished with yellow honey,

it is hard earned,

so that when I have it, i savour each granule of saccharine,

and its not just me,

Everytime you laugh, a yellow flower blooms in some garden,

And in your yellow heart, you know this secret,

so you make people laugh,

And that’s how there are valleys of 

red and blue and purple and pink flowers,

with the yellow one shining the brightest amongst all.
I will remember you in cinnamon rolls and flowers.
You are not a factory made shining white page,

With blotched ink marks,

And violent nib movements from angry writers etched on your soul,

Instead you are the yellow parchment paper,

with years and years of carved manuscripts,

In requiem for a reader to read articulated versions of your being,

for a singer to sing the lyrical symphonies,

Or chuck that,

If i know you decorously,

You will be the reader in the mornings

And the singer at nights,

Playing an ukulele and singing a song called ‘Yellow’,

better than Coldplay ever could.

You are not someone’s song. Not a symmetry.

Not a thought. And never someone’s victory.

You are the girl that contains the power,

To create and destroy each one of these chromatic dreams.

And you know so inside your heart.
I will remember you in parchment papers and ukuleles.
I often see you

as a yellow anchor

that balances a sinking ship,

but more often

I see you

as a pheonix that chose to be yellow

and flew through a town with crumbling statues

to resurrect hope burried under the remnants of a dying sun,

whose tears fall on ashes of a burned hearth in a ruined home,

to give birth to another pheonix,

that a little boy of the town can call his own.

You tell me that judgements are for black judges to pass,

And accepting validation is for white cowards.

You show 

the little girl with insecurities

And a chicken heart hiding her flakiness,

trying hard to cover her yellow with glitters,

You show her 

that there’s yellow behind every heart of gold.

And for that,

she will be grateful to you, forever.
She will remember you in an anchor, a pheonix and golden.

But mostly, she will remember you in yellow.

Going places


There’s a story that needs telling

Like any other legend of time,

There once was a horseman calling

Out to the dusky skylight.
He said he was a traveller

Who craved paths and desolation

When in actual, he was a proud cavalier

Who never wanted a camaraderie or a destination.
But, here he is today, stranded

In an expanse of lonesomeness,

Besides grief, the only thing he befriended

Was apprehension from himself and bitterness.
And so he calls out to the sky to help

Him out of a devil’s trap,

But even the stars couldn’t respond to his yelp

And cries, to provide him a map.
And so he galloped day and night,

On his black as beetle horse,

But soon he ran out of might,

And there was nothing left except remorse.
He died doing what he loved to do,

Which was to run away from places

But, he stopped loving it and got his cue

To return, only it was too late.
I remember this tale from long ago,

And wondered what it meant,

Until I was the one running around, never too slow,

Never a home for postcards to be sent.
And after that,

Going places did not make sense to me,

When every place was a place to go and then to leave.

A brief Metro romance

it’s odd how romances are born each day

in unexpected places

in slightly unbelievable people

involuntarily and yet

in all the senses, so when

i look up from the desolate poem i was writing

in the metro that i took,

incidently, my stations turned out be the superset

in which your station and destination falls,

i notice you sitting there,

in front of the person to my right

in the perfect place for side glances to make sense

i notice you with your messy hair, brown shoes and all

immersed in a book that

i am trying too hard to guess. You are

intriguing to me, like a mystery

in a moment that needed my attention, a saga like

Illiad waiting to be summoned by my voice, like an

incantation of my last love, giving me a  second chance, 

i look at you for far too long before

i realise it, so just as

i am lowering my gaze , your

immensely dark eyes meet mine and

i don’t blink for a long while, my eyes almost

immiscible in the liquid gaurding your eyes and

in that moment,

i wished, this train would reduce the norms of time to become an 

invincible journey, where we were just passengers

iterating scenes and acts of this moment that we created.

I snap myself out of the stare and you follow, yet

i am guilty of stealing glances through the journey that followed,

i guess you did too,

if only one had the guts to talk to the other, rather than

imagining scenarios that are

impossible now,

i swear i could have imagined us together too

introducing my favourite beverage to you on coffee dates,

intoxicated beyond repair by a singular touch,

indifferent to two earphones, a double pinner and one

ipod, playing the perfect song.

interesting, isn’t it? How the mind manages to

imagine a person like it wants him to be, 

in black and white, and yet there you were, not a monochromatic

insinuation, not a mirage, but a guy

indistinct from the crowd, found and then

in an action of getting up,

in a short walk,

in a ting of the opening door,

in a very short glance,

in an obsolete moment, lost again.

I know i will forget you too soon, but for now,

i incessantly search for you in unknown faces, and even

if i give up looking for you one of these days, know that

i illustrated you with all my poetic ability here, although

i want you to know that you brought out my

inability too, when all my attempts seemed futile:

I have heard people say that words spoil moments and feelings sometimes,

I want them to know that feelings spoil words too, As,

i couldn’t finish writing this poem while you were sitting

in front of me,

infact i still feel

it’s incomplete, just like our story.