babitha marina justin

Not once, but
Many times
I bore my dad’s
Imprints
...

morning
filters
through
the door
...

I smelt the sea
(fish, salt and rut
under the indigo sky)
her blue canopy
...

After Aerosmith

I want to tell them
that the last oranges of the season
...

Today morning
I saw a mosquito
burrow deep into
my father’s arm
...

For them
My brother was political
and I was personal,
Science was his passion,
...

I want to write a happy poem
Maybe
about the pond in the backyard
still as Walden, changing colour
...

yawns
aching hearts
incessant
droll of chaiwallahs
...

there was a limp
a slouch and shivering hands.
age catching up with
a man whose youth was
...

no fixéd plans
no intentions to arrive
yet, a traveller
writer of verses
...

after a winter sprig
of mild mist, moonshine
and drum beats from
the heart of the hills;
...

my lips touched
the brim of death
I almost started
loving you
...

Chikram
the one who sounds the drums
in the ripples of rivulets,
wanderer,
...

yesterday
I woke up with the mist
of sad mornings
shrouding my senses
...

you have lost your innocence
to say you love me
love comes with conditions
for you.
...

landscapes
jog with me
during my
long journeys;
...

this winter sheen
insulated the chill
golden stalks
snapped to
...

I know you died years
Before I was washed down
My mothers gullet
Still I could make you my own
...

Ah! Brave New world
Of centralized air conditions, PPPs, director meetings coated with the soggy taste of biscuits, washed down with tea scalding my tongue.
Endless discussions on syllabus, optics, combustion, spectroscopy, vector spaces
Gobbledegooks
...

as a child
later as an adult
in the wild hills
swooping down
...