Fragment I

Selfish waterworks,
Perfectly synchronized now
With my winter's heart.

A tortured Haiku

Freezing cold outside;
Inside, heat from hundred yawns.
Better out than in.

Stupid Sun

Where are you, you gormless ball of fire?
You golden-gobbed, gilt-fleshed glorified globule;
What in the deuce, if I might enquire,
Is the meaning of this disappearing act you pull?

Like hair off an ageing superstar's head,
Like a hausfrau's frown after a Botox shot,
Like the red of that haircolour that's bled,
You've gone off absurdly and frankly, lost the plot.

Mornings have been gloomy, dull and grey
Afternoons morbidly slow, sluggishly two-tone.
Creep that you are, you've suddenly gone fay,
Sneaking into some hidey-hole, some off-radar zone.

So full of gas(literally and otherwise),you old humbug,
You make promises of bliss that you shamelessly renege.
If only I could trasmogrify your Midas-touched mug,
You'd end with your beatific face beautified with egg.

Not-quite Winter Yet

Bright as a two-rupee coin fished out of a back pocket,
Silver-brushed, faintly three-dimensional.
This grey-blue, sun-spooked morning.
An old Gulmohar across the narrow street,
Scantily clad, like an anorexic South-Delhi social Czarina,
Shivers in the beastly breeze.
The struggling pine on my terrace
Beckons to it, waves in commiseration.
Trapped in a pot three sizes too small,
It sheds it's scrawny arms in silent protest.
There are no butterflies here
Only a few fat wasps,
Disoriented and far from home,
Meandering through mazes of stocky jade stems.
One little bird sits huddled on a parapet
Wings tucked in, eyes resolutely shut
Hoping, like me, to wish the sun aflame.