Day 3: Fleeting love

I was happy to receive a word today, someone wanted me to write about love. Now, though it is a much visited topic I thought of writing about fleeting love, about that little moment when being sure about something is the hardest thing to do. To the person who requested this I wish you find it in no matter what form or kind

Fleeting love

I often think of summer rain, the warmth of the day when it's cold for a while,

When all that remains are the little transitions, the changes of the day and the fading sunlight

I often think of fleeting times, of times that are short and yet endless in their ways,

Like short stories and poetry and everything that you wish would rhyme someway.

About love we write , to love we write, like the warmth of a coffee cup as I grasp the handle so cold,

About the things we often wish were free, among the many things we let go, and among the ones we hold.

The fleeting choices often come and go, among the phrases that only a few may have known,

Among the times we must decide , even if the feelings were the last thing we choose to show.

I breathe the warm day into my lungs, the shades that cover my eyes, the summer breeze that grazes,

And yet the writing that writes itself, keeps going on , the ones that never erases.

"Write to me with your story, your situation, your words , and I will write to you and for you again, till Day 4 comes, thank you for reading. "

Day 2: But it rained

It was just like any other morning. The phone beeped with an areal flood warning notification. Off course they always overestimate these things but it did mean that it was raining outside. The slow patter of rain on the glass window was now pretty distinct like knocks on the door. I looked at the time , it was 6.30 am, there was still a little more sleep to catch up with I thought. So I chose to write to the rain today,

But it Rained
I hear you at my doorstep and my windows too,
Like footsteps that come slowly and stays by my side,
Among the many reasons you change the day with simply you,
Like a weary day , like a tired soul, like an old friend you pour out, you confide

Time and again when the windows are cloudy and when it rains outside,
When I know the cold wind that blows past the empty halls sings and rhymes,
I hear the thunder say no one's name, it calls to no one and yet it makes a sound,
And among the many things we often miss, it is no where to be found

Do you hear the pitter patter of the little feet, the streets that flow like endless streams?
Like the painted picture, like the mellow song, and the gloomy day that makes you dream.
I fear not that which washes away, I fear not the things that are left behind,
But it rained no matter what I would say, just open the window shades just raise your blinds.

Day 1: Strangers on a Train

I was out for a wonderful day today, filled with tours and history of the city I live in and a story about people helping absolute strangers. Strangers on a train and kindness in those random relationships. So here's my first poem for those strangers , and to those fellow travelers

Strangers on a Train
I will always recluse myself by the edge of the seat,
Among my thoughts, my wrinkled book and the times that I refuse to pay heed

Among strangers I meet everyday, among a friend I met on a train,
Among the kindness and open doors and among the things that always remained.

We sat right next to each others, we peeped into each other's books and eyes,
Beyond the names of the books and what it entailed, beyond a reason to be ever surprised.

I shared time with the traveler, the stranger I didn't know,
And yet for some reason we spoke till there the strangeness was no where to be shown

We often find meaning in those weary times, among those we have often never met,
Like the familiar smell, the familiar food and the familiar taste that lingers with you, the ones you never forget

I wish we all met more strangers too, and yet in the very end,
We were nothing if not two pages stuck together in my book, and I wish we all end up on a train and as always, with an unknown friend.