Memory Lane

My memory lane, a golden field

Dry and dusty the golden leaves

Beckon to me as I slowly stride

'Oh! You have been away for quite a while.'

Long ago when I tread on them,

Full of grace, the field was green

The fruitful foliage that sung of spring,

Were as robust as I had been.

But as I grew busier, I found

The woods grieved with no one around.

The blooms did shrivel, the thorns slyly smiled,

Without the walker, the lonely walk sadly sighed.

Not in dreams, nor in day

Could I enter my memory way.

The flowers withered, fell the leaves

In them, captured my memories.

Tired from working all day long,

Free from hardships, fret and pain.

As an activity now I prefer,

To stroll down the whispering lane.

WREEK KUNDU

16/12/12

A Poem/ 2012

I have plans for that day

On a chair I shall sit, facing the window

Open to the still sky beyond

To count the idle patch of clouds before I sleep.

My diary I will clasp it to my heart

Open to this page, reading these words

Of the poem I longed to read.

When thus I shall freeze along every one

This page shall freeze, so shall these words.

Yet its fossils like echoes will sound throughout 

an endless darkness

cold and quiet.

Waiting for the reunion of the five elements of life.

Wreekk

The Piano Never Counts

My mother asked me

To play to her the piano,

Every night;

She said, she loved

To hear her son

Play the piano.

The same song every day,

I played.

Shifting no scale,

Changing no chords,

But to my mother it was,

 Another song, every night.

The piano got dusty,

Yet it sounded mesmerizing to my mothers ears;

Because it was again, to her

 Another song;

Even when the piano got dusty.

Soon, I gave my concert.

Before the town. In

A lavish hall, on

A lavish stage, with

A brand new piano,

Offered by the premises.

                                                                                                                      

     And yes, the same song I played,

And yes, to my mother who sat in the front row,

It seemed like yet another song;

Even on a different piano.

Today, on her death bed, she lies; waiting for some one to soothe her.

So I shall play to her,

The same song, on

The same piano;

The dusty, antique piano which,

Would sound even more enchanting,

To her ears; because

To my mother the song sounds,

New every day;

Gives her utmost pleasure, to watch

Her son play……

And the piano never counts, the piano never counts.