The Open Window

I leave the window by my study ajar.
Now, the monkeys take a liking to my cookie jar.
Pigeons across the street wade in
and exotic birds flock from far.
While butterflies at peace, rest on my flowers,
the caterpillars climb the bookish towers.
A woodpecker just pecks at my feet,
a monkey scratches my crown at all hours.
I sleep like the dead after the day's errands
and at dawn am awaken by the squirrels' rants.
On my table they all spin and dance
and devour the pickle of my aunt's.
My window lies forever open,
to the Gulmohar gardens beyond.
Yet the parrots find much amazing
nibbling fervently the chilies off my hand.
Not that no one keeps their windows agape,
The rotten old spinster above and the dreamy painter in a cape.
I guess it's all about the aura of inviting,
a crowded table filled with things one would crave.
Yet, I feel I don't have much to offer,
puzzles for the monkeys, leaf juice for the hopper,
the parrots like the chilies and, the pigeons love a quiet corner.
The butterflies though, just flutter about
chasing their shadows on the walls which
change their colors by time and enrich.

The Winning Book

I was scared of reading the Nobel novels
Scared, might not get a thing
wondered how he thought it be
the flow of the river, the sway of a tree
pondered how he put it on
a loved song, a dance at dawn
would every read end a dread
or a loving sweet memory instead.
I learned it then from my folks
who read and read round the clock
“Wouldn’t spend again on a winning book-
cause the mighty time last time it took.”
And hence I dismissed without demur
each fat book I saw for the bookworm’s tour.
 But, of course the march of time
poured in me, many thoughts sublime.
The gift of writings a Nature’s boon
that ends with the fall of men pretty soon.
Yet, to their eyes they are all alike
but put differently as they might like.
I only gathered it all when
to me the sword was weaker than the pen
and my fret to read the victor novel ceased
when I summoned guts and finally read , pleased
That he thinks equally how it would be-
the flow of the river and the sway of a tree.  
And the lovely song rings on and on
mingles, with the dance at dawn.