Author Archives: Rahul Aithal

About Rahul Aithal

I am from Mumbai, India. Composing poems gives me immense pleasure. Few poetic sites I write on are - poemhunter.com, poeticvoice.ning.com, poetfreak.com and, recently Avant-Garde-Writer's Haven (on Facebook). You could browse my other writes on my private blog, rahulaithal.blogspot.com. I am glad to have joined this site, thanks to Louis. I hope to add value and get the group going.

The Wise

I would like to see no evil around

but alas! cannot close these eager eyes. 

And how could I ever be honour bound

for the truth that glitters is disguised lies. 

I have closed my ears to the evil sound

but the blares of the devil are so loud. 

I try to be deaf but their echoes hound,

and they are but the laments of the crowd. 

I wish no evil from my tongue should roll

for there is much to be said and cautioned. 

But my words lay silently in the soul,

and the ills roam unscathed, unquestioned. 

So blame me not in this life of disguise- 

help me decipher the wise from the vice. 

Sweater

The wool of the sheep lying in her lap,

my mother would make me a warm sweater.

The long thin needles would then go snap-snap

with a smile blessing the coming weather.

Her hands would knit, the emotions would churn,

a steaming cup of coffee idled by.

The spool of memories unrolled and spun,

threads of the past to let the present fly.

Sometimes I watched as she silently stitched.

The design of her thoughts would calmly fit.

Where all my patience would constantly itch,

her piece of art would glow but bit by bit.

At times I wish all seasons to be cold-

just to wear my yellow sweater of old.

The Magic Cube


Life is a cube of intriguing puzzles

splashed with vibrant colours and weird patterns.

Sometimes its winding lanes tend to hustle

for unaware of what lies at each turn.

Either you find it as roads of stumbles

or little picturesque pieces of maze.

Sometimes it is a jumble of pebbles

or a riddle that will tease and amaze.

As the paths assemble and colours merge,

life will sparkle with a new dimension.

New layers of designs will soon emerge,

and solve your ever mysterious questions.

Let the cube of life juggle in your hand-

time will side with only those who take a stand.

Image

You cannot digest what speaks the mirror,

and feverishly search to mend the damage.

You blame it for it reflects your errors,

and portrays not your new made-up image.

So you snap, click and edit your photo-

colours to present a different picture.

Camouflaged with layers from head to toe,

hiding the soul but flashing the texture.

You caption this frame to further enhance,

peppered with a sweet voice to go along.

In hope to upraise the societal stance

but unaware where you truly belong.

But soon this drama and dice go backstage-

you call the mirror for a pure image.

Butterfly And Bee

I would want to be a pink butterfly

basking in the yellow morning sunshine.

I would flap my colourful wings to fly,

and hop from flower to flower to dine.

Or rather I live as a honey bee,

and make the golden liquid of pleasure?

I will disguise it from those eyes greedy,

and shall use my sting to guard the treasure.

But a honey bee buzzes all the while-

for people like us who steal her nectar.

And the poor butterfly is so docile

that it lives to please us like an actor.

If ever fate gives me a choice of role-

I would not know on which path I would roll.