i remember my slippers, being your new home. i held you in my palm, and you felt so warm, for you were too tiny to holD.
they said, dogs are maniacs, and they make your house dirty. but i learnt from you, that i am no less, even when things are hard to express, even when i am at mess, because that's how you have always been. even though a lot messy, you know how to love me madly. you are always jumping around and you never let the house be lonelY.
if i were to be grounded for months or weeks, i wouldn't mind it, with you on my side. and only if you were to accompany, i wouldn't care being trapped a thousand miles away. because sweetheart without you , I can't know how to survive a daY.
Your smile is a virus, Because it passes through, From one person to another, All over the world and then, It comes back to you. More the smiles you give, And more are the smiles, That you get in return. The person walking by, Will wear your smile all day, And to someone else, It's gonna be passed. In a world like today, A person you see smiling, Isn't enough to say he's happy, But It will bring on more positivity. You can think of the day, When the whole world unknowingly smiles, And Its your smile on their faces. They are wearing your smile about which, even you would be unaware. Happiness could be a disease or an addiction too, You can be responsible to spread it like flu.
(Two poets are writing letters to each other. Neither of them know each other, where they live, who they are, what they love and what poetry is for them. Here's a part of one of their daily letters.)
I oar a boat sailing on the tranquil ocean of violent turbulence with the waves hitting back-forth between my melancholy and your smiles. Each time your tears hidden in your words, like dew drops on gossamers, wet the nadir of my heart, I set out for a voyage to find the rarest of the metaphors in this milky way; you're a raconteur whose biography paints a waterfall of vehemences in me and I end up being a nubivagant itinerant in your skies.
I have preserved all the letters you wrote in my memories and I become a numinous sonder. Hadn't we presumed of living in our smultronställe? Was it afloat on the waves of a lake, on the clouds, on laps of tender green leaves or on laps of brown vintage paper?
Today, I held the moon as the mirror and I saw some bruises on its surface which reformed into a young immortal rabbit with creamy white fur. The mangata commanded me to write you a letter of gratitude and here I'm, staring at the dustiness of abandoned paper and reading the anecdotes from your eyes. Aside the paper, there's a broken quill lying on its death bed, my wooden table, and I somehow end up conveying condolences to it, as I realize that no more will poetry bloom within this room; forever detachment from the beloved is the most painful sonnet ever.
Thank you - two words, two syllables, which eternally wind into each other. They settle the chaos in the minds of a perplexed traveller, haven't you written to me? You had added that they were the drops of regret which fell on your arms from the flowers of poetry bloomed in your garden and burnt your skin. So here I'm, letting my tercets shed drops of repentance and gratitude on you, but this time, to heal your wounds.
To begin with, you are the most humble passenger I met in my journey, you climbed on to my cart when I was down with desolation. You touched my soul and wiped off my tears. You cried to hell when I was injured and let the pain ooze away from me; you poured it into you.
Thank you for being my one-member family when all I was left with was a pen to write with and a paper to write upon. Thank you for being my friend who came as the moon-light when darkness evaded my days and the sunrays which lit by dark nights of life.
Thank you for watering the sapling of poetry I sent you and thank you for gifting me back, its full-fledged flowers. Thank you for being in place of my parents and giving birth to poetry in me when I was stuck in a blackhole of sorrows at a time.
Haiku is a short form of Japanese poetry consisting of 17 syllables arranged in three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables respectively. Originally, the subject matter of haiku was objective description of nature.
Autumn as you know is one of the most beautiful seasons and artists keep expressing their love for this season through various means.