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Echoes of past
Sounds that had been
Touches once in lust
Now nothing
 
Ah, you are not dead in a sense
Your eyes had read these very prints
Much of my eyes I got from your genes
Many see in it your glint
 
Once glimmer of gold
As she would say
Now of bronze a little old
The iris in dismay
 
I go through in delight
What you had once read
Feels how were your day and night
What you loved green or red
 
Your handwritten notes in margin
Those acute angled alphabets
Is the evidence of my beginning
Burnt holes on some pages, of my cigarettes
 
And that too your brand
The brown rings of capstan
Under the feet loose sand
Your warmth in my hand

I too love to underline
As I read my favourite books
Copious notes of mine
Almost identical looks
 
I do feel the soft leaf
Of your palm on my cheek
A cloud of brief grief
In the dark, something do I seek?
 
The dictionary you used
I love to consult very often
The smokes you abused
A feature common
 
The way I read and write
I feel I arose from you
You loved to fill the pages white
On which now falls my dew
 
I wish I could retain
The values you entertained
But your fountain pen has to remain
Empty, no ink, the market complains
 
If I refuse to drink whisky
In a party, sometimes,
Many a friend laughs at me
They would say, take juice of lime
 
Photographic films are not sold
The shop keepers look on and smile
As if a customer two generation old
The contax camera lies idle

We move on with our times
Stream eats into old banks
 We change our rhymes and crimes
To the changing river, thanks
 
We caress it, hold to our chest
Smell and look through too
Bring out your poses in rest
Again inside eyes the dew

This way we continue
The before toward the after
Your things are my moments with you
Nothing in a sense is closed chapter
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4/11/2016 For the Poetry Contest:.   
Old Jewelry or Just Old Things or Old, Old Poems -  Sponsored by Broken Wings
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