Poetry

TOYS IN MY SHELF
                             
        An ode to my unborn child
                                                              Bala
 

 
 I see the mild breeze coming through my windows moving the curtain of my shelf;
There lie all the toys which I have brought with loads of
love for my unborn child;
Will the soft fingers of my child ever caress the toys
which have remained undisturbed yet?
What meaning and purpose do they have until his tiny
heart jumps with joy when he sees them all set?
I see rooms which are neat and decorated, but what merry
is there unless my little tramp messes it all with his zest?
The monkey doll looks at me with a wry grin; does it not
tell its story of long waited companion who would comb its hair and tweak its ear?
It looks as though the deer quivers and gazes at me with
a tear trickling for the promise unfulfilled or is it my mind which has
consummated the mirage in the rear?
All the tin soldiers off-late have stopped their drill;
and refuse to budge without their master to make them run for a thrill.
The music of the band men has become more melancholic and
drowns me within the deep chasms of my own dream where I yearn to hear his gurgles and coos.
Ducks and geese have scattered on their platter only to
find he is no where to be found.
The cuckoo no longer bothers to venture outside its nest
placed in the clock, neither the doves fly for a giggle and whistle.
Butterflies and dragonflies have forgotten to wander in
our lawns without my child’s laughter beyond the yonder.
It said that there is no place like home, but what is it,
till a small pair of feet walks and roams around?
We all wait for the day when he will come around; to
flush all our sorrows and mumble with his cheerful rotund face and enrapture us with his sublime grace.