I pour out of my feelings best in poems. I remember writing my first when I was 6 years old. It was about my baby brother and mom liked it:) Almost two decades later, I find comfort in expressing my emotions, moods, routine and my thoughts as poems.

You can find my other poems at http://www.writerscafe.org/Ramya/writing/

At times I look long and hard at a poem and compose tunes. It is such a lovely experience! My poems do not follow a structure, there are no set rules of poetry applied. Each piece is a free flow of thought, in my own writing style. Hardcore poets, please do not go bonkers:)

The Unchained Wanderlust

There are times when I just want to quit my job and do what I love. I went into one of those moods and this poem is an extension of my frustration at work.

With knitted eyebrows, I sit on my work-desk,

My thoughts churn and I go berserk.

I hit the keys on my mundane keyboard,

And clench my teeth to get off the workload.

Tied to my chair by an invisible thread,

I force myself to work, to earn my daily bread.

I question my conscience, my heart and my soul,

Dry are the passions for the job that I hold.

"Enough of this!", I say to myself,

I march to my boss, toss my papers ahead!

It is time that I live,

It is time that I love,

It is time that I did what I hold most dear.

I pick my red rucksack,

Stash them with clothes,

Dress myself in a green top,

Blue capri, black gloves.

I wear my shades brown,

Tie my hair in a pony.

I sit on my BMX,

An expedition to the unknown.

I step on the pedal,

And let it loose,

I spread my hands wide,

Fresh breeze teases me through.

I am what I am now,

I know what I want,

I listened to my heart,

My soul, my mind.

A wanderlust am I,

With a thirst for adventure,

No one can tie me down,

But nature, enraptured.

Zippy Countryside

I have always fancied the lush green countryside, the people, the rustic life, the sparkling stream and the fresh breeze. I wrote this poem when I dearly longed to be a part of it. The colourful  and simple vocabulary is intended for the younger generation:)

Mad rush at all times,

Skyscrapers mundane,

Where money and power 

Is a zillion dollar game. 

Far from this world,

Far from this fame, 

Awaits paradise green, 

Of corrals and game. 

Up in the mountains, 

Down the steep hill, 

Round and round lake placid, 

With barbecues and a grill! 

Cows, goats, chickens and pigs,

I love farm animals and their funny gigs! 

Riding on horses, sombreros tall, 

Grandma’s pies, with pecans and corns.

Flowers aplenty, yellow and brown,

Teal and aqua, to match my gown. 

Guitars and foot taps, the dancing, the glee, 

Beers a dozen, an unchained spree. 

This is the place 

Where I want to belong, 

Far from the urban, 

Singing country songs!

Boredom Blues

There was this time when I did not have much work to do. My head was lolling to one side and I was bored to death.  I wrote this poem to keep me wide awake and slush through the long day!

When nothing comes to my mind,

And all thoughts come to a screeching halt,

I sit totally blank; a clean chalkboard.

Restless, impatient,

Disconnected from the mundane,

It is hard to fathom this gap, unseen.

My mind ain’t a devil’s workshop, no!

It is but a thoughtless existence,

When absolute boredom seeps through.

I slide down my never-ending chair,

Eyes half-droopy and ridiculously insane, 

I crawl helplessly on the floor, 

Akin a sloth that has gone askew! 

Pillows, I hit them; 

Fluffy and white, 

Clouds of soft sensations, 

Dreamy delights! 

Just being there, 

In that cottony comfort 

Is what I love the most. 

I do not care, I do not need 

Bliss anymore.

Old Johnny Matt

This poem was written out of the blue. I wanted to tell a story through a poem. Random thoughts churned into a mini-story and here it goes:)

I know not my father, I know not my mom,

No brother, no sister, no family, no home. 

A guitar, some clothes, a rucksack and a hat, 

All these I got from old Johnny Matt. 

Old Johnny was a bit loony, he was so old,

He had nobody to speak to, but had a heart of gold. 

He took me in and fed me some bread, 

Showed me a tiny corner, to sleep on a bed. 

Old Johnny was so good, he taught me guitar,

Strumming and drumming, adding beats to our bar. 

We stood on the sidewalk, busking, mane insane, 

Crowds gathered around us, all way down the lane.

Old Johnny loved me, there was never a blot,

We cooked together, and walked a lot. 

The days were magical, I would forget them not! 

Nothing can match them, not even tons of ingot. 

Old Johnny, I loved him, he was my dear old king,

He didn’t call me “son”, but he gave me his ring. 

Merry and joyful, my heart was so warm, 

I hugged dear Johnny, who was but calm. 

Old Johnny grew old, as days flew by,

Frail did he go, he had days to count by. 

He called me to his bed, took his hand did I, 

He gave me a locket, painted a golden dye. 

“Open it, after my life”, Old Johnny said,

Tears stung my eyes, I kept them instead. 

With him I was, day and night, 

Singing him songs, cheering him up bright. 

On a September night, Old Johnny was gone,

I laid him in a coffin, made of glass that sparkling shone. 

I buried him in Blackpool, next to Mr. Brushwicks, 

And sat down on the edge, so gloomy, in a fix. 

I took out the locket, pried apart the wings, 

I saw two tattered photos, of me and my king, 

Out fell a paper, doodled with red hearts, 

In it was written, “I love you son, my dearest of them lot."