Mumbai poems bring the best collection of short and long mumbai poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great mumbai rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these mumbai poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on mumbai are here for you.
“Appa, your kinda song” called out Aadi My kind? Listened, liked it instantly and That has set the ball rolling on a peep into Mumbai, may be many things to many a man Gun totting gangsters, trigger happy cops, Starlit
Maybe, just maybe, love is not a forever thing you know? Maybe it is just an evening spent taking crowded trains to unknown stations figuring announcements in foreign languages and wandering walks through dilapidated bylanes full of squishy muck and
I walk through crowded streets trying to find a face I pass by cold stares in search of a warm embrace I get nothing in return… No smile, no stare I walk with emptiness, uncoloured, unaware. Its noisy, I know,
“Why don’t we go to the park, father,” Asked the little boy, slipping his little palm into his father’s, “Like we used to every day Till a month back?” “Why don’t we walk around the park, father,” He asked, tugging
Two flailing oiled chotis slap me out of stupor. The Goddess arches out hinged at the pole, her saucer hands clasped below mine. A hooting call answered with crystal stare from wide apart eyes that grazes my shoulder, wounding me.
This collection of poetry is the saga of life in all of its colors – joy, sorrow, triumph, love and pain. The book is a beautiful collection of heart-touching poems, drawn from my personal experiences in life. While ‘Mother, my
Lamp posts become sleeping lines; blot yellow, as I lose touch with the night. They choose when to light my knee, my eyes try to keep count. Smiling behind hair strands, I let a part of me rest on Amma’s
A dowry for a princess was a city called BOMBAY with green fields, open spaces lakes and seas, tramcars that were a child’s delight horse-carts drawn by liveried men the streets were clean, wide and green with cobbled footpaths dotting
A mother and son returning from the school mother carrying the heavy bag and the bottle in one hand, another fully extended— covering the child’s head with a palm overworked lending little shade from the scorching Mumbai sun her own
Since my earliest youth, I’ve been looking for my face which was stolen by wars. I am the son of war. My memory was kneaded by her tough dances. Since forty years, I’ve been inhaling her bitter smoke, knowing nothing
It gathers, always been here. Waiting within. Pushing to control. Finding a home in some. Fighting those it can’t control. Weakness, exploits, control, power. Power/technology enough now to control the world. Insidious it hides it waits for global domination.
Upon a child’s first cry Upon boy/girl getting laurels When father gets promotion When a new house is bought When the first poem is published When love is reciprocated When good food is served When a beggar gets sufficient alms
The man who mistook the money he made for time with his family the intimate touch of the edge of his desk as it dug into his butterfat belly when he slept every night embrace by his tooled leather belt
It was a normal day As they usually always say With fights alight, And deaths made right With masses arguing And the hunger growing. Ahh what a sight! A perfectly normal sight! I could just not wait Any longer in
She wants to be remembered, A chant, a whisper, a name, She thinks to herself that if she really shut her eyes, Would the world notice she is gone? All the she hears are raindrops against the roof The rustling
Slipped from the tree fell into the beautiful bushes Tickling the hell out of me Cold Cold water touch my feet to comfort Wasteful thoughts sieved out Let’s call upon the sunlight and complete this Portrait that consists of me
The string that ties everybody together Each vibrating a different sonnet Expressing the tune of melody connecting the human hearts Oh! I listen to the frequency of the string My fingers gently getting on the strings I feel the strings
My unborn girl and I Live within each other‘s spheres She has carried me first after all. Out of night’s numinous dream My mother comes down Spiral celestial stairs. “Look what I bring you” A little girl in tow. A
She screamed at the edge “Fate cannot be changed”, she fell I reached my hand, like many times This time I catch thin air I screamed, shouted, begged She never came She was tired of the game That she was
The path was becoming pathless after seeking the deluge. Gunslingers were climbing on trees to shoot the white doves. There were ice needles in my eyes to check the inheritance of height. Desires move with a feline grace, lynx-eyed. You
Let it remain ovarian pure. After strangulation the truth, for hypoxic euphoria. Flies in your face the dirt, the denial, the terracotta of superposition of speech, hiding self-interest. Blackened Crozier for wrinkled crotch, drops the ashes of love on unopened
Time will arrive again, unfair Events will vanish and good days will come. You will forget your scary canvas where Dark pictures of your battered soul cause Misgivings of the sunny days and glum Thoughts, tension always wrecks your puerile
Would not place any price-tag on me. Like a mannequin dug out from a pit goes for sale. Abhor the duplicity. Want to walk straight – without the golden thong. The city goes in flames in a circle. A new
Waiting at the station for the train, My little brother asked “WHO ARE THEY?” Oddly dressed, Men on saree’s, Masculine voice, clapping all their way? He looked perplexed.. A spark of astonishment on his face.. Observing them for a while,
Found yourself yet, or running around in circles, finding a corner to sit, and think on what’s left, and what’s right to do? Took a dive into dark seas, or mesmerized by light enough, to see what’s deserved, or just
Overcast and drab evening with ominous shroud dark Distant rumbling crackle akin to giant ignited spark Adding to swelling misery in my moments desolate Craving for little company to someone try and relate Swallowed up with solitude for sane sense
Devil’s blunt fingers icy slick palm every morning in my stomach waking to a cold tide no cell, no sentence just another day’s time to do head down avoid the warders visiting day comes familiar faces look ugly in a
Small things were, Witness to genes- Of freak mutation. Tooth in eye, Becoming boat in blindness. Witch hazel, Fails to stop leakage. Thumb with beads of lymph – Stung high in stillness, Wants to peel off, The concept of injury.
I didn’t really notice her, to start with, A girl with too shaped hair and clothes beyond her years It wasn’t right, clearly not right Medieval in some respects An heir and a spare her task But a fairy-tale danced
Why is it, That all around me People have flashes of inspiration, A seed that grows into something great, Something worthy of recognition? Why is it, That people I know Are so talented, so passionate That they’ve taken up their