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There lives a bookworm at my home,
He reads of
spaceships, gnome, genome,
Potatoes are
his choicest dish,
Accompanied with
steak or fish.
And when he
plans a rare day-out,
To the old
bookshop he heads out,
Sometimes I too
tag along,
Some books
smell like ancient song.
He buys me
pastries and donut,
And grabs a
coffee steaming hot,
At the
corner of a café calm,
Books adorn
his happy palm.
On weekends
what does bookworm do?
He cuts all
ties with his shoe,
A blanket,
pillow, cozy bed,
He’d read
away the whole weekend.
The bookworm
loves to write as well,
His pen is
like a kite in sail,
Across the
threads of time and space,
His thoughts gallop to build a maze.
On birthdays
he will buy you books,
Anniversaries?
Why, more books!
Oceans of
words, or sky maybe,
His heart is
never too heavy.
My bookworm
is a daddy now,
His specs shake
under baby’s paw,
Books stare
at him, so does the boy,
They laugh
out loud and play with toy.
But baby’s
growing really fast,
Soon the
books will shed their dust,
We’ll curl
up then, all us three,
And read and
write like skylarks free!Originally published in Lit Up.
A refreshing poem about a bookworm. I quite enjoyed his story, the journey from books to fatherhood. It made me a tad nostalgic about what seems now like my previous life. There are books in my house —a whole lot of them unread (and un-reread) and there is a worm too, but the link between the two is severed. Almost.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure this is just another phase, Uma. You're a prolific writer, and you have the amazing self-discipline to regularly read (and provide feedback on) the works of your fellow writers. How can your world be so distant from that of books? I hope life will give you back your space soon.
DeleteThanks for leaving that comment. I've a lot to learn from you.