Manish

Updated: Thu, 20 Nov 2025 05:28 am

Biography
There's Still a Tomorrow
The Postman
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Biography

I write about - people I've met and the stories they’ve shared; the places I've been to or dream of going to; the non-living objects that seem very lively; the nights, days and changing of seasons; the colors, ambience and paintings; the famous artists who've inspired me; the metaphorical signs that I've come across; the flora and the fauna; the sci-fi stories and fictional characters that evolve in a day-time dream; the world around me; and lastly about myself, the events in my life that have provoked me, or have evoked a certain memory and feeling.

There's Still a Tomorrow

The sky was painted dark grey, And it began to slightly drizzle, I wanted to quickly walk away, But I was caught in the middle. Besides the empty sidewalk, Along the snaking rainwater, A letter that wanted to talk, Swam away like it didn’t matter. Drained before I could reach, I stood there in sheer denial, “Come back,” I beseeched, But it had reached its burial. Am I going to hear back From the sender ever again? Or am I waiting by the track Where the arrival is uncertain? Perhaps it was my doing, Or maybe it had to happen, Maybe it was too exacerbating For my fragile heart to handle. I’m going to stop; stall here, To just be completely sure. I wouldn’t want to waste a tear Of not having a full closure. If it’s meant to be conveyed, It will successfully find a way, And if its eternally delayed, It was never meant to stay. What did the day provide? What did I possibly borrow? I am still imperturbably alive, And there’s still a tomorrow.

The Postman

Warm, cold, rainy or breezy, There’s never a day he’s off-duty, A little bit old, very much lively, He manages to drop-by daily. Gentle knocks and letter-box taps On houses that look all the same. His vast mind is his only map, He knows us all by our names. Around here for about fifty years, He senses what’s in the letter; Blitheness, gladness, fear or tears, Or something to make feel better. He smiles when my letter’s cheery, And withers when I’m doleful, The day I feel happy and sunny Is the day he feels gaiety and soulful. When the day calls for the night, He is reminded of incompletions Brooding under darkness’s sight, Waiting to reach the destination. Reading them brings on a smiley, Reminding of warmth and intimacy And of the depths of being empty; Of failing to uncover the intricacy. In the drawer, beneath his pillow, And in the unsent-box are a few; Still very fresh and having the glow, Still appearing young and twenty-two. He has had his days of love, Of something promising and pure, The absence of which has been rough, Leaving tad glumness to endure. He lives a lot during the night; Memories a dozen, dreams a few, He is our morning ray of sunlight, He was once a receiver, and a lover too.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.