Wednesday, 18 February 2015

Future or just a few chores


We all just spend our lives
Trying to overcome our births
Trying to get along with Death
And then untie ourselves from Earth
                                     

                                                         TED Fellow Ben Burke





I had this photo with me
But can’t remember the key
There is a lot to remember to survive
Like all the passwords, tracks and then the ME

I sometimes forget the ME in the move
It’s hard to find a path, and turns, to move
From one place to another
It’s from A building to B and C, tangled groove

I forgot the day I last touched the land and the air
The air we used to feel when winds roar
The land that nurtured grass and trees
Here I move around in glass tubes with oxygen cylinder

There are gardens, made-up gardens
But I had this photo with me of some memories
Where I sat in a courtyard with friends and my pet
We talked, laughed; the clock was not set for chores

I had this photo with me of trees, of sand and kite
Where I could pick something other than me
Something other than human, alive
Here, wherever I peep, glasses show me forever
But not the ME, it shows a luggage that carries
Things that assist, the inhalations and the exhalations
The pumping, the digestion, the evacuations
I had a photo with me of some memories
Faded, outdated, memories



Visit dVerse for more... where we write inspired by Ben Burke's  poem from future.


Monday, 9 February 2015

Wicked songs and dances

The van mocked an opera house
Where the songs of a pack of wolves synchronized
With the convulsions of a deer tore open
Flesh , flesh, flesh, blood smeared, what poetry in it?

Curves mellow with love
Eyes of a deer, long and black, dances
As tender as a flower bursting open trembling
When sun-kissed with warm golden rays
Demons, dementia ate their poetry, now weird maniacs

Eve’s garden should no longer bore deer
A tigress with stripes and claws should steal the show







Wednesday, 4 February 2015

of being and finding...

Courtesy Google


Morning
I gathered snowflakes
of dreams and of being;
they hugged to tree bark, twigs,
sparkling;
holding like when I am cold
and holding close to you,
 so crystal with no shades
of autumn, summer or spring,
 just snowflakes;
no colour, pristine,
of holding in and of silence
and treasuring that rainbow
when light touches softly,
morning
I gather snowflakes
of dreams and of being
of all that was scattered across
in infinity
while in sleep…


Wednesday, 14 January 2015

A silly secret

A little secret kept so close,
a little secret kept so deep,
now I don’t realize you are there.

Life like the seasons changed and went on;
we all changed and so changed all stories,
you were dug deep, a perfect secret
yes you the secret---
perfect calligraphy and shining truth---
I thought you would grow up,
grow out and spread as the sky;
I loved you because you spread
those small moments of happiness,
I loved you because I always
loved to give, and spread happiness,
you the little secret
dug so deep under;
as days passed
as I grew up
I knew, you would never flourish
from under the mud.

Life changed and so do everything
and so do beliefs;
you don’t breed smiles any more
you breed greed
I am happy, you are deep under
and you will never grow out,
you little secret .
Now I don’t have that passion
even when you are in my fist.

You stay in my fist,
never grow out over me
you little secret

lay buried .






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Sunday, 21 December 2014

half spilled

half cup chilled dreams, chasing me
blankets of doubts flying close by;
rippling, silver reveries glimmering
in mirrors, on face and in heart, eloping,
half spilled, half shaking, moving
and then every time sways
between spilling and catching,
and the road spreading so long


Thursday, 18 December 2014

Kissing the sky









we had kiwi cake, a bit of your love
packed and carried through the street to home;
we had that cake cut to pieces to share love,
I didn’t count how old I was that day
then came black forest, pineapple,
chocolate, coffee-almond, that melted
and tasted togetherness and love;
we had birthdays every month, your’s
Mine, kids’, and all loved ones’ .
But I believe, every morning we birth once again
and when I watch big trees swaying in air
kissing the sky, I hope for such heights for our love;
dear, can we celebrate birthdays each morning
not the cake, we can share a piece of bread
with a skinny dishevelled boy yonder
or a little girl hanging on to that railing
where a hundred trains cross daily.
Dear it’s an ocean of love that we share
let’s rain as drops every morning
to grow up as trees kissing the sky,
let us hope…



Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Where sense and senseless doesn't make sense....

Memories are books in a shelf,
I pick titles and then they turn pages;
home, where you lived as a kid
never seizes to be a favourite title
                                                                                    with pages as many as stars,
Saturday nights came as chocolates,
 Sunday mornings as bread, butter, egg and milk
when sleeping a bit more was fun,
when ache never was attached with heart
but wounds, lost toys and silly matters
when butterflies, shiny pebbles, broken china vase
were precious;
memories get hurt, even existence, when you learn
that beyond a made-up boundary
 many dreams that weren't even
old enough to taste memories were crushed;
their Sunday bread and butter will remain unserved
as bleeding sour wounds bearing relentless curse;
aches, all hearts ache,
those who crushed,
I hope, have never been attached
with bread-and-butter Sundays…






Thursday, 11 December 2014

The Sun, The Sky and The Soul...


Courtesy Google


Ivy of hope crawled up high
up the rock and cement--grey and high,
                                                                    here from the small pages, sigh,             
black letters, they sigh and whisper;
out in the window grill a sparrow chirps,
wings flap hard, no it’s not the sparrow,
my room echoes strong wing flaps.
“Jonathan Livingston, are you there?”
You can’t trust your imagination,
they too have wings to flap
willing to fly high.
“So you are still here, you know, there is no limit for sky and soul.”
His words addressed me or Jo?
“Jonathan!” I echoed my thoughts.
He flew, flapped through my small room,
his eyes seemed longing for the sky;
constraints are pain for wings that have soul.
I patted him with care,
Hosseini’s Mariam Jo is peeping;
 heavy curtains would not hide her,
their eyes met; sometimes it’s good to be quiet.
Silence is more close to soul.
This room for a week
sheltered not just me, but
 two more souls breathed here.
Life, freedom and sky seemed of the same color
A thousand splendid suns’ glory
lives not elsewhere, but in souls
who mirror blue, depth and the sky.