Monday, 4 December 2017

unfinished, unheard stories...

Reginald Southey
Lewis Carroll (1857) 

“do you remember how were we?
about how you ate and talked, munching and storytelling;
about how we discussed rain, the small burn on my hand;
about how we laughed at each other and argued fiercely;
                        no, nothing, they are seconds and minutes,
aren’t they just the past, faded memories, and washed away
to some dark corners; light now focuses on ego and motives;
don’t you remember that we were not like this?”

she sipped some water, he listened;
coloured, textured flesh; bones a little more single shaded,
rough and firm; thoughts and perspectives, where do they stick?
do they wear different shades, clothes shiny and rough as flesh?
or do they stand firm as they are and as they are made, white shades?
wait, but where do we feel how were we, in flesh, bone, skin or nerves?
we are prints of limited vision, gossips, talks, our silence and absences;
some of us flesh, some skeletons; inside all the layers when we breathe,
where do they fall, touch and make stories?

                           flesh, skeletons and breath,
                                           what do we see and choose?
                                                        what stories are made loud?


Wednesday, 15 November 2017

Street Art

the ringing in my ears echoes your unuttered words;
the hesitantly lingering petals of yesterdays throngs;
the gaps between undecided moments infect my ears,
in which street would I find the cure for this relentless pain?

I have left a part of me somewhere back in dark;
no, please don’t let anybody seek her or ask
for I have kept her a child so mute and unerringly meek;
she won’t make out anything you would like to hear,
will there be any messiah who can read eyes for cloud-like thoughts?

the hesitant winter here struggles with a stubborn sun;
the ringing in my ears succumbs to words in my eyes;
I am all, all those who could never speak, decide and step out;
and my thoughts are cloud like; they carry rain, river and ocean;
let me paint the streets, write on roads and spill it everywhere
for every mind counts, every tear and every untold struggle
and yet before I spill, the I, the all, yes before I spill I bow to the pain
for I am not going to paint you but the spark inside you
and to write the wings inside you, the beauty of your silence---
                                             oh pain, spread smiles…

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Monday, 16 October 2017

mere drops, mighty drops....drops

Google Image

wrapped in time and,
in and out
of the five senses, illusions;
rain drops on leaves

Google Image

is dancing rain drops
on leaves
red and green
they dance, drips and moistures
past and all seasons

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Tuesday, 10 October 2017

between muse and words, lost...finding...

till the end of the silence
till the length of that gaze
it hanged on tightly
then it dropped down as
                     a tear;
like the man whose eyes
                        bind muse and words
for the girl, her whole world,

                          left silently….

Google Image

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Thursday, 5 October 2017

for this i learn day by day

Google Image

i smile and they muffled up smiles
for smiles are simple and they majestic
i feel why did i but then i bow
not to them i bow to the soul residing
 the soul is one but one that’s splashed
splashed around for not reasons but joy
and there are bodies who never sense
and thoughts too that i  am here too
i thank the great soul for i sense
everything around and the i in me and you
the joy in me is sun moon streams and stars
i am pebble i roll and i am cloud i fly
i am no small and no big and maybe nothing
i am joy of existence i am learning this day
and all day and i am joy of what i am becoming
day by day for no great reason but because
sun moon stars hills and rivers still exists
and i rain rain and rain to flow

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Thursday, 28 September 2017

Peridot Soul

Google Image

born out of fire and meteorites
i live the colour of the sun and leaves
and at night i shine evoking the stars
and somewhere in the woods and streams
i lie in deep thoughts and olive ecstasies

here i want to escape chaos for i am a peridot soul
and i need my woods of celestial truth and bliss
for i am born out of fire and meteorites
and some olive ecstasies

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Friday, 22 September 2017

travelling light

the windows
and the ventilations
they held dust from yesterdays

piles of papers
bills and receipts
sum of thoughts and expenses

dust and waste
idle stuffs
every corner vignettes of past

brush, wipe, sponge
that strange urge to bring grace
fragrance and  some sparkle

still something was missing
something was absent…

(that strange urge to coil and coil
to the point where it will explode
to ancient forests and streams)

on canvas and papers
i am making streams and leaves
will hang them soon to the clean walls

Google Image

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Thursday, 21 September 2017

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

there is a cool wind and soft lullaby...

Google Image

yesterday noon’s rain stubbornly hanged to the atmosphere;
what if it is in pain, persistently erasing things from memoir?

yesterday morning the streets were busy; people going, coming;
behind the doors and windows, are they soothing bruises; bathing?

was it not storms, hunger, calamities, fear and doubts of existence
that named, implied, devised and marginalized hope with godliness?

yesterday noon’s rain stubbornly hanged to the atmosphere and
wasn’t it tranquillity that breezed through families staying inside?

 now at night even the rain got tired and ended with soft lullaby,
isn’t this lullaby, the embracing cool wind that sends warmth inside
that every single soul on earth dreaming, chasing, desiring?

if there is something more precious will you just poke me,
for I am going to sleep with rain’s lullaby, and teach me that secret?

After long hours of rain and wind, it is so cool, calm and soothing, so writing something in haste to go and sleep under a warm blanket; is it something so irresponsible?

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Friday, 15 September 2017

love is a collage of moments spent

Google Image

our window looks in, in the morning, when you are not here;
it missed our looking outside together, in the morning;
it slowly turns away, doves stir on the sunshade

mornings are a-not-so-strong tea without your pinch of crushed ginger;
I read  mails along with tea; they all lack a point of reason;
I return to chores in kitchen as tea turns out a pointless attempt of joy

 love is the hurry-burry of mornings when you collide with me,
when I am taking spices from the right-top shelf and you the cups for tea;
love is your lunch box that I pack in a hurry, now it stares at me in the morning

when you return, bring some fresh ginger from the locals selling it at stations;
home is an untouched canvas now, bring it and let us splash some ginger tea
in the morning hurry-burry, and let us mop it with impish smiles and giggles

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