on a poem`s funeral

Get off ur assWhy does she ever need a poem?

She`s complete unto herself.

Let me perish today:

And convict her, of her sanctity.

P. S.: “If not a poet, you can always be a poem.”

(photo courtesy: Getoff Ur Ass)

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residing monk

Here I’m collecting wreckages of an unsought battle.

Half covered in the sands of time.

I shudder back at a wreck which reflects my implicit fear.

My reflective squirm is too low to be heard.

Or is it the wind that is howling fast?

Autumn wind continues to blow,

Filling me with essence, and drying away my tears.

..

I mustn’t deter nor should I stop,

For the wrecks are strewn far and wide:

So is the desert.

P.S: We cannot understand certain things for the only reason, they being simple.

aftertaste

It was a festive eve.

Everything around sifted to a placid uniformity,

Except for that girl, with eyes stained of kajal.

She was a welcome flick of flare,

Amid that cold foggy darkness.

She talked relentlessly, with all smiles and joy.

 

Oddly, many things complemented.

My frayed, unkempt hair, as against,

Her kempt, well combed hair.

A perfect grace she had, as against,

My hands scratching back of my hairs.

A captivating, mild smile, spilling

Scented mirth around, against my clumsy grin.

I was like an angular definition,

She, a well writ: curvy poem.

 

And then it happened that,

Our eyes met for a moment.

She bore right through my eyes

For a moment.

I felt as if the words she spoke

Tumbled, to reach me ultimately.

One moment more, her eyes still locked on me.

I really don’t know if she curved

Her lips to a smile, this time.

I tried hard to  broaden my grin:

To reply. No, nothing happened.

One moment more: this was more

Than a usual gaze.

I felt everything around went dawdling,

Except for her lashes, which flicked once.

It was only the next moment, that

She broke her gaze: as subtle, as again.

 

I don’t know or remember what happened next.

May be everything merged back to uniform:

Careless of what happened.

And she left me with all, but answers,

And left my eyes desolate, longing and lonely.

replug: she makes it so easy to live

 

PS: I guess, it is hard to draw a line between reality and a poem sometimes. You never know where reality ends and where begins the poem.

Three beasts and a flower

Three beasts roamed a jungle one night,

While moon gleamed up in sky, full and bright.

 

It was supposed to be an eclipse, that day,

Moon was thus to be inched to dark and dismay.

 

Darkness began to shroud the jungle soon,

As scary dark sipped milky light, off the moon.

 

Poor beasts were the one to get scared,

As they were told demons that day went flared.

 

They ran around for a tree: shelter to find some,

And found a found an orchid, all calm and mum.

 

Astonished they asked, eclipse it is today,

Demons disguised in dark, moon they slay.

 

Flower smiled to say:

I and you make a part of Earth’s shadow on moon,

Making an eclipse and it fades away, so very soon.

 

And then there were four more happy gazers at moon.

 

 

P. S: i don’t know what you call it, but some call it a ‘paradigm shift’ (a more serious definition, far from what i meant is here). You think in  a direction and an incident/talk/glimpse/or your own idea makes you to think in a whole new way. The whole perception changes.

A metaphorical try. Do you have any paradigm shifts to share?

mother, i`m scared

Mother, I`m scared.

I`m scared of tomorrow’s darkness.

Scared of things unknown.

I`m scared, mother.

Dress my knee when I stumble on a foolish decision.

Call me back when I`m lost playing foul.

Press my shoulder: shake me up,

When I stare life, in blank.

Mother, I`m scared.

I need your warm lap, when I`m tired of chasing.

Need your saree tassel to knot, when I`m dead wrong.

Need you, to hide my face when all laugh at me.

Need your smile to assure and reassure me, to myself.

Mother, I`m scared.

Cuddle me, when I cry.

Pat me, when I`m right.

Please be with me, when sticks fall apart;

To say there is nothing to get scared:

As you always did.

.

..

PS: I’d penned a faint idea of this poem months back, and had no brave to publish it. It was some days before that I had an interview for a job the next day. I had hell things to prepare and this stubborn one dragged me off all that, pestered to add more lines to it. And it won.

They say, poems aren`t written, they just happen and when they happen we only reserve the right to pen them down.

keepsake

lazy and decomposed.
here i lay drifting,
trifling with toys near by.
rain drizzles out and a
scented breeze wafts in to soothe.

a dream sprouts in.
i can’t figure her face,
nor, the home she stood.
but, it feels homely.
she stands still, joy and resolute.
like an even blip amongst all odds.
i stretch my hand to reach.
but nothing to find, except;
except for an aromic whiff to console.

i curl back to toys again.
the real world: awakened.
drizzle continues to send its scent;
but now turned to be a keepsake.

turning 21!

Here I dwell playing with my crayons:

Scribbling wall, colouring my fantasies.

I let here out my neat paper boat:

Thinking it`ll bring back the kite that flew out.

May be I should grow up.

.

I litter my room of thoughts; with thoughts.

I dwell in envy for not having a doll of simplicity.

I still hurt my hand with that garden trowel:

See this wound; this was when I last sowed a thought.

Yes, I need to grow up.

.

I’m short, need to heighten my perception.

I’m frail, need to strengthen my patience.

I leap around, forgetting home I must go,

Cross roads boggle me, don`t know where to go.

God, please help me grow up.

.

Yet, I like sending boats, scribbling walls,

Playing soil, getting hurt and losing my kites.

May be I need a real tooth of wisdom,

Only then will i be able to solve the perplex:

Do I need to grow up?

.

.

P. S.: random, perplexed thoughts on turning 21. They say, once you stumble the age of 21, you`re grown up. But i don`t understand what being grown up is. This bothers more than my peeking wisdom tooth. May be you could help me:]