Monday, 29 May 2017

An image that will always come back...







there was a home;
a faded picture of togetherness,
smell of farming, cows, cats, hens,
the feeling of being a child, well loved;

some walkways get overgrown with weeds…

there was a home, or
rather my grandfather;
he was, stories of a faraway land,
of dams being built, of forests, animals
and funny paranormal tales;
he was, reading newspapers for him
and writing letters to his friends,
his eyes failed him, I became his eyes;
he was, the short breaks we took
while we walked, to soothe his paining leg;
he was, the faint old gramophone songs;
he was, the three-time prayers, daily;
the smell of agarbathis, flowers, a little pot of water
and the chanting, the feeling of being connected;

some walkways get overgrown with weeds…

a home, a person, the earliest strong memories of life,
the base of life;

 the home is gone, he is gone…

you keep seeking that walkway all your life;
the feeling of being welcomed to home and love,
 you know it is a mirage, but you keep seeking
                                                   like a lost child…



Visit IGWRT for Weekend Mini Challenge: people and places and Poets United for Poetry Pantry.

Friday, 12 May 2017

Things that filled my diary
















Google Image


It is the umpteenth time I took the diary
Just to write the things I hate
But should I even write negative things
Like gossip, the favorite time pass of ignorant toads,
The poison that ruins relations, like ego,
The creepy snake that comes so unnoticed,
Like selfishness, that doesn’t know what is acceptance

And then I kept my diary under the pillow
Should I even write negative things
To keep myself away from such poisons
Then I thought, why waste a paper on negative things
I have a million things in life to smile and smile and smile
Like the unfettered love from those who know acceptance
Like the million dollar smiles I see around in strangers
Like the million dollar stories I read every day
Like the words I weave to make my existence meaningful
Like the paint I smear on canvas for pure ecstasy
Like the million dollar things I can still learn from around
Like still being the toddler in everything, leaving space to learn
Like the trees around teaching how to be rooted
Like the clouds above teaching how to be free
Like the streams that teach how to be pure and flowing
And so I put my diary under the pillow
For it is the umpteenth time I took the diary
And ended up writing beautiful things in my life
For I won’t waste a second, even a single paper to write
Things that are all against love and smiles…


Visit dVerse Poets Pub for List Poetry


Thursday, 4 May 2017

Let it be a rough texture...





















Paul Whitener (1911-1959) Unfinished Landscape, @1950, Oil



The window on the next wall warms up with a child’s glee
My lips curved up in a smile so easy and free
I tried to scoop up a bit of glee to test it on a canvas anew
Just across the road, only aged people at the window, looking so lone
Two old souls waiting at the window like an age old portrait on a wall
While may-noon sun quickly dries up all my laundry in minutes
I tried to put some dry paints on the canvas with contrasting hues
Before me, the window that I opened has a painting so old
It has a warm, light shade of red above a close-to-skin like shade of green
The scenes and hues around me smeared on my palms, giving greasy feel
And the greasy feel creeps all over the flesh, the soul inside wriggles in pain
There is a truth that floats across the scenes, urging to wake up and begin
The becoming warmth of this unfinished painting
Why do the brush strokes speak to you in volumes
There is a lengthy bridge between these feelings and the world of news
The news from around the world through media men’s eyes
We live between parallel truths and dreams, the widening gap so adverse
I won’t chisel out or trim up this poem, let it be odd or raw or worst
Let it not be designed to match with the tastes or favours
Let the canvas be roughly textured like a mountain path up
I would like to go wandering into the mountains and insights
Let the forest grow thick and dark and spare no made-up lights here



Visit IGWRT for Artistic Interpretations with Margaret - Small Town Inspiration...and Poets United for Poets United Midweek Motif ~ News Media


Tuesday, 2 May 2017

sparkle or dust?














Google Image



the citrus taste of lemon tea
tangy saliva oozes
morning runs through veins

when you brushed a kiss
a sea-side wind waved through
tasting salt and primeval chronicles   


yesterday’s metaphysical reads
precipitated around consciousness
and you send salty tangy feelings

i am soul and body
a sparkle and some dust
i have settled on you, dust,
and sparkled up to galaxies
thirsty of clouds that shower
shall I find in them the enigma---
wrapping a sparkle in dust!


Visit IGWRT for Physics with Bj√∂rn: Particle-wave dualism and the photoelectric effect

Visit dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night







Friday, 21 April 2017

hand in hand, let us walk...





                                           Google Images





moon goes in mourning,
she silently withdraws fading;
her tears go unseen, dewdrops settling
paints another day, her tear drops are entrancing,
they speak her rebirth, she comes back evolving;
there is no constant existence, every night fragmenting
happens, and day smiles with another reality evolving---
my love, I am another moon, dwindling and mushrooming---
i will give you my familiar, plain days and nights if you be walking,
walking with me on these uneven paths of shifting reality, your hands in mine, holding… 


Visit dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night and IGWRT for love poems


Wednesday, 19 April 2017

Post Card Poem







nights hung on window;
moon stayed aloof;
i wrote my heart on clouds,
on wandering lonely clouds;
it’s still summer, choking, retching fire;
with rain you will get my heart,
come and shower on me…




Visit dVerse Poets Pub for post card poem

Fear!


                                              Google Image



She kept her first steps into the new city. And that night a thundering sound awakened her from the deep sleep, her half-sleepy eyes wandered all around, the building wall opposite her window reflected light like fire…her ears got deafened by repeated bursting. A flash of a thought crossed---blast, fire---she ran to her kids’ room. They were sleeping tight. From the window she could see dancing flames of fire. Nothing was clear, the sleep still held her half-conscious mind; she called her husband in sheer fear. He came to her and stared out, “Oh, my God, one of the car parked in the road side has caught fire, I think their water hose is not working properly, the other car and a third one also caught fire.” They both came fully out of their sleep; fire engine’s shrilling sound echoed, finally the fire fighting team arrived. Hard work for almost hours and the fire like a serpent coiled back and vanished. Fire is her greatest fear, a fear that infiltrated in the dead silence of a deep sleep.

Owl hoots through night and
Summer tries to cool down its pangs
Creepy shadows bloom



Visit dVerse Poets Pub for poems on fear!



Thursday, 13 April 2017

Romancing life

                                                                 Google Image

colour-smeared rustic aisle
like a picture fallen out of an old case;
feet plunged into thick colour puddles,
trees are textured brown-and-grey tints
heavily painted on to sky’s sublime milieu
this aisle starts from a chair among scattered books,
i breathe words among scattered books;
here i catch moon, sun and stars to my bandana,
the world’s an ocean of self-proclaimed sanity;
from among books, words fly as butterflies, insane,
in between lines i catch whales---
beyond colours dark and light exists, hand in hand---
the oldest of the old whale whispers secrets,
my ears are again books, needed to be engraved;
words are butterflies, insane,
i search for dark and light wisdom
to weave a net to catch all insane secrets;
i breathe words among scattered books
and sleep dreams among spilled out colours,
let them carry me high, carry me high
to leave the whales and butterflies back in books
for lots and lots of me will come back in search…


Visit Poets United for poems on books



Tuesday, 11 April 2017

summer sweats





Google Images


the fire globe perched on sky rains fire, unswervingly;
street boils its distant memories of trees;
burning wind kisses faces, whispering distinctively
as silent consciousness inside dreams of solid walls;
AC drizzles on hot walls an irresolute sense,
bygone forests and towering city dreams…



Going through one of the hottest summer

Friday, 7 April 2017

I am a mere dust in the whole universe......


                                           Google Image

he* has just begun his day; they say he is fifty-one years old,
i am in my thirties, i wonder at his creation;
i assure myself, I will see the world, and i have time enough;
when i will be leaving this 3-D world, if time allows
at 70 or 80 or at any time, he will still be spending his first day,
probably his morning rituals going
with a lot more time than i can imagine
for I am a moth for him as a moth is for me;
time wraps around space, that much space that i can hold,
that much space i can behold, that much space i take;
so is my lifespan only so much that much i take
in this whole universe? then i will expand with my vision
to see those space times i missed, to glance at the whole
that’s coming and that’s always there,
where, maybe the demonic dramas of boundaries, religion and profits,  
the dramas we see every day may not make sense
but maybe the time of light will evolve in front of the sight!




Visit Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for poems on 4-D space time