The healer

 Once the storms are over, 

the motherly ray comes down 

to kiss and heal!!

A leadless tree

 

The winter has'n brutal and harsh,

And my struggle turned almost a farce,

Lost all my leaves,

With loss my soul grieves,

Still not all is lost,

For greenish life finds a host

in the wheat at my feet,

They pay a respectable greet,

My loss and my pain

doesn't go in vain,

Tumbled down as my leaf

with pain and grief,

Blossom thousands around,

Wheatlings like daughters doth surround,

Fell where my tear,

Many a smile this earth doth bear,

Doesn't go waste my pain,

Sows it the prospects of gain,

If not for me,

Definitely for thee!

The defeated man

 

There stands the defeated man,

Lines of worry etched on his face,

Blizzards pelting the petals

of the flower of his fate,

The sun setting in the eyes,

The light fading out

and the night settling

as dark circles under the eyes,

Almost ground into dust by destiny,

Tension unspooling in his gut,

The ravenous flames of nightmares

chasing him even during the sunlit day.

 

In the pit of dark,  

all he needed was her sympathy,

but never pity,

And this still surviving

streak of confidence and self-worth

seemed arrogance to her,

It opened a chasm between them,

which won’t be closed by

pity or angry words

or even attempts at fake lovemaking.

Romancing with freedom

 

Don’t make yourself small

by chasing the shadows

that were never yours,

If the shadows are all that

you can chase,

let these by your own

instead of blindly following others’

for petty gains and conveniences,

Because in chasing your own shadows,

you are still near the axis of your being

and open to redemption one fine day.

 

It’s advisable to carry the hefty weight

of your own dead dreams

instead of floating in the

webs of others’ dreams and desires,

Crawl on the ground

o thou dung beetle

instead of flying like a glowworm

in the darkness of others’ hearts.

The empty canvas

 

Your absence

is like a vast presence;

like the sky,

Pervading and high,--

the endless canvas of one

overarching attachment

in which minor attachments,

desires and little heartbreaks

drift like tiny clouds,

The floating signs

of all lesser attachments,

They spring up,

float and drift away,

As if these are your offspings,

You the queen attachment,

The vast sky;

the great emptiness

that remains despite all attempts

to fill it with multiple rainbows.

The crippled

 

We have broken limbs

in our soul,

We are always looking

for a cast and sling

in the form of

special people in life,--

family, friends, lovers,

The cushion support,

The eternal need for soft bonds

to deal with stony realities.

Rebuilding and reconstruction

 

It’s only about putting stitches

on the gaping wound,

rebuilding the broken walls;

hiding the tears behind a smile;

and trying to convince oneself

that all is well,

And keep believing in hope and life

despite the creeping shadows of

death, disorder, pain and suffering.

Change

 

You arrive at her door

and it’s like

a fresh whiff of air,

You leave feeling

her sad sigh on your back.

Then there is a mysterious

realignment in her heart,

And neither your arrival

nor your departure

holds and significance

like it did earlier.

Smile

 

Her smile giving a voice

to his rainbow of emotions,

No wonder,

those were

his most lively moments.

Wonders of heart

 

Heart is the master transformer,

Today it’s a scented flower for someone,

But tomorrow it might be

a stone for that very same person.  

The happy prisoner

 

Infatuation is a sweet infection,

She getting under your skin,

A sweetly itching bug,

Tingling your skin

to make you feel her presence,--

almost continuously,

The heady, rich scent of her memories

rushing in like luscious spring

after snowy, barren, frozen months.

 

The heart expanded with love,

Blossomed like a flower,--

an orchard where

the scented flowers of her smiles

kissed the dewy diamonds;

where the ripe fruits of her kisses

dangle with the juicy prospects of

sight, touch, taste, delicious smell.

 

Her absence

weighing with a heavy presence,

Her smile

spreading the message of love and beauty,

You feel walled in,

sheltered, protected, safe,

Like you are in a rock fort

in her mushy, soft, warm embrace,

Separated and segregated

from the chaos of life.

 

A beautiful prison

where the love-chained prisoner

becomes a canvas for the

unplanned strokes of nature

weaving a magic,

Painting his own lush and vibrant

image of paradise,

Shaping all pains into hope,

All this while, her image

sweetly dodging

across the chaos of his mind.

A sympathetic halt

 

The soul of forest goddess

trapped in the charred ruins

of a burnt forest,

Her body ravaged by

the human pride, vanity, greed, lust.

 

O thou lone journeyman,

Don't just go nonchalantly

through her yowling waves of pain,

Even if you can’t do much,

sit among the ashes in silence,

Because even your unvoiced, kindly presence

with someone crying in pain

is a contributing factor to her healing,

Be there as a witness

to the night’s gentle dewy kiss

on the ashes that were once lovely petals,

Just by doing so

you help and encourage the Phoenix spirit.

Holy nupitals

 

Life is reaching up to

the sun and sky,

Death is seeking rest

on the bed of mother earth,

Being is settling into

the rhythms of non-being,

While non-being strives to

get the sparkling smile of stars.  

Merry ghosts

 

The undying fire of memories alive inside,

Smoldering with suffocating smoke,

Sometimes it flares up suddenly,

Throwing pale, flickering light,

Showing moving figures

and shifting shapes creeping like

secretive nocturnal lovers,

All lanced by love,

happily melting into the folds of night

full of rolling mass of pain.

The magic wand

 

Love in her eyes very obvious,

Overpowering love trampling fears,

His words tingling her heart

to leave it fluttering

with a rainbow of emotions,

His touch unleashing

a galactic storm of passion

across the pores of her skin,

His embrace gathering her

and rooting her into sweet belongingness,

His walk with her

setting a course for a lovely destination,

His look at her

blooming a smile on her lips,

His presence enabling her to flow

into the emptiness in him

and acquire a shape

that fulfills his own form.

Blooming

 

Whenever we

misbehave with someone,

we are merely trying to

squelch our bitterness,

Whenever we

pour hate on someone,

we are just throwing sand

on the fire of self-loath,

But when we love someone,

we are uncovering ourselves;

opening a window into our being

for the sunlight to barge in

and flood us with joy and healing,

We open up and receive the grace,

just like a bud opens to be a flower

to be kissed by sunlight and bees.

Rebellion

 

My feelings molded by social rules,

I dived pretty deep

but still missed her full depth,

Tamed by social trimmings,

my young self represented the old,

But I’d revolt sometime

and the old would represent the young,

A sirasashna for the spirit it would be.

The pirates of love

 

Everyone thinks

love is for him or her,

But it is not,

It isn’t for everyone,

To most of us,

its fake, pirated copy would fit,--

a poor quality imitation;

just enough to give us

a false sense of comfort and security.

 

Real love is intense,

It’s a storm,

I don’t think most of us

can bear its naked authenticity,

It burns, singes, hurts, peels,

robs us of the fake sense of comfort,

plunders hypocrisies,

strips us naked to face our frailties,

It has very sharp edges

in its original version,

No wonder

the majority buys the fake copy,

Just like essence of honey

mixed in a drum of plain sugar.

The aggrieved owner

 

The flames of her passion

trying to lick guilt and shame

from my face,

Screaming out her love,

Pouring out her entire essence

from her lovely soul.

 

Whose fault it was?

Did I simply allow her

to slip out of my grasp?

Did I simply let her drift away?

Did I put enough effort to retain her?

 

Maybe I failed,

Probably I’d have still failed

had I given all

and she would’ve succeeded,

For love can never be forced,

It drops like a ripe fruit

after a time,

I know this,

Still I mourn the loss of that kiss,

For it’s human to feel the pain

born of losing the things

that we suppose we own.

Rebirth

 

Facing the wildfires of life,

Walking through the soot,

leaving black footprints on the ashen floor,

Darkness swelling inside

widening the gulf between

dreams and reality,

Weariness pouring out of eyes,

Carrying the look and feel

of a wounded animal,

Billowing black-blue waves of pain

dragging their sharp prongs

through the heart to dredge

sorrows perfumed with sweetness.

 

Blackened snowflakes

slicing

through the softest parts.

 

Don’t wither completely, I tell myself,

Fragment thyself, make chambers,

So that even if you die in one part,

you may start growing in some other,

where anger will soften into acceptance,

leaving you hopeful enough

to see the miracle of sunshine

on a freezing, stormy day.  

Evolution

 

Rewiring myself to see

the beauty of wild flowers,

acknowledge the gentle welcome of trees,

hear the friendly whisper of breeze,

enjoy the songs of birds,

listen the holy whispers of love

cutting through unholy noise.

Overhauling my material existence

to make it sublime and pure like soul,

To serve as a link between earth and sky,

Bending towards light

with a promise of love.   

Truth, the enemy

 

Truth covered under nice manners,

polite gestures, benevolent expressions,

fine clothing, intellectual task,

shiny eyes and attractive smiles,--

the worldly tools

covering a grave vulgarity: naked truth.

 

For all our varnished hypocrisies

and polished make-believe demeanor,

truth must be uncouth, raw, even vulgar

in its original, pure form,

That’s why it’s repressed, condemned,

martyred, bled to death,

It’s after all

the common enemy of the

collective falsehood and fakery.  

The palace pauper

 

Her warm, embracing presence,

An entire sea of excitement

surging through her,

Her body decorated with joy,

Skin’s electricity-charged pores,--

a living palace,

And there I walked

bored, lonely and afraid

to feel safe, loved and cared.

The fire

 

The fire that ate peace,

It chucked out many rarities:

an old tree with a new nest;

a handwritten manuscript

without another copy;

the sole copy of an ancient book;

the wood that was charred

without manifesting

what was hidden inside,--

the beautiful statue;

the heart that got singed

and the canvas burnt;

the smile slaughtered

on innocent lips

that would have blossomed

a nobler, kinder place.

 

The fire going into the eyes,

blinding and burning the dreams,

The fire parching the flesh

and singing the soul,

The fire in our minds

smoldering forever

to burn the paradise

that was offered to us

by the lovely, smiling,

benevolent mother nature.

The creeper

 

Feelings entwining, mingling,

twisting around each other,

holding out tendrils like creepers,

grasping each other’s soft stalks,

Like vines to soar higher.

To merge, to seep,

to crash into each other,

like sea waves on a beach.

Flowing together

to become something nobler;

to feel one’s presence

through the other.

The tired tailor

 

The tired tailor,

Working on a short man’s coat

stolen by a tall man,

Laboring to make it fit the thief.

 

The tired tailor,

Working to mend a thin man’s coat

falling in the hands of a fat man,

Striving to cover naked corpulence

with little strip of cloth.

 

God the struggling tailor,

Fixing the misfits,

A tired and worn out tailor!

The robbers

 

Those who can’t create,

they believe in destruction,

They don’t do much,

They create destruction at the most,

They rob others

of their rights to creativity.

The shop of love

 

Love at the spectrum’s lower end

would need something in return,--

a sweet-sour worldly barter,

But it’s still love,

the base model though.

Love at the spectrum’s upper end

would want nothing in return,

It just is,

Just selfless giving;

the top model;

pristine, pure, pricey.

Woman

 

You have already paid a big price

by being a woman

in a male-dominated world,

You then accept your status

of being under debt forever,

So you keep repaying your debts

in bits and pieces

on a daily basis

till your last breath.

Love

 

Love is solid in the bones;

fluid in blood;

airy fresh in breath;

tingling in touch on the skin;

sweet in smile on the lips;

tasty in words on the tongue;

light and hope in the eyes;

and lots of flowers

in the garden of heart.

The pathless path

 

Creating a path to God,

Flying like a bird

facing no barriers of

boundaries, brawls, rituals, sectarianism,--

the pathless path,

The path always there

but not visible till you move on it,

Like the path in the air

that was always there

but didn’t manifest

till some bird took

a joyful sorties in its airy swirls.

A fresh dose of joy

 

Fresh winds enlivened the spirit,

Cut through timidity

with the knife of loving familiarity

and friendliness,--

a growing closeness

embracing with a kiss.

Is it bodily attraction,

or pleasant feeling of proximity,

or being relaxed in presence,

or synchronization of thoughts,

or sweet melding of emotions,

or vibes on the same frequency?

The priests of imprisonment

 

God is like the warden

whom we try to bribe

to get into the prison cells

to meet our acquaintances,

family and friends,--

money, power, health, prestige, name, fame.

 

And our fears are the priests,

the lesser gods

manning the doors and wired fences,

We have to placate them too

with obeisance, offerings and rituals.

The smoker of memories

 

Passing through the darkness

of the long corridor

smelling of past memories,

Feeling destiny’s roughly hewn walls,

Eyes speaking of pain,

there I walk

with my once golden self turned crumbling chalk.

 

The gently sculpted folds of your love

turned to sharp, cutting edges;

the lovely embroidery and beadwork

turned a rough, barren terrain,

Taking a long drag of smoky memories

from the flaming cigarette of the past,

I cough

and realize

love is rarely enough.

The fallen artist

 

Bright, unrealistic colors of love,

Childish, whimsical, even idiosyncratic,

Painting an alternate reality;

a different dimension of life

on the plain, routine canvas,

We use cheap paints and crude brushes

to shape something

to go along our dreams,--

a concrete solidified dream

in an ephemeral world,

Drawing the outlines of hope, safety, light.

 

Then you realize,

it doesn’t meet your expectations,

So you pick up a soapy mop

to erase the once lovely painting,

which turned into a comic-tragic graffiti,

You become a cleaner

from an artist that you were before.

 

From fine lines to sloppy mop,

Flop!

Why?

Because we have needs in different compartments,

One picture centered around one object

doesn't go into different chambers:

emotions, thoughts, dreams, desires, lust, needs.

 

The brush of love

temporarily appears to wade through

all these different needs,

We believe it’s giving all that we need,

Soon we realize it doesn’t,

The picture disappoints us,

We then just stay with each other,

Trying to believe that

we have happily been together.