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.   

The dark which is brighter than the light

 

There is a type of darkness

that feels one with fear;

of something of the visible manmade threats,

actions born of hate, greed

and our own fears.

 

Then there is another darkness

that envelops you with friendly embrace,

An invisible representative of all that

which makes you feel good in life.

 

Through darkness I walk by choice,

outweighing the former by the latter,

Darkness is a sieve,

It allows you to segregate good from bad,

I try to cast away the little stones

left above the wire mesh

and let in the fine sand of joy and goodness

trickle into the bowl of my heart.

 

Don’t underestimate darkness,

If you learn to hold

all that which makes you feel good

then it enables you to see

even clearer than the daylight.

Becoming a bigger entity

 

The trees are very kind,

Soak their kindness,

Accept the sweetness of fruits,

the scent of flowers,

the freshness of air,

the beauty of bright dewy mornings,

We are here

to fulfill mother nature’s purpose

by being loving, kind and receptive

to all her smiles and charms,

We do that by

welcoming and feeling that happiness

that oozes form her in pristine forests,

That’s what mother nature wants from us,

And a bit of furthering the same

from our end if we shall.

The core of pain in the bubble of gain

 

So much darkness

under the sunny façade of a bright noon,

So many vulgarities

hidden beneath polished etiquettes,

So much pain and suffering

stocked under confident, smiling faces,

So much hate hidden in seemingly kind hearts,

Funeral songs lurking below gay festivities,

So much pain swallowed by bright eyes,

A kind of grey darkness from inside

flushing something to the surface

that we call good, hope, joy, happiness, lawful

and natural as it should be.

A gentle sadhna

 

You have to open your heart

very-very wide to allow

the light of truth sneak in;

the music of divinity pour in;

the fresh spring air of the new reality

blossom up fully in you.

To allow this evolution,

you don’t have to break mountains,

All that’s needed is to be

open-doored and open-hearted.

और ज्यादा खिलना

More blooming. 

It happens when you welcome life 

with the widest bear hug! 

This is expansion! 

Then a playful tug of the gentle air 

will aid in further expansion! 

A drizzle of ecstasy will occur! 

The petals will fly away 

to be a bigger part of a larger dimension!

 The smile doesn't die. 

It acquires a broader plain.

खिलना

इसको कहते हैं खिलना। 

इतना खिलना की 

बिखरना सिर्फ खिलने का अगला, 

सुखद चरण मात्र बनके रह जाए। 

पूरा खिलने के बाद बिखरना अर्थहीन हो जाता है। 

होने और ना होने के द्वंद के परे है संपूर्णता से होना। 

जियो जीवन भर के, पूरा खिलो। 

पीड़ारहित बिखरना तभी संभव है 

जब आपने खिलने में सब कुछ अर्पित कर दिया हो।

Breakable hearts

 

Sometimes love has to act

outside the boundaries of social law,--

the sharply calculating basis

of the customized decree,

And gift oneself the unique commandment;

allowing oneself just pure love,--

awakening into a new self,

an uncustomized, exclusive existence.

 

Not all hearts are breakable;

only some are,

The unbreakable hearts are the stony forts

for safekeeping falsehood

and debilitating conventions,

It’s the breakable hearts

that have the fluidity and mellowness

to seep and creep

out of the curtailing maze

and give you the gift of a distinctive being

in a fresh, unused cast.

Counterbalanced being

 

With black and white in the head

and a rainbow in the heart,

weighed down by hate

and uplifted by love,

I feel neither vertical

nor horizontal,

It feels like

being in a different plain.

Love-tangled beings

 

Sharing love is like sharing roots,--

groping around;

entwined to seek soul’s nourishment

from connections and relationships,

The fine web of existence,

intermingling destinies:

the meeting bodies being the earth;

love the web of their entangled roots;

and their souls are the nourished ones.

The mirror of love

 

The shine, light and glow from within

peeping through her eyes,

Raising inspiration

to fulfill my dreams,

With fullness of desire in my chest,

if I don’t love myself,

who else will love me?

And if not now, then when?

Enchained sovereigns

 

We are imprisoned

and enchained in our own freedoms,

Despite their appearance to bestow freedom,

that which we

take to be the proofs of freedom

are in fact the bars and barbed fences,

These stop us from reaching beyond

what we have so far considered

to be the pinnacle of freedoms.

The chasers

 

Sometimes even forgiveness

falls short of

accepting the reality,

Sometimes even love

falls short of

accepting the truth,

Sometimes even kindness

falls short of

looking over the hurt,

Sometimes even gratitude

falls short of

accepting the joy of what we have.

We are after all mere shadows

chasing the form that we dream about.  

In disharmony with nature

 

A see-saw of emotions

ripping through wooden fibers,

Cutting the dead wood of memories

in the heart to make

wooden dolls, statues, mannequins,

That’s how most of us are:

much less alive than trees and flowers.

 

Customized by conventions;

wind-tangled by circumstances;

breeze-tousled  by situations;

pain and suffering sculpting our destinies,

We allow ourselves to be molded

by the forces of atrophy

manifesting in our thoughts,

While the trees and even animals

seem to absorb more automatic order

into their existence,

They do it just by

allowing the open forces of nature

to shape them in harmony with eternal laws,

While we filter too much negatives and chaos

using our brainy check-dam effort

and channelize the intellectual sludge

for war, violence and strife.

A wealthy corpse

 

The tattoo maker

working with quiet persistence,

Tattooed a label on the heart,

which turned a quagmire,

a trapping swamp.

 

Life then became a mere

undoing operation managed by death

to relieve the struggler of his pain

and carry him home

as a very rich man,

who returns with all treasures

unspent during the journey.

 

He died very rich,

For he still possessed

all that he was born with,

He now lay like a foolish farmer

who kept all his seeds

safely hidden in his barn,

Never took them to the fields,

Never opened them to the sun’s smile,

In musty darkness they rot now,

Life seeped out,

Hopes and possibilities bleached,

And gloom settles on the corpse

like crows crunching a dry carrion.

 

It was a life unspent,

Just like a tiny rodent

merely crawled on a plywood sheet,

while wasted were the seeds

that would’ve made him an elephant

joyfully stomping on solid earth.

The lost traveler

 

Mud-caked with dark memories,

Ashen and terrified,

The serpent of shame

slithering over his heart,

Raking the dead leaves of autumn

for a rustle or murmur of life,--

the leaves that had once a lively luxuriance,

Alas, the spring was wasted,

The bus was missed,

Now the sulking journeyman

looking for some traces of life in a grave.

The predatory software

 

The awkward familiarity of love

tugging at your bruised self

with delicate deference,

Ripe, tender, luscious love

pouring its spicy excitement

into the bland, spoiled dish

prepared with the recipe of the broken heart,

The fresh ingredients of new love

trying to undo its own raspy touch

clawed on the heart in its previous version;

trying to wipe the melancholy

carved on the heart;

trying to put light in the eyes

where its last version settled deep sorrows;

trying to put balm on the bleeding wounds

as the prongs of past go dredging

the memories of the old version.

 

When was the hardware (body) sensible?

Especially when love (software)

has this terrible sense for updation!

The oasis hunter

 

She burrowing a hole into his heart,

Drilling through various crusty layers of

anger, fear, guilt, insecurity and shame,

Diligently boring to reach the core,

the chamber of love

lying buried under uncouth layers.

 

The lovely well digger,

Soaked with sweating love,

Working to reach the sap of love,--

the nectar of springs.

 

A hopeful journeywoman

seeking an oasis in the desert,

To make him feel

that he has love at his core,

not hate and animosity.