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.