Phoenix
In the fire
of my passion
people say I
will burn my wings,
And then I
will not be able to fly,
How
mischievously society takes a dig sly
at those who
dare to be different,
For rutted
path’s stranglehold is luring,
doling out
short-cuts aiming massive gains,--
The ordinary
paths avoiding the penanceful pains.
Burn I’ll
myself in my own fire
to ashes and
ambers,
Or the
inferno will bake the skill raw
To turn gold
in my soul’s chambers,
Either ashes
or gold—
Though the
path full of miseries untold,
But even
this treacherousness has exceptional charms,
Its forlorn
sand is pregnant with virginal solitude,
Its
uncluttered loneliness, a mine full of possibilities!
Far away
from the crowd
How brilliantly
shines that prospect!
The solitary
walkers on this path
either die a
lonely, ignominious death,
To become
the unencumbered particles of its ungutted earth,
Or if
somebody carries through the desert,
He arrives
at an oasis of gold,
where the
creative bliss takes him in charming fold.
These
sufferings might turn me into ashes
or turn me
into gold,
If the ash
is my fate
then I
should not hate
my passion’s
flame,
For I turned
out to be a horse lame
that lined
up for the toughest race,
Or with
inferno lurking on my face
I play with
the fire
and make it
my mistress to sire
the
golden-winged off-springs;
my
consummation signs with the infernal houri,
That wedding
night’s taming with creative fury.
The moth is
aware of fire’s fury,
Still it
doesn’t hover
around a
desirous flower’s utility,
With
passionate ambers smoldering in its guts,
It goes for
a dazzling display around fire;
Its
perilous, exciting, flirtatious orbit around the glow,
And the
flame laying snares for the deadly blow,
Yet with
intoxicated zeal
nearer and
nearer it comes to kiss and feel
that finest
nectar hidden behind the fiery eyes:
The honey
sweeter than any flower for which a worldly honey-bee dies.
Fuelled and
fired by every ounce of its instinct
it buzzes
around with ecstatic swirls,
It lives
life thousand times more
than the
ones lured by worldly flower’s lore,
Even its
death isn’t just painful plights,
It is merely
the pinnacle of its
gradually
graduating love flights,
And when it
meets its end that explosion of its flesh
is the acme
of its fiery passion.
Likewise,
I’m the helpless satellite
of the sun
of my art,
Hardest I
might try,
but from it
I can’t part,
Its my life
and source of light,
Without it everything
is a blind flight
and nothing
of purpose in sight,
Hovering around
my inspirational sun
is the only
form of my fun,
Even if it
means the final
crashlanding
into the fiery ball,
For the
artist it is still a regally carpeted hall.
MIRAGE
How possessed the show of life floats away!
Self-absorbed and self-satiating eyes
perpetually ogling at that last ray,
Shines which with trayful of exceptional mundanities,
delicious crumbs and specks of pleasant trivialities,--
Prize’s lesser essence exaggerated manifold,
How deceiving has’n this mirage since times untold!
The rioting mob, meanwhile, creating a stampede and storm—
Thirsty, hungry, eating and breathing sand,
Trying to outpace each other
to reach that coveted oasis land,
where the mirageful sweet speck lies
and the supposed spring of will never dries.
God created us to walk brotherly
on the lush green pastures hand-in-hand,
But we take the path lost in treacherous sand
to out-run each other,
Leaving each other dying
and lying to be buried under those sand dunes,
So much we lose and force others to lose
while running to catch those boons,
Blindly we trample orchids
to catch up with the call by those sandy sighs,
And see, so many die with sand in mouth and eyes!
See that fellow huffing and puffing like an animal
going after that ever-escaping destination,
Like an oxen sweating out the precious drops
to drain out even the last ounces of humanity
from those strained innards,--
The orchid inside suffers a drought,
Aah! How valiantly he fought,
But unfortunately always had’n taking unnecessary shot,
And then the chase became unbearably hot,
Desire’s hallucination sparkles in his eyes as the loser’s dot.
Ever pretending to kow-tow the pious injunctions,
most often we do the opposite,
How coquettishly we keep God
unaware of our motives true!
The characters outsmarting the creator’s real hue,
Betraying thus God and trampling orchards,
whose seeds He planted,
we move ahead,
Unaware the spirit is already dead,
And the title deed with the creator
torn and tattered to its last thread,
Then we go out without any dread
and tread over each other in blind race,
Spit each other in the face
to stop (or made to stop) finally at a place,
where there isn’t those presumptions’ single trace.
Highway Murder
Listen you all, men and nature!
They are killing me!
As the iron hisses, and kisses
across the rings of my age,
I stand benumbed in daze,
This end was not supposed to come so soon,
Wasn’t I fulfilling all the duties assigned to me,
entitling me another wintery full moon?
In self-imposed anesthesia
I just feel the saw’s butchering
into my bloodless flesh in my guts,
There is no blood in me
to give the evidence of a murder,
The sanguine darkness of my mass
is worth only stone for you.
On this hazily sun-lit winter noon,
The hounds are around me,
My murder has been sanctioned
by the state authorities!
For decades I stood for both nature and man,
During those beautiful days
this road was a simple friend
leading to common journeys and destinations,
Now it becomes a foe and highway
leading to some illustrious ray,
And I become redundant old,
standing in the way of progress
with my few square-feet of foot-hold.
If a healthy mass like me is no life;
no more than a mile-stone,
I hope to tell my murder story
till the axes, scythes and saws
send my tiniest of branches to be turned to ashes.
We trees never wince with pain
as your axes spray around chips of our flesh,
I understand we had equal rights
till mankind was just part of nature,
Now this saw going deeper and deeper
into my bloodless guts,
reminds me of our inevitable fate,--
Every tree on earth now has a deadly date
with the greedy most, treacherous and unforgiving mate.
They know
that I’m massive and big,
So they are
afraid of my fall,
Haa! The
cowards!
They don’t
know, while they rob me
of my few
square feet of space on earth,
My saplings
are still doling out oxygen
under this
winter sun,
Even my
murder can’t change me
because I’m
helpless due to my nature.
Now the saw
has gone sufficiently deep,
And I get
some signs of that eternal sleep,
I feel some
unbearable pain in my painless mass,
For death is
death after all,
Hope you
will understand!
Like
hangman’s noose, thick hemp ropes
are tied to
direct my fall,
From a safe
distance, the tractors pull
to bring
down this wooden bull,
And now I
feel the pain
as cleavage
breaks through that portion
still
holding me to my mother earth,
From softest
saplings to rock hard tissues
my whole
body is panicked,
Saplings are
crying like purely innocent children,
Hardest of
trunk tissues are shamelessly crying
like battle hard,
handsome soldiers after losing a battle,
But who
cares!
This big
snapping sound is my death cry,
And I fall
with a thud,
Yes, man you
win,
I’m dead
before I thought I will!
SPRING SEEDS
⋯and
now the April has also gone,
Where are the seeds that I’d sown?
Like a ploughman I worked
in the summer almost melting bones,
Removed the stones,
Rattled which the spirit like someone
caught in desert’s sandy moans.
Then during winter my toil lit up a bonfire
amidst blinding blizzards and nature’s icy deeds,
These were my spring seeds,
embedded, impregnated in earth through my earthy deeds,
Spring seeds meant to
conceive, germinate, grow, ripe, flower and fructify,
But the spring came and went with a sad sigh,
Sorrows in my barren fields hit another high,
My spring seeds thus lost,
And me the farmer standing forlorn
without that harvest of which I used to boast,
Now the scorching May sun
beats down the dusty land with a fiery pun,
Peasant and his field thus stand mute,
Almost complete has’n the plunder and loot,
To gallows was sent my crop,
The hangman just mechanically pulled
the handle at the hanky’s drop,
Efforts’ dead body hangs from that noose,
And even the last strains of
faith, will power and hope getting loose.
People say that too much is my browbeat,
‘Why not clear another stony plot
to get something to eat?’
Perhaps they don’t realize
the blind, illogical passion’s treatise
which I wrote over stones with a pure soul,
Impractical, insane I stand out
with cracks and brain’s hole,
How could I expect fruits from this very plot?
And now I stare at the nullifying dot,
The desert storm meanwhile hisses with its lust hot,
Seeds have most probably been killed,
Aah, with amazing precision
the Goddess of infertility drilled!
While the songs of my fertile efforts in a chorus trilled,
But She has’n successful in its swipe,
Its blinding gung-ho and macabrous hype,
Lolloping its greedy tongue to
dejuice and deflower everything ripe,
Now I lay my back against a
hard, hot, unshaded rock,
My weariness, fatigue and torture
put me in a sleepy dock,
In that short uneasy sleep
I get some relief from the pain of this injury deep,
A luxuriant crop I see in my dream
and nearby gurgling goes a stream.
The Invisible, Untouched Debris
A painful churning goes on
in the deep, deep recesses mine,
Outwardly I manage to look well and fine.
On my skin sweat beads shine,
These tiny outpours of my desperation
are the struggling vestiges of battles
that I failed to win.
There is a salty sea of sufferings inside,
which the clothing and the mask hide,--
The sea of tears accumulated from yores,
Here mournful, tragic waves strike
the forlorn sand on gloomy shores,
There were deep, hollow pits and spaces
that could have’n easily filled up with
sweet freshwaters and lifeful braces,
But that wasn’t to be,
Rather the tears of endless traumas
made up the sorrowful sea,
Outwardly I just tread on the ground,
And even try to dance
to the social puppetry and civilized sound,
But in the deep recesses of the sea of my being
sharks shred the flesh like the bloodiest of hound,
Thousands of leeches suck the soul’s blood,
And the salty sea gets another torrential flood,
Surrounded by such deadly gloomy waters,
My being’s lofty peaks
shudder with protesting shrieks,
In those vales, precipitation born of miseries
sends down dark showers,
Creating mudslides and breaking stones
from the lofty towers,
Deep echoes of this sea’s triumphant storms
go rumbling through the inner being,
Rains, floods, earthquakes
storm the soul’s citadel,
Their combined fury unleashes mud and sleaze,
Carries which the ensnaring breeze
towards the salty sea of gloom,
Even though outwardly I manage to
keep up some bloom,
But the tremors from inside
reach new high day by day,
And the afraid soul runs helter-skelter
to find some solacing ray
that might say
a valiant nay
to the horrible avalanche pouncing on my soul,
But unmindfully the rocks of
my ideas and principles fatally slide,
and painfully the debris glide
towards the salty sea.
If the erosion from inside
goes on like this,
while I try to maintain the appearance
worth a lady’s kiss,
Then it will leave a huge
cavern overlooking the sea,
Collapse it will then,
And that shiny façade and that wren
will crash with its glittering,
broken eyeglasses still facing the sky,
With the last imprint of final worldly
shot with a cry,
What difference will it make then?
Perhaps, people will still
shed tears over the shiny shell,
And muse,
‘He didn’t die as a broken man.
He was as starry as anyone can.’
Their analysis will just
mull over the debris shiny,
But nobody will give solace
to the agonic corrosion going inside,
Because those who couldn’t
see it while I was alive,
How can they now
when I take the final dive?
Obituary lines will
be written
on those broken shiny shards;--
Farcical symbols of my worldly struggle
and puny success,
While the real struggle
thousand times valorous remains unsung,
For it lies scattered at the lowest rung,
What foolhardiness!
Soul’s sanctum-sanctorium
remains in deadly pals,
while they kiss only the temple’s
outer walls.
Golden Noose
With that invisible love story
tied with an unseen cord
to my tightly sewn lips,
Let me kiss the last drops of her memory
from the cup still brimming
with her image.
The last spiritual door
opening finally for His light,
Preparing for something more,
somewhere in some other world and form,
Where down the distanceless
space-time continuum
lies the timeless face of an
untold, unrequited love tale.
The tiny waves of breathing
can now no longer carry the boat of life,
Last moment’s stormy seizure
quickly subdues the feeble efforts to stay afloat,
And down goes the body,
Hanged by the cord
of a painful love story that was never told.
The Defeated King
The night was very long
and all moments thronged
with frustration, angst and despair,
The darkest faces yelled for anyone to dare.
Like a terribly lynched mule
sluggered away the day
without bringing a new ray,
Now, the night’s long sinewy hairs
cast ghastly shadow over the battlefield lost,
And battle scars get bandaged with frost.
A cumbersome long-long day
when his efforts got butchered
by some mysterious force’s riotous ray,
Now stars shine on darkness’ face;
Like tiny lamps they twinkle from
some fallen hero’s mace
and point to hope and smile
somewhere still holding onto tiniest of trace,
Their poking raylets brace
the frozen blood around scars,
‘The day will come’, they say,
‘and the next sun will light up a new ray!’
‘You will then forget these days dark
and still fearsome nights with a terrible hark!’
The wounded, handsome soldier’s hands
clenched a fistful of earth all blood-soiled,
There were more moments to be toiled,
Somewhere fire in his blood still boiled,
The enemy’ll return in a couple of hours,
‘Let me see how many heads my club covers!’
For the mace handle his hands fumbled,
But once again his feet stumbled
and he fell down,
But that effort’s majesty shone on his face,
Succumbed he then to his injuries and died,
Aha! Immortal was that last shot of pride,
It was found frozen on his face
when the victorious hound
arrived later on the trophy’s trace.
Invisible Scars
Too often I’ve stumbled, staggered
and fallen headlong,
Cuts and wounds mercilessly throng
the bodily stranglehold mine,
Deep fissures reach
where the soul’s diamonds shine;
Injuries so deep—
Aaah! Invisible, invincible dragnet’s richest reap.
Nobody sees the gaping holes in my spirit,
Here the destiny’s blind force
so venomously hit!
God! Why is it that
deepest scars
are invisible to the society’s eyes?
Why remain unnoticed
cuts and wounds of such mammoth size?
Injuries like deepest trenches on sea’s bosom,
Above on the surface
the worldly water waves normally,
Below the scars lurk dreadfully
and darkest of dark roam
in the gloomy, depthless womb.
I, the perpetual peasant,
Always engaged in the sacred labor duty,
While the foe doing
its undoing spadework continuously,
Its ensnaring checkerwork grinning cunningly,
I meanwhile rise up again
to get some littlest bit of gain,
Alas, my mountainously bulky efforts
only but go haywire!
Not even a little mice I find,
And sorrowfully the tiny lamp goes blind,
The invisible scars
get enlarged and multiplied, of course,
But not even a single eye
sees the bloody bath and the loss!
Last Hideout
Here I sit in my cold, secluded corner
and take stock of the
pleasant profanities scattered around,
The world basking in its
majestic, unholy mundanities,
while the unhindered morality singing unbound.
The corner with its stagnant stench
and mucking air;
where my tortured holy-self lie,
Cruelly contriving world meanwhile tempts,
‘Why thou become the fodder of game fair?
Son, now have an unfair try!’
‘Succeed thou will,
the moment thou unshackle
thyself of poor righteousness!
This load will always find you a loser,
for too old is now the history of uprightness!’
And I shiver and snivel
in my little, dark hole
to keep the little flicker going,
The dark-race however gets
perpetually stormy and cries,
‘Let’s us see! How long you’ll keep rowing?’
Too small is the boat which carries me
across this deadly sea,
Big waves pound from all sides
and each crest devilishly neigh.
How foolish of me
not to surrender to the cozy
seduction by the compromising short-cut!
Cut after cut they give me
to break open my little hutment
whose wispy door is bravely shut.
Passes as the time,
graver still become the urgency to
drag me out of my hiding hole,
Too far and wide is the
swash of ‘only feasible game’
in which all must play a survival role.
God! Let me
see how long I can cling
to my altar-like
holy den,
But times
are really dark
and the
moment will surely come,
The little
lamp will go blind then⋯
Birth
This tiny flower
becoming a fruit;--
Transformation of this
once petalous soot:
Its beauty and color
now turning into a tiny vase,
Old flower and the infant fruit
transmixing for nature’s laws.
Flower’s beauty being sacrificed
at the fruity altar,
The Goddess of fruits
watches this pleasant hatching from far,
She muses with a midwifery glee,
Sings then a playful lullaby for the
fruitling in the flower’s womb,
Oh! How glittery is this little
juicy lad in the petalous tomb.
So, the soft flowery curls
take a hard, fruity mould,
The petals bold
vanish into juicy, hard fold.
Love Storm
When love smiles like a rose,
some famished heart gets a dose,
Cupid’s arrow breaks the shackles
and that unemotional, hard crust crackles.
A pumping machine is heart no longer,
as the softest turbulence gets stormily stronger,
Love-storm knocks at the rugged coastline,
There for a new dawn, several suns shine.
The Love like a flower
sways to sizzling dew-shower,
Dew-drenched, a new life sizzles,
and moments rejuvenate in precious drizzle.
The heart dancing in the rain,
Pleasant madness; nothing to gain!
Sheer abundance of all giving,
Gain-lorn is no longer the being.
Heart’s orchard in full bloom,
Archaic-old now seems that gloom,
Brightly starry is the night,
Self-esteem soars to loftiest height,
And when the storm ebbs out,
like a panicked fish heart’s angels shout,
‘Oh, thou uncertain tide,
when will thou again arrive with thy sweep wide?’
The Game
How hard and how long
I take to reach near
the summit of my hardworked hill,
All battered and bruised,
final steps I still try,
Above, the peak brags its highness,
while the caterpillar’s soul doth cry:
‘Yonder, still uphill sweet cups lie!’
My eyes ogle at the peak,
And heart ready to render
a full-throated victorious shriek,
But eyes then see
the hard taskmaster’s glee,
Awaits who there to teach
that solacing sips are still out of reach.
Oh! Its quick ascendancies!
Always galloping ahead
with mammoth mirth in hand,
It is always the first
to quench its thirst
from the cup at the crest,
Then
uproariously beats its breast:
‘There lies
another one!
Pal, let’s
get promptly begun!’
Oofs, its
insatiable thirst!
It claims
exulting victory every time,
And I get my
weeping, mediocre rhyme.
1412TH Toy
So they are clapping for their achievement!
They are celebrating the 1412th tiger in
this land
where my forefather roamed to make legends.
But before they take all the credit
for saving my species,
Let me—a mere skinny kitten—clarify:
A tiger born in a zoo is no tiger!
An animal opening its eyes for the first time
among self-vaunting humans is no animal,
It’s a mere flesh and blood toy
conceived by semi-dark conscience
and mechanical techniques.
No man! No I’m no tiger!
I’m just a tiny means to allow you mighty
people to get some solace,
The genes in me have been broken
through your rampages across my lands,
You people know me as a mighty
hunter galloping after my prey,
And here in the confines of this cage
My parents forgot that they were tigers,
Your cages just define we poor animals
Just as poor dependents,
The showcase items for your kids,
To be hooted at,
To be laughed at,
To be mocked at,
No man no! I am no tiger!
I’m just a proof of your outgrowing
your shoes,
What tiger is a tiger that is tame,
It hangs down its tail in shame,
Yes man, you win!
And I bear the burden of being a tiger,
even though my genes have been changed!
Kiss of Death
Life! My purest kisses on your lips
were the honest stamps of
genuine love and loyalty,
I was in supremely pure love,
Even though my delicate, soft smooches
were returned by you as bleeding bites,
I always smiled,
ascending higher and higher to loftiest delights.
Each moment found me unprecedently crazy,
infatuated and caught in the sweet
tentacles of
unreined, unrestrained love,
You but always bit back more viciously,
Oh thou heartless seductress!
Taking the poison as sweetest honey,
with bleeding lips I always smiled,
Cuts after cuts you gave,
even before the previous blood dried.
You only sucked,
I just gave rosy hues to you,
and you returned deadly blue,
Still smile and sweetness never
left my bloody lips,
How crazily I shed those lifeful drips!
Blindly I surrendered my being
before you,
And you tricked me,
for I always saw life in that deadly hue.
Greedily gasping with venomous sighs and winner’s hiss,
You now approach with that final kiss
to deprive me of final breaths,
Life! Aren’t you ashamed of cheating someone
who perhaps loved you the most?
Flying Kiss
In these slumberous
vales
and shy, silent dales,
My spirit escapes the clutch-hold
of my confined being,
And ecstatically saunters away
to those snow-melting peaks,
where the March sun breastfeeds
many a tiny rivulets,
Like a helpless, rooted palm,
I assuage myself and put balm
on my constricted conscience,
Cold sighs I vent out,
as the pinnacled
majesty winks
from far with a seductive pout,
And my forlorn spirit runs amuck
and flies to kiss those
coyly surrendering, shining crystals,--
Away, away where rock’s snobby
ego melts maternally!
A Plump Hatch, and Tiny Catch
The day rose
after that stand-still, dark
pause,
Like an infant’s mysterious muse,
pinkish horizon took shape
with dreams huge.
Warmth and light fastly spread,
Light prevailed and darkness
retreated
with an uncharacteristic dread,
Shadows first lengthened
and then shrank to become bold;
clung firmly to get noontime foothold.
With crowning majesty,
the moments moved towards the
zenith,
Everything warmed for brightest
glory,
With a firmly straight venture
written was that glorious story,
Roses, roses all the way,
Endless seemed that ray,
Meanwhile the pendulum
swung the other way,
During the lazy afternoon’s
lugubrious sway,
shadows silently crept away,
In that slumberous silence,
many a leaves gave away
to the titillating pulls of
mother earth’s gravity song,
Shadows panicked and
slowly-slowly
ebbed away to become long,
The other horizon now crimson and
red,
It sprayed colors sad,
Lolloping tongues of its funeral
fury,
firmed up like death sentencing
jury,
Tired voices, slow steps, ebbing
strength:
The day that had risen
with such pomp and show,
It was wiped away after that
feeble twilighty ‘no’ .
Criminal Moment
There were times
and there would be times,
But endless is the moment
that still chimes
with the evil song and music of a
crime,
A crime when it plucked a life
like a thief sneaking away with
last breath
amidst heartbeats missing their
mark
imperiled by that chaos and
strife.
I bear witness against that
murderous moment,
when I was left fatherless and
put on an unprotected plane like
never before,
Like a boatman cast away
countless treacherous miles from
the shore;
Like a pariah face
Bumping against a slammed, shut
door.
No a fatherless being can’t be
the same anymore,
Moments will come
and moments will go,
But the
steely vessel of my being
is almost cut to depth by that perilous hoe.
Betrayal
Life! You are plainly a
treacherous friend,
He loved you more than himself,
Nurtured you with the most
potent,
pious and vigorous juices of
innocent childhood;
Fattened thy fibers
with the impassioned heartbeats
of youth;
Increased the aura around your
hallowed head
through graceful wisdom and talks
of ripening age.
He made you the charming queen of
his dreams,
With decades of love and toil,
he prepared a glittering palace
for you,
And then you eloped,
Eloped with dark-winged shadows
of death,
You crazy one!
Right from the start you were in
blind love with the angels of
death.
Yet all he did was to love you,
Love you from the core of his
soul.
Blossomed he a flower
that was always love-lorn for the
ghastly clutch from the other world,
Now, here lies your lover’s
corpse
and you make merry with your evil
playmate,
hidden in the darkest chambers.
Spring Rose
Spring rose!
Pampered by nights’ dewy dose
your full-lipped pout
invites stingy, sucking bites
from black bee, the lout!
You but mind it not
and give fresh flashes and fragrant shot,
Your lover’s impassioned gasps hot,
shake you up like a storm tossing a boat,
You but still smile,
Pure, unstinted, without any guile!
You have the softest, petalous lips,
And like a rapist he just sips
the feminine juices of your blood,
You rosy red and he black,
His crazy, blind passion lets loose a flood,
His darkish, sweating, contorted face,
How murderously he responds
to your innocent, breezy grace!
Greedily he goes on,
Those fiery grunts, subduing your softest moan,
And reaching the dangerous peaks
where his unquenchable thirst shrieks,
The plunderer flies away!
Away! Where more fresh faces sway,
You but still smile,
His love bites prominent on your lovely face,
Aha, undefeatable is this grace!
Vandalized Rose
Full moon night and this pond!
The sky flaunts its full-faced beauty,
The pond too kisses
the mirage, the reflection!
Love-lorn, the gentlest waves
caress the lovely, tricky mirage,
Ducks quack!
From the shore-side bushes
a bird suddenly goes for a night song,
With expert ease
and like nimblest breeze
suddenly a pack of night-fliers arrives,
And the hawks go for a hearty feast,
for every hungry belly is a beast,
Sharp talons, strong beaks, sturdy wings,
The air with pugnacity sings,
They swoop down on the soft delicacies
enjoying the soft bedspread
on ripply waves,
That lotus too bears a talon scar,
The birds of prey swoop down for one-sided war,
Soft flesh; rock hard claws,
How easily soft life’s skin saws!
There is blood, noise and shrieks,
This softest of solitude creaks
And breaks down in
the tight, lusty embrace of the storm,
A piece of black cloud
takes the milky full-face
in its dark, mating brace,
There is darkness, blood, bites and noise,
Those dreamful moments lost of their poise!
Now, the oblivious cloud,
free of its impassioned hinges,
flies away, surrendered to the winds,
The sad beauty smiles again,
And throws its tired, tamed milkiness
on this torn serenity and pause,
lying here like a vandalized rose!
Illustrious Sun
He was great in his own ways,
A small but substantial sun
brilliantly scattering its rays
across his being’s orbit,
We the planets majestically circling,
Sourced by him and always in debit,
He was fiery
and spun on his axis with copious fury,
His eyes had dreams,
Dreams of all of us becoming stars,
But fate was always at wars,
In the infinite and mysterious cosmic gloom
disposals were always in full bloom,
He and the family spun,
The supreme intelligence had pun for a fun.
We had our fire storms
and titillating, exciting bumps and smooth rides
in our small cozy orbits,
The burning core of his being
sucked fuel from the happiness born of
big dreams of his planets becoming stars,
But dreams are what?
May be they are the pyres in disguise!
In his own fire he collapsed,
From a distance the chunks of his own body
saw him being consumed by the same fiery tongues
that had zealously chorused his dreams,
There was an explosion,
His pieces were blown into
the depthless void of eternity,
And we the plants,
Shook, sobbed, stopped;
fatherless in our cradling orbits,
With horror and sorrow
we watched the cataclysmic fire,
Then helplessly driven by cosmic forces,
we were carried ahead by time’s horses.
A Moment Lives, Dies, Becomes Immortal
A dead mouse lies,
Forlornly the April air sighs,
Water in a nearby puddle dries,
A dung-beetle hurriedly tries
to roll its trophy; take home as pies.
There on the infinite, blue calm of the skies,
an eagle air-dives for ecstatic highs,
With death, decay and destruction,
its hunter instinct vies,
From the faded, sunburnt petals of that flower,
the short spring says byes.
Lower and lower the hunter comes,
It eyes the humble measles
a former life has still to offer,
Driven by the expert dynamics of its airy skill,
It goes for the carcass’ kill,
Triumphantly it ascends,
The trophy held in its talons,
A sparrow chirps as if crying of murder,
Another bird sounds applauding,
A curious mix:
The nature in qualityless, impersonal fluid.
Unseenly a chapter is closed,
The slumberous panorama, meanwhile, dozed.
Tryst with Destiny
To be popular and great
is the biggest bait,
So many of us miss the charming date
to get a favorable alliance
between hard work and fate,
Alas but its always too late
by the time journey comes to a sudden halt,
The bubble then bursts,
Names and dates turn to ashes,
Unconcerned world goes on
as usual with pompous dashes,
As soon as you become past,
Redundant thy memories turn really fast,
Still we surrender to the bait,
May be its just our inevitable, humble fate.
Lip-kissed Lies
Your lip-kissed lies are
the diamonds of truth for me,
Forgive me my blindness;
Lost in your dream, reality I cannot see!
