Broken toy

You broke me beyond repair, 
each piece lying scattered in despair,
You, a child playing with a toy,
full of joy,
Then on a childish whim 
suddenly went for the bud's beheading trim,
Giving it sorrows full to the brim,
Kicked it away
and moved with swagger and sway,
To make a fresh heart’s hay,
Away, away!
Here the broken toy lies,
Its each broken part separately dies,
Multiple deaths these are,
While you play again far, far,
With another toy,
With marvellous ease and joy,
While the broken toys aren't fit for love again,
Catch they no child's fancy chain,
They just keep the memories and the past
through sad nostalgic blast
lynching their broken parts,
Gain some unprofitable arts,
And then crumble 
with silent rumble
and die finally with a sigh 
and a sadly smiling bye
to the child far away 
playing with full heart's sway
with another toy,
All joy, all joy!

Moving on

Anger should mellow down a bit, 
and melt later to turn sorrow, 
then change into forgiveness, 
followed by acceptance. 
And maybe then dear friends 
we can afford a gentle smile,
And welcome a new day;
anchor the bruised self in a safe bay,
And remember the past with a painless nostalgia,
And move on. 
Journeyman, that's how we ought to
proceed on our path.

A higher dose of love

 There I walk in a little hill forest,
A sad heart broken beyond repair,
Broken dreams and soul in despair,
Everything seems 
just a futile glimpse of shifting mists,
Big questions stare in my face,
is it light embracing darkness? 
Or darkness welcoming light?

Loss, longing and love 
brewing a mist in the morning forest,
I walk on a lone path, 
Then the sunrays streak in, 
Everything turns into love,
Loss and longing 
glide away with misty vapors, 
Love is nothing but 
all the lesser emotions sublimated fully.

Ode to silence

Each word is incomplete, 
just an abstract, broken fragment born of 
thoughts arising in the mind. 
And the mind itself a grainy fragment 
of the overall consciousness,
Words are mere grains of sand,
With sandgrains we try to make castles, 
huge castles that we cast in pursuance 
of the ever-missing meaning of life, 
And then the sand slips, 
we go for awkward flips. 
Words are mere broken arrows,
How will one even win a battle with broken arrows?
Words are mere sparks, 
temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence,
They just give a little flash of light around our feet 
as we grope in the darkness,
seeking a way out of our puzzles. 
Words are mere temporary twinklings 
on the vast canvas of silence,
They themselves tell their story of incompleteness, 
their own meaninglessness 
behind all the meanings ascribed to them,
And the moment we listen to their story, 
we arrive at the moral of the final story,--
The moral of their story is silence;
Silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening. 
As I write this, 
huge rumblings of megh naad, 
the rumblings of clouds, 
buzz across my head:
A booming cosmic storm 
that chucks out the outer shell of words, 
crushes the stones to spread the sand 
to go flying with the winds, 
The words getting sucked into 
a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy, 
And beyond that silence, stillness and emptiness.

September

Rains and more rains,
Mold in the pickle jar,
White coral mushroom on the rotting plank,
Potatoes with spikey sprouts,
Baby frogs everywhere, 
Lots of nests in the trees and plants, 
The sky laden with flying insects,
Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads, 
Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers,
The air with a musty smell,
The railings more rusty,
The sky just a cloudy canvas,
Hot teas and spicy pakoras,
Smiles,
Gossips,
Love and loss in the season of moss, 
Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in 
and take a shelter in the autumnal camp,
Well, it has been too damp,
Welcome now the sunny lamp.

A diet for gutsy guys

Eat all your pains yourself,
Be utmost glutinous in it,
Don't share them,
And then take long-long sips 
of all the insults hurled at you,
Don't share them as well, 
Believe me fed on this cattle feed 
you will emerge as a 
strong, gutsy, thick-skinned human-animal.

Little stream

 Little hills,
A verdant small valley, 
And a curvaceous beauty,--
A stream rippling across the stones,
Its unchained notes singing a song
for the tired traveler who stops by it,
Its divine fluidity melting 
the stony pain in his heart,
Its free will flowing joyfully,
setting him free from the 
prison of fears, worries and tension.