The question

These questions are yours all,
And the answers that somehow fall
in your knowledge zone
are also your own explanatory moan,
The questions go out
with a seeking shout,
The answers that come home,
These're your own queries reshaped after a roam,
Your query is your mind's eye
wandering with a searching sigh,
It goes on a prowl
carrying its reaping scythe for a meaningful sprawl,
And after many an argumentative brawl,
Comes it home
after a restless roam,
Transformed now
after debates and discussions
ending in an agreeing bow,
It now fills up the space
left out when it went out to embrace
an iota of meaning for you,
The same vapors now turned dew
carrying a solacing hue,
The question was all yours,
The answer too is all yours,
Just some medium carried it on,
And simply a medium took it home,
Yours it was,
Yours it's now,
Just a subtle change,--
The puzzling cloud turns crystal clear dew,
Just a shape new,
Receive it as your own,
The missing child that was once gone,
Hold it,
Cherish it
and smile
for it has travelled many a mile. 

Momentary kiss of bliss

Don't ye seek permanent bliss,
for then you miss
its softest touch
on your soul bruised much,
Permanence is too big a load,
Leave it for the God,
Soft, soothing is the transient brace
with full grace
on your restless self,
A gentle song to calm down suffering yelp.
So journeyman,
soak the tiny gentle instalment of bliss,
Allow it to kiss
your fatigued nerve,
Feel a bird's verve;
a stream's ripply wave

so beautifully brave;
a vale's beauty
performing its natural duty;
a dewdrop's pride 

shining like a new bride;
a bird's free flight;
a child's unconditional delight;
the silence singing a song
in hilly seclusion for long;
godliness in a forest pristine and pure
where truth pervades all sure;
hope in someone's eyes;
a lover's sweet sighs.
These are little dollops of bliss
that arrive with a momentary kiss,
Grab them,
Soak them,
Imbibe their essence in you,
Then you won't rue
the absence of permanent bliss,
Allow its little representatives to kiss
your tired self
crying for help. 
 

Loss

Oh, if not for this chatter in the mind,
I won't have been blind
to softly caressing greeting by a flower;
autumnal breeze's cool shower;
a flowery branch's tipsy sway;
a dew glinting in the sun's ray;
a bird's chirpy pun;
another's flight for fun;
slight shift of a cloud in the sky;
a lonely heart's sad sigh;
the unsaid behind someone's words;
the silence enveloping the noisy birds;
pain hiding behind a smile;
tears lurking behind a joyous pile;
the pause shadowed by the mad race;
suffering behind an angry grimace;
the light hidden under the dust;
the imperishable under the surface rust.
Oh, if not for the chatter of this mind,
so many things won't have'n left behind,
unsaid, unseen, unfelt, unheard, untouched, unsmelt,
Oh, if not for this chattering mind
a treasure won't have'n left behind. 

A dawn

On a vintage autumn night
tremulous dewy stars
kiss the seasonless silence
spread over the lips of darkness,

A mysterious hand caresses

the tousled tresses of the night,

Whimsical swirls and ripples

of the passing seconds

in the vast, silent pools of darkness.
Someone's exhausted sobs 

and ceaseless moans
now dive forever into the
measureless serenity 
of the slumbering eternity.
The high tide of darkness
swallowed the star,
And the gloom
added to its
invisible shades to the far.
Then keen and warm light filters from
the eastern horizon,
Flits across the misty, dewy curtains.
I feel a benevolent new sun,
a new fireball
with warm blessing rays.
  

The mountain eagle

The mountain eagle--

a hunting, humming sophistication--
unabashedly flying in splendor and ecstasy,
Its unquenchable, well-mapped tempests
creating an airy, overwhelming firmament,
But does this fraction of neatly ordered reality
possess anything good
for the prey as well?

A little place

In the hills there is a corner little,
Peaceful, silent and still,
Motherly protects the hill
the daughterly shrine pearly,
The sun cometh early
and kisses the dew-jewelled cobwebs,
Shines upon the watery beads,
Fatherly the sun reads
all that was mysteriously written at night,
Away from all light,
With its softly reading touch
stars shine much,
The dew shines and smiles,
away-away from all guiles,
like the jewellery of bushes and grass.

Herein I walk in sometimes,
Gently seeking permission to be let in,
Away from the noisy din,
And like a smiling host
it feels my weary roast,
And without boast,
the kindest host,
opens her gates
to this little soothing place
set-up by the
free-flowing spontaneity 
of the existential force. 

The moth that burned the flame

O thou lady moth,
Holding 'this' and 'that'
in your hands both,
Accuse thou me the flame
and put all the blame
on my burning male flame.

You say,
keeping your own mischief at bay,
that I burned your wings,
How stoutly self-justification sings!
You blame
fully aflame
that you scalded your skin
in going around my fiery orbit's din.

Dear, let me share this,
Lies lie buried under your kiss 
and a selfish hiss
under thy whisper soft
and the best fakery held aloft.

You complain of scalded skin
and bruised wing,
But what of me?
If you could ever feel and see!
You just feel the heat
of the fire,
o thou liar,
The fire that burns in my heart's each beat,
It was merely warmth,
as your miseries swarmth,
to melt your rigid icicles of pain,
And amazing was the gain,
You bloomed and flowed,
Your face glowed
with a new lovely hue,
And now thou rue
that it was a scalding, furious fire,
O thou my sweet liar,
Know this that,
my wily cat,
you pierced my heart
with your sweet poison's dart,
And drilled a hole in my flame,
putting on me all the blame.

Thou proudly walk away
with all coquettish sway,
leaving a hole in me,
which nobody can see,
A hole more fiery
than my entire flame,
And the crown of shame.

You hurl accusations
with a shine in your eyes,
But you should know the flame dies
hundred times
for each little scald of yours.