The pack mule

 

Sometimes apparent luck

is leading us into bad luck

further on the way.

Then you realize you have

a mountainously bulky foolishness

inside your little shallow brain.

Out of the whirlpool

 

The more he came to know,

the more he realized

how little he knew her,

It was all there to see now,

Her pointless rambling pride,

Concisely pointed narcissism,

Habitually despondent demeanor,

Her efficient effrontery,

Swift certain selfishness,

Extensively ornamented body

covering a poor soul,

Her manners laced with

coquetries and jealousies,

All this he saw now.

 

Earlier, the whirlpool’s vortex

sucking, pulling him into

soft languor and pleasure swoons,

Shaken, swirled by the eddying currents

now he got spewed out of

the vortex’s pointed base,

Gasping for breath,

he came to the surface

from the edifying depths,

Looked at her with a

frigidly disagreeing look on his face.

 

Falling out of love is perhaps

just to know more about a person,

Maybe we are addicted to the fall,

And fly just for its sake,

Because, however high a kite flies,

it still survives by constantly eyeing earth,

Maybe love also flies

to enjoy its habitual crash-landing.  

The witness box

 

When you steal

and nobody is watching,

Remember You are there

as the judge and police.

 

When you tell a lie,

And all believe you with an ‘aye’,

Remember You are there

standing mute with a cold sigh.

 

When you are angry at your enemy,

And find the cause in your foe,

Remember You are there

looking at the enemy within.

 

There will be a day

when this You in you

will come forward

and make you stand

in the witness box

to turn witness against yourself.

 

Don’t meet in the court as enemies,

Meet You in you

before it’s too late

and die as your own enemy.

 

A tiny lamp

 

Go to some little shrine of love

where even eagles turn dove,

And light a lamp,

Carry it to your life’s camp,

Hold it

from the wind’s hit,

Keep it safe, the glow,

The joyous flow,

Walk slow,

Rejoice

this lovely choice.

The creator

 

Life is a throw of dice,

You have the choice

to aim, roll and throw

with all focus on your brow,

But the outcome is open

to many probabilities

beyond your control.

 

Then why should one throw

with so much determination

furrowed on one’s brow?

 

One should do it,

Because if you just sit

without creating chances the least bit,

Even the probabilities will die,

Left you’ll be with a cold sigh,

When you put your effort’s stake

that's where all probabilities and chances

lie in a creative lake.

 

Your effort is the mother

of the myriads of outcomes,

They may look beyond your control,

But you’re in the central role,--

the shining pole

around which creations flow

and chancy stars shine, sizzle and glow.

The winds of change

 

Mankind’s truth

is a weathercock,

It will swing

to the direction of his

winds of desire, ambition,

greed, hate, anger,

It’ll suitably point to

where it’s desired.

The protagonist

 

There is a point

when one has to change

from a spectator to a participant,

And jump onto the stage,

Play, act and sing,

Perform one’s part well.

 

Not that earlier was no part,

It was,

But it was too small

for a big character,--

like a spaceship

locked and docked

in its hanger on earth.