She may spread like air Reluctant to be embraced She may heave like a song Sung ceaselessly Resonating through wilderness She may exude like fiery fire Flaring far and wide Let her choose her way Let her wade away The wayward woman! Unwilling to be defined.
Distant birdsong, chirps and cries, we hear-
Deafening ears, driving people mad
Ravens grip every inch, calling men to listen.
Whats that commotion we hear?
Is danger coming closer?
What do we need to guard ourselves?
Repercussions keep rolling out
Akin to electricity lighting up the world
And the sun, burning forests and wild bushes.
When the noise subsides, I hear music
Silently invading the bustling lanes.
Media and social media are a carnival, sometimes.
When you ask me, “who are you”
Do you want to know a bit more of the sand
That spread in me from the backyard
After the river overflew to hug me
but later retracted with a bit of my soul?
When you ask me, “who are you”
Do you want to know a bit more of the song
Infused in me from the coucal’s trill
After the jackals barked in the dark
Shooing the birdie with a bit of my spirit?
When you ask me, “who are you”
Do you want to know a bit more of the sky
That draped me with the endless horizon
After the grass beneath and the stars above
swelled the vastness of my cracked heart?
To fathom me is to sway with my shadow
Feel the breath of my spring, frost of my winter
get drenched in my torrential rains,
taste the nectar of my fuzzy newness
and forever be lit by the ash of my burning star.
On many of those winter nights
I wish to see your breath on the stained glass
imagining the warmth of ease, instead
I get the familiar instant message
explaining the shades of your chase.
Sometimes you surprise me, when
you occasionally hold my palm
that reassures the existence of a bond
and a scent of cigar enters my dream
altering the plot, for good.
Between the reality of the bright day
and the romantic dream after dark
our life sails defying the rubrics
There is no pause to this play, even
to frame a well-captured moment.
I penned all that flowed in a hurry A painful production, artlessly logged Purposeless and plain… What are words without psyche and soul? Asked my curious mind… Wandering aimlessly for a few seconds… I erased the ellipses Warding off the fragmentary thoughts A chain of familiar symbols stretched wide Gaiting on the ramp with poise Commas remained grounded, Pausing for a little breath But when inverted, hung like a ‘dangling’ Exclaiming elite attention! Colon clearing its throat announced: “I’d introduce my buddies and their roles” Braces embraced each one (detailing their names, definitions, pronunciation and etymology) “Left-brained analysts with a long list!” “I got to pause; this is never-ending” Remarked semi colon, impatiently Elated, I looked at my words, lines – adorned with pretty brooches With distinctive rhythm and life Newfangled characters told my story the way it should be Full point rushed to mark a dot. It knew; this was the end. --------------------------------
As the invisible COVID swallows up the world
We see death in disguise, looming
Is our ephemeral character called back?
When the End casts its darkest shadow
we dramatically see Life’s light
We struggle to break despair’s shackles
that deadbolt our lives down
We are playing hangman and guessing a word
From an unwritten chapter of life
Remember, every crucial move delays the noose.
Something about this air makes me poignant Or perhaps too familiar to be endured… Those decades-old hollow eyes still stare at me Elapsed past that smell of stingy rags, Blood stains and cold logs of human bodies Reflecting chilling horrors of the holocaust. Something about this air smells like my home I may be a gypsy, Jew, gay or communist I hear marching steps pounding, looming Mounting tension, loud weak heart throbs Ghastly commands in the greyish-blue vicinity And black clouds ready to bomb. Something about this air creates the autumn of 1943 Leaves fall yellow, brown, dreary and dry The cries of the camp prisoners go silent My parched pink lips unable to pray Wonder where the God fled, allowing To wipe a nation’s history, hearts and hope. Something about this air near the ashen memorial Cries out loud the unheard stories of the souls of sorrow Of my wounded homeland and shattered dreams. As I let myself blend with the background The church bells ring in melancholic unison Orchestrating the slides of a miserable memoir.
Setting: An autumn of 1943, during holocaust in Germany.
The waves are black
The night flies
From the city lights.
Wait for me.
The crash of waves
Is in my ears.
The sand is dark
Beneath my feet.
This was the day
I took my life.
This is my ghost
Wandering the beach.
Those shells were once
Perhaps, my eyes.
The stars were once,
Perhaps, your lies.
Black is the sky.
Those dots of light
Without a plan
Like your love for me
That too had none.
Wet is my cheek.
I never look back
To glimpse you
Over my shoulder,
On that inky boulder.
You are real.
I am a shade.
No longer worlds
Down the hills on the river that flows, a poem lies there, and whatever
That soul of mine reminds me of the lost wanderer
of my thoughts, of the grand memories of my time
with the night-wind, the trees and their lonely presence;
where the sun would rise to the sky now and then.
For the wise said the soul of men will never fall asleep.
And I believe it even now that they fly to the skies often
To meet the Divine and the dearie’s,
And more than the dense forests the secrets they hold may be greater;
And they feed on food from the Heavens.
In my own heart and all my day awake
I see you, as a man born in a fantasy world
Where stones flew; the spirits in a never ending smile
In trees and seas you live, and white clouds..
There the master of many floats.
Your thoughts, cometh through the clouds into the street and beyond,
and I read it as it sets sail
and with a belief that it will never be wrong.
So addictive, the shapes thee maketh for me,
But at weird hours I hear the strange sound of thy hands,
Keep the pace, shall say that little spirit of mine for the fire keeps glowing
And I keep believing.
I will not be lessened amidst the tall and glittering worldly things.
And you all see in me the dying days, the youthful yesterday – the reverse.
She was a menace, you say-
When I walked the thorns, I entered a light, a lovely place to fly and rejoice.
Some aromas give you
A whiff of the past;
And you breathe in,
A part of your own yesterdays,
Like forgotten melodies rippling away
To faded pages
Of a yellowed diary.
Last day, the scent of turmeric
Took me with absolute ease-
To a pampered childhood-
Of healed bruises-
It showed me a serene face
With a sparkling nosepin
And a purple kumkum–
And wrinkled palms with rough fingers-
Adept at hardwork-
Tending to my wounds.
I reminded myself that the earth, in fact, had gulped down her soul-
And I wondered if she had left parts of herself here with me-
Probably her best ones.