Present Dissonance

Among the dissonance of the city,

busy selling myself to it,

never was there an evening

spend looking at little intricacies

of those honeybees,

their lack of tire

in their daily trade,

moving from the yellow flower to the red,

fixing deals on the nectar of life.

I wish I could capture this moment

but I’m not here anymore,

to wait; to watch; to learn.

Life has gone from bees to mosquitoes-

from suckling to blood sucking

and an unrest.

I wish I could write poetry. 

Homecoming...

Here, leaning on a wall of hope
the life rushes back in a blurry vision.

Outside the eve is full of life
but my aesthetics are inert,
lying dormant, deep inside,
waiting to burst into dread.
There, in sun’s golden spray
a bird seems too occupied
collecting fresh straw.
I see his prophetic smile;
his newborn son’s homecoming.

An old black and white picture
bursts over my drooping eyes -
a home built on hard work
and that he cemented in love.
A kiss to his son’s forehead,
the Joyous warmth of welcome
never spoilt by drunken joy -
the heritage I claim as mine.

The throes of waiting
for even a single strand of hope.
I’m the father now
listening to your last cries - “Home”.
Gazing down into those half-closed yellow eyes
I wished to be dumb.
Biting down, I touched water upon your lips
which was dry for mother’s breast.

Home is far, he knows,
tears too, I know,
but, I promise you, we’ll sleep once there.
Spine-freeze, even after I’m home,
watching you come in tranquility
of respect and an equanimity.

Broken and wedged between
two big shards of a short life. Me.

Life Fragments

Travelling with life,

Circus of Deja-vu flashing,

Moments saved in remembrance

Of the smiling mirror image,

Time frozen in an album of memories.

The barely awake graphic pictures-

The machine world’s gift to me,

Add to the happy vibe, and music,

Capturing past-fragments in the notes.

They merge to form a life size portrait.

Whores of Beauty

The lift when my travel bag is packed,

The heart thumbs and tries to prophecy

About those distant whores of beauty

Who often seduce my life drive.

Innocent fears slowly drown

In the joy of the takeoff,

Wider perspectives perch themselves nearer;

With each gaze, and gust of the wind,

That lifts the hair off my face,

Disillusioned colours of life

Clear up into newer shades.

Alienating the past

My conscience holds me to the ground

Threatening to step on my ‘thought pipe’,

Breaking apart I manage to look around;

Found a thug who spilt blood

And another who cut down trees.

I had departed, but acceptance was hard;

My pen with a broken nib,

The fire break I had cut

Across my imaginative wildfire,

Whole of my beautiful perception

That was sodden and covered in snow.

A scream escaped from the alienation,

I couldn't remember the last time I screamed,

It reverberates around me

The world and its naivety cover its face

And I breathe again,

Wait! There; life is circling back.

Crystal memories

My love and sadness drone, and then drown

in the glass of red wine I hold.

Thorns of past are driven deeper into flesh,

it festers; turns yellow.

My child tries to get up a third time,

I thought I couldn't wait to see another fall.

In my wait I slowly start dreaming of a chaotic river,

it’s rhythm carrying my repressed wishes,

sloping down the narrow bend and disappearing.

It took two firestorms

to burn down my conceptual home,

I still carry the corner stone

and some crystallized memories,

I’ll carry them till age murders my youth

then I’ll rest my head on the lap of the survivor

and try to sink into myself the past we survived. 

The painter

He paints; over and over

the perception his colours brightened

day in and day out.

Empty bottles in a rainbow trail,

it appears a naughty child’s playroom,

till the canvas thickened

with the blending of his lonely ways

and life juice of unknown faces.

The expressions of their life

rode through his face

as he sketched, rather as he etched,

each thread with his brush strokes,

joyous lightning flashing his fuller eyes.

Here’s another picture -

he slides down the wall

all thoughts gone astray,

the same eyes, so vacant,

like a distant lighthouse

watching ships wrecking themselves under darkened skies;

his figure drowning in shock as he pictured

the obtrusive end of his temporal hero.

He could only paint their lives

on canvases with colours overlapping.

Those tranquil moments now past

he watches, content,

with a cup of steaming coffee beside him.

His face mirrors the thought,

so lost in the world he perceived,

that he loaded the canvas with

until the realness of the world he so carved

branded his portrayal -

“That’s what they call art”- and a smirk.

My pillow

Many have I tried and failed,

soon have they all backed away,

but the one left is silent and still.

Every night as I lay down,

my head and tears weighing down

there’s just this one to hold it up.

Stream of eyes tell the tale,

wild hiccups turned dumb

cushioning the countenance a world averts.

Doesn't mind my raging punches,

doesn't laugh "I have good sponge",

sharing comfort in its silence.

World moves round and so my head,

the soul itself is a child on a carousel.

The artless shout - "It is soulless"

still I cuddle it close

knowing what it is to me.



[ Maybe two years old. Times of depression is when he was born, speak your mind about him.]

The dip

A sudden jolt of surprise,
All I feel is the muscles contract
And slowly relax as the love swelled.
Then the womb purred with pleasure,
My arms moved on the soft skin
Tracing a line of raised hairs,
Till I found a little dip of love,
And a drip of honey fell on my heart.

Snowfall

I awoke feeling inebriated,

not the usual hangover

but as if I was freshly drunk,

I got up and looked outside; I smiled.

It had rained two days back and

yesterday they stuck their heads out

in ‘dirty’ yellowish white

but I was too busy to notice.

Today, my backyard has had a snowfall,

purest white of coffee flowers,

their scent, the sight;

this is worth staying alive for.