Through the unrest of yesteryears you stood silently over the inoffensive radio conversation, looking out to the silent dell across the wooden frame of a misplaced window; chewing inorganic thoughts of unaccounted wisdom and lackadaisical trust.

Gun down the mild mannered stars looking down from its azure abode where innocence is cheaply available and shared at a princely sum. Trusting them would be fatal. Answers will be at a premium for those who would not be coming back from the milky terrain of un-dwelled universe. Of course questions will be forgotten after three nights of hotbed curfew on roads.

The shadow on that wall is yours. It doesn’t have your physical vigour but I can read that pristine mind; The clearness of vision, the strength of understanding, the precision of thought.

Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I am mindful of what had transpired between us last night. I can still sense your leap from the corner of our room. The rest as they say is history, buried peacefully in my recesses.

You called me a lousy dreamer. That we all are. We all are weaving magical dreams. Its just that the fabric is different and the art copyrighted.

You wouldn’t know me least of all recognise
O Himalayas but I do,
For as long as I remember reading through
books written about you,
My un-sharpened lanceolate blades of memory
drew grains of inspiration from you.

I look up through the haze of vagabond clouds
across visible horizons
Where you stand tall
through vicissitudes of primal living
I wonder again, would I live that long.

Look at the vast expanse of unbridled sea. Calmness that rests in unhindered existence, far away from human affirmations. Beliefs that are owned and treasured. Confidence that there is co-existence. 

Let me sit back and reflect. For this moment at least.

And as I work through eons of unexplained opinions, malice and prejudice let me regain the calmness of naught, beliefs that are mine and confidence that we will survive. 

Let us not talk. For some time indeed.  

Switch off the lights dear.

Wheel that has evolved

on a certain round notion

goes on and on

without revolution;

I stand at the edge

none the fear of falling

neither the unknown awe’s

revulsion to moving;

Some will land … conquered

where no land exists

beyond shore … sans energy

and quaint infinity breathing;

(and even if the land holds acquaintance

and speaks in funny old language

let him find another plain

and another air in semblance;

let him restrain

the spokes of running wheels

let him rejoice in his victory

of landing on another territory.)

every written letter saunters

between space and time

somewhere …..

someplace ……

bargaining, trade of an awl

in exchange for a quixotic - 

worn courage -

neighbourhood witnessing ....

a popular yard sale.

“in questioning lies man’s downfall”
- whose rhythm I cannot apostatize
incalculable time spent on naught
whose productivity I cannot belie;

life that breathes after my death
Father will you not question
my meager existence without
betroth to own, in unearned request;

let me seek my own questions
through wastelands apprehend
- stunned by unvanquishable truths
- assume phoenix’s own willful request;

who else will fear the sleet
when infused gentian breathes -
across silent roadsides fallen asleep
and phantom blue mountains foreseen;

little did snow know
whom I have never seen
fears come and go
as life exists …

when winter will surely succeed
and questions whoever wins
happily as today, in this full spring
in blue mountains it will recede.

(click on the photo to enlarge it)

To lisp in sighs I haven’t had the time, whose breath smells of the brazen wind and flutters the thread of my bare scalp, livid sometimes with my earliest words, in cold nocturnal nights, I the Child bear upon the signs of life a part of that is death and not otherwise

As my fingers weave a little dream
I dare not say whose path extreme
Dare say dare whose strings tremble
Of sheer tumult amidst flagrant ramble

I haven’t spoken of it for sometime now, whose lines crumble and shiver sometimes of sheer pain and sometimes naked wants, needs and deeds succinct, whose lines mark my open palm beside a cold knife’s accompaniment

I will write again and change some path, merge them perhaps or separate, I haven’t had thought of it yet but I know of knows I will leave behind when time shall come and I shall remind.

I have lost pain for the sake of happiness and
it hasn’t pained much as suffering had claimed;

The pursuit of happiness isn’t too hard a path
isn’t too harsh a road of untraveled fakirs
and is unlike the guilt of ridding in surreys;

I have lost few senses and some figure of speech
touted of importance which I seldom now feel;

Lost some, gained some and found some memories
and suddenly exulted with realization of only
having played a game and surrendered solemnly;

The pursuit of happiness isn’t too hard a path
for its my right and for rights you never fight;

Happiness is by right … Indeed my and yours solemn right.

wish you a morning –
in missing courteousness,
days crowned in sparkling diadem
and arrogance in mighty powers
subverting, in its supremacy yet again;

wish you a morning –
in subdued diabolic senses,
days balancing on splinter woods
and stuttering in impaired speech
has fallen flat on its words yet again;

wish you a morning –
in incomprehensible subtleness,
days laced in velvety silky fringe
and vagabond peace in shrillness
has come home to breads yet again.

from the distance that you see the light
will be yours -
from the distance that you dream
will be yours ;

in woodlands where senescent night breeds
and lies awake like cascading lava rills,
on a broad road highway where with wizened eyes
the moon starts gazing with a lover’s sight,
come lets stroll until we stride;

at the end of the liquescent highway lies our path
where the other morning had built a similar structure
but without form and had called us to have a look
in tremulous lights where only heart could sight
and till we see, come lets walk till we stride;

my city will watch as we pass, by the houses beside
in torn clothes and messed hairs but crystalline face
and mutter and whisper tales of our love to their lover,
with blood on our hands we will reach the weir
and till we reach, come lets walk until we meet;

and when at the site our eyes would meet
with shame the dim lake will breathe -
and ablution of our sin will surely concern
the existence of ghoul haunted seer
and till they learn to live, lets walk still;

from the distance that you saw the light
will then be yours -
from the distance that you dreamt
will then be yours;

the heart that had bled yearning
will then be yours - - -

innocence of morning winds
over the ashen skies,
whose leaves withering
and seer of cypress wreathes
and bitter oleander’s pallor
bades adieu to the crescent scene - -

and,

the penultimate fight for each life
even those flickering nights
but must die for death in stillness
will make alive … the dawn’s sight -
whose limbs will feed the brittle day
and blood will wash memories away - -

now -

let us go out over that place, where
lover’s complacence of violet space
has marked the land of erstwhile brave;
and break free shackles of restful peace
look through the prisms of nascent glow
to the second birth of our moral soul.

(click on the picture to enlarge)

but that particular sky’s fealty
and obeisance that I pay,
I stay calm
amidst persistent shrieks -
confident of managing (with)
my resources shoestring;

I stand augured
to allegiance of this sky
and this soil that holds
legends of vassal’s pinions
and their flights
to absolved freedom.

[#] Picture courtesy my friend Amishi

concepts vary perceptions

alone in the wilds

so what if -

with man made life

sans -

those lonely glides

what You reckon -
(is needless deeds)
what I bear upon -
(is only my creed)
the stag that ran -
(for life succeeds)
the Lion that hunted -
(balances decreed);

or what You say - one day
exchange these places
You and me
Me and naught
or in other forms
some stimulus
when I look upon (and)
you look above - - - -

what do I repine
for what claim I lie
or for whose claim
shall I lie
that what was yours -
was never mine.

drops that form pearl
in the depth of bed
or was it mud
that swung by the bay
for what shall I claim -
that was never mine.

what do I repine
at quests that ain’t quench
the sun ... the sky
or sudden respite
the steps that shan’t alight -
never meant to … not mine.

Failure that awaith me
Failed me again -
Awaith the success
Success never came ...

Failed success failed
Success failed success.

(Success has no precedence -
Failure isn’t an orphan.)

Most of the times, lifeless do breathe life into our very listless life ….

Sometimes you simply do not know what has hit you … And most of the times you survive the phase that momentarily you would have ascribed to been the worst crash of your life …

Do we need to analyze every gnome feeling that surrounds us … Can’t we just let it pass the night test and see what the morning beckons …..

Restless fugacious times seldom understands balance of emotions. Emotions …. boundless emotions. Or emotions …… boundary less emotions. Emotions that knows not how to house. Emotions that seldom recognizes sounds ….

Again my experiences or memories abound
sketches peccant paths and astute sounds
redirects where I seldom visit
roads left behind or rather entwined;

And I keep walking unknowingly or perhaps like
most of the times, in my own glacial silence
under stentorian skies and its trenchant cries
walking through voltaic journeys ….. galvanizing life;

on the other side of the fence,
a seethed road
laid open and wide;
chaotic,
with meretricious noises
and -
overbearing crowd;
my irascible mind
as always,
remains effervescent
in lost sounds.

and there -
in a high pitched tone
the cicada ceaselessly sings
on a night driven by roads;
his desperations
too evident to note.