Under the pale blue sky,
Beneath the green foliage,
I walked !
Aware of the ensuing emptiness,
Holding on to a phantom hand,
I walked !
How far can memories take me,
How far can hope ?
Should I keep walking ?
Hope
If hope could kill, That would be my death. Clinging on, till - The last of my breath.
A bullet journal entry
- Go to gym
- Cook something healthy
- Start a new project
- Clean the house
- Meditate to clear your mind
- Take a deep breath
- Throw a glass at the wall
- Enjoy the shattering sound
- Thrash your room
- Take a look around and cry aloud
- Kill that buzzing fly
- Squash it gently and smile
- Be dramatic
- Storm out of the room
- Shout out loud
- Weigh down on yourself
- Kill your dreams
- Crush your soul
- Surrender without a fight
Dreams
Dreams, an embellished view of life,
Vividly rich with characters, places & stories.
Why are dreams so profound,
And life not ? I wondered!
Distracted by past and future ,
we miss the splendor of now.
If, lived one moment at a time,
Maybe, life gets as rich as dreams.
No, I am not a know it all,
I just figured this out
And went right back to sleep,
To my pensive dreams.
Pseudo-awakening
A chilly November night,
When the world lies dead asleep,
Even the wind too frozen –
To nudge a leaf or a crystal dew,
The poet awakens!
With wide open eyes,
Stares at the distant stars,
Tries to smell the chill –
That is stagnant in the air .
Having slept peacefully for long,
In content, in the coziness of love,
The crafty pen has rusted,
So have the fancy thoughts.
Unable to acknowledge –
Even the grunt of the stomach
Or the sleeplessness of mind
Goes back to sleep,
Once again in the cushion of love.
A pseudo-awakening!
Letter 1: The beginning…
From the hundreds of faces I see every day,
Life chose you for me, I don’t know why.
Maybe there is a bigger plan in this coincidence,
We might have to wait to find out.
It could be my fear and insecurity speaking now,
Still I want you to know what they are saying.
I want us to grow beyond kisses and hugs,
For fantasies fade with time.
I want you to know I am a crippled spirit,
But you don’t have to fix me.
Know for sure what you love about me,
Make sure it survives the challenges we face.
As for me, I love the tenderness of your soul,
The innocence and the warmth of it.
I promise to do my best, to preserve
The beauty of this kindred spirit.
All this said for us to grow-
With each other, into each other.
Me…
I am no artist, for I’m rarely in mood,
Neither skilled nor motivated.
I am no poet, my verses don’t rhyme
Nor convey a message.
I am no writer, my scriblings are just scriblings,
With no stories or morals. Prosaic!
I am just another emotional human being
with wildly exaggerated thoughts.
Bruised
Wounds never claimed my garnished lines,
For I’m only bruised; not deep enough,
To bleed poignant words and gory thoughts
On a stained sheet, wet with tears.
But still it has a rusty tint, a sepia effect
Even the dancing lilies and the singing rivers,
For I’m bruised; purple and sore
And I decorate a parchment, oozing it out.
But, when interpretations turned hostile,
With a conscious effort to disguise,
I hid evident strokes, under a shady touch
And behind the obscure hues, I found refuge.
Music and them..
They stepped in, as music, into my life,
Seeping in, to become an indispensable part.
Desi and 90’s stepped back for a while,
When classic rock conquered my heart.
In the company of an alcoholic mate, I enjoyed –
The Beatles, Eagles, Zeppelin, and all the whiskey songs.
Then a summer came, gave way to another winter,
Alcohol and the mate dissolved inconspicuously in time.
But I kept playing back Don McLean and oasis,
It grew on me, more closely entwined.
A mid winter’s day, bought me another surprise,
He asked me, to hear it in the silence of the night,
And gave me Enya, Serenity and Sade(ness),
So was my encounter with the trance.
Though it never caught up on me so well,
I did play it back in the memory of a thought,
How well was he defined by the music of his choice,
Saying so much more than words could dare.
Everything melts in eventually, and they disappear,
Leaving behind traces of thier music, and on me a smear.
Now playing is ‘A tree for my bed’, and I close my eyes,
To the symphony by John Williams, a lullaby.
friend..
With you I share, my weirdest dreams,
No pause in indecision, no fear of judgement,
I pour it all out, my pellucid thoughts.
You touch my soul, as it were yours,
You see though me uninhibited, and –
My faith is restored, with your presence.
