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The journey of a poet

Image credit: Google images I understand who I am through the records of my life I land in sound, silence some hear...

Thursday, September 13, 2018



I was looking
at the white flower
swinging in your hair
like the silver star
floating in the night sky


I was looking
at the white flower
hanging in your hair
like a fish
out of water

your hand

thanks for giving
me your hand
nothing can touch
me now

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Life is too short

Like rainbows, life is too short

for conflicts, disagreements
disharmony; hurdles
heinous huddles, false judgments, 
that do not help us grow.

Like snowfall, life is too warm

for cold war, feuds, battles
bloodshed, hatred,
utter meaninglessness 
anger that makes us low.

Like dewdrops, life is light

the halo that shines behind
is too full with healing glow
to sulk in the disease of darkness,
that disallows us to let the germs go.

Like raindrops, life falls in love;

when hearts do not concur
let them be, when smiles do not confer,
not to worry, know that differences 
at times don’t mellow.

Like falling leaves, life is too giving

to be snatching from others
power, pelf, position, possession
that we seek, like beggars;
nature, the benefactor, we fail to follow.

Everything outside is way too transient

like those footprints of a camel
in a desert, life is walking away
in every moving moment

yet it pumps constantly inside.
like a voice that alerts, draws us into the present; 

redundant emotions, unkind words, like worms
that weaken the wise and lively organs
are not of any worth.

I should have named it 'Unconditional apologies'

Saturday, September 8, 2018

And yet I am not a somnambulist

When I go for my walks,
long ones,
it feels I am going
to the mountains
to meet the magician
who marries all.

But today,
as I was coming back
I heard a cracking sound,
in silence, I sensed
doors were opening
with my heartbeat
doors, doors, doors
for years shut, closed
now opening
like those flowers
that bloom in those gardens
in most unnoticed bushes.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

They were all doors
of places of worship.
But it was strange
to find people
to have swiped their spaces
known boundaries
the walls they thought
as their own,
they're out of their comfort zones.
But they’re not feeling
as strangers, as intruders
as mere visitors, as outsider
they felt not any different;
familiar welcoming warmth,
equally positive vibrations
from the walls.
I am willingly walking over me,
walking past, with my feet
above, enjoying the journey
winning on years of self-defeat.

 How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Gurudwaras, Mosques, Churches
Synagoues and Temples;
now full with people,
who’d suddenly discovered
today, without guilt, fear or shame
the teachings were in essence, much the same.
They’re not seeking pardon
not even those Nazis seen in synagogues;
once and for all
seeking pardon seemed over and done;
they’re all engaged in seeking
retraining the teachers’ teachings.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Majority of them
seemed tired of breaking
their own religions into pieces
fighting, and only fighting
with themselves,
but today, after years of hatred
bloodshed, mindless wrath,
with the cracking sound of opening doors
they heard the disapproval
of those saints they loved and adored.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Followers decided to walk the talk,
the teachings of the Magician
which the teachers taught
with openness, experiencing the feeling
from deep within.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Wednesday, September 5, 2018


Buddha and Jesus
chained in words;
good, kind, pious
positive letters
emotive expressions
chosen Ps and Qs
conscious hints and clues
chanted, written
in unending volumes
revered, measured,
relived, treasured,
for years and years;
inside the holy premise
the outstanding guys
worshipped as the supreme teachers
remembered without fail
in every celebrations.

But their teachings?
For Heaven’s sake,
who applies them!

For that my dears,
please ‘lend me your ears’
we have the infamous delinquent dude
we may know him as unkind and rude
he may be the harbinger of terror and war
from the bottom of our hearts, we may hate Hitler!
BUT o please don’t get hurt
we follow and apply his tricks to the letter!

Wake up friends…open your eyes
he’s in us as Mr Hyde
who comes in every walks of life
 diligently, in disguise,
he directs, he instructs, he wins
all over the world, we hate our neighbors
love the sin, hate the sinner;
like herds of hypnotized sheep
we follow him and his teachings
weird it is o my ostrich brothers and sisters
that yet, we certainly worship Buddha and Jesus
as the most undisputed, respected teachers.

I may not be competent, I may not be compliant, but the voice that's floating inside may not coagulate.

Sunday, September 2, 2018

The salient

Talking of noble things
writing to break open the door
winning arguments
are songs that sing aloud
clearing the cloud
beautifully, charming the firmament;
they could even provide food
for the mind and the heart
with all their craft and their art
noble, pious, just as they should.

Application is silent
but it shows in the way
one behaves and beholds
the world.

The indomitable

Hungry world.
Beggars all around.
The rich and the poor,
the young and the old,
the weak and the bold,
men, women, children
perpetually cursing, blaming each other
the one thing they have in common
is that they’re all in need for more.

Refugees and land-owners,

vagabonds, nomads, 
city-dwellers owning one 
or multiple
high-rises, skyscrapers;
all are busy begging from beggars
some taking, some snatching alms 
milks, meats, meals
dishes of deals.

Pages are dark with ink

leaves are turning brown
written stories draining the crown
drying with drought
like dying warriors; soldiers
beyond any doubt
never seem to be in sync.

In this drama of life
I am also starving
never to lose the appetite
to write; trying forms and norms
to shock-shift frozen thoughts
it seems I am set
words are failing, yet

there is this one energy,
that of love, pouring on the stage
guiding, guarding, greening my garden
raining from above, at every little stage.

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