dichotomy

reflection is scared of light...

if the pencil dies, it will expire with it

if the stream bides, the specter will lose the credit

it is tense

for as long as it stays

for the crown of the knight

Partner

Death has come at last.

I am on my bed

going back and back

turning the pages, trying to search

for the space where feelings fell

in place, where time stopped,

but I was slipping on the surface

when I thought fearfully of death.

I looked out of the window

nothing has stopped, nothing changed

save the body that held me so long,

and brought me finally to my friend.

I am meeting my lover

shy, hesitant as ever,

no I welcome you

though I know

I will never be done

I was always looking for you,

in the meaning of life I was missing you too.

Hi there

From the mountain top

you were showing us your tricks.

The world is tied with a wire

from one end to the distant other,

connected with ease, without bricks.

Your vision is high, your mission and goals

foolproof with gumption, without loopholes,

technically the world is a global village

hearts in us are still heavy in the cage.

From the cliff you have forgotten to climb down

you need a hand to keep your feet on the ground.

Monopoly

Ten million ways ― you

lead the dazzling fate.

Engaging the glamorous

feeling overshadowing

failing white policies.

What matters most,

is the fun, along the sun.

Moon has no place.

But you have this craze

that you will say and you will stay.

You have managed to scare

the world, which is chasing the eagle

because you told in your convincing speech

that the bird has fled with its eyes

poor world cannot see it can see

it fails a myriad times, it tries.

It is chasing with a rod you sold as a wand

ten thousand wails with yelling hands.

I am waiting behind a tree, beside the bank

of a crying river bleeding for some silver touch.

The malady

A tonsured garden, a deforested place;

in the desert, an oasis still tolerates the sun

heat is reining in every life,

there is no space for anything other than sunshine.

Such kindness of light that burns the impulse

of every kind is the cruelest thing that needs to be deserted.

But every being there has forgotten the art of leaving

it is looked upon as deceitful…

fearful of criticism, the remaining ones are condemned to stay

to be charred to death with the burden of white-hot values,

it is staging onlookers as actors

killing the garden’s character in every minute of the day

that promises no evenings, no nights.

The moon has left the place for good,

there is no room for darkness.

The generosity of the sizzling sun is slowly spreading

its wings all over…golden numbness for sure

has ruined the balance of the Silver Star, beyond cure.

Melting moments

When the child beside her mom

was licking a vanilla ice-cream,

I didn't know where it came from

but I found my poem and my theme.

The eyes were closed and the tongue, busy

drops of dots fell off careless and easy.

I thought of my past that dropped from my time

to let it just go, I thought was a crime.

The child finished the stick with a smile on the face,

the two went away with the happiest embrace.

I was worried for reasons I never came to know

but the things that I loved I’d never let them go.

When I have those goodies, I am never inside it

I pay for the food never enjoy what I eat.

The child taught me now to relish every stand

I’m feeling light this time, with an ice-cream in my hand.

The lines

Lines of silver light

falling from the moon

as poems,

piercing the darkness

of the world.

Words are diving

into the non-static fall,

every word is joining

the dancing light,

rods are becoming sharper

than the cones

eardrums are merging

with the calming tune,

sound has gone silent.

Bouncy eyes can behold the writer,

enterprising ears can hear

the painting on the dark pages,

humming through the nebulous stages

of the world.

Futile,

futile is the effort to capture

the blurred unity of 

the effervescent lines

bound to re-appear

cleaving straight through the hollowness

of the world.

High up in the sky

A vulture, an eagle

flies high, very high

but their eyes

hang down and lie

on corpses, cadavers, insects,

they come into the smallest little space,

from the top, they intrude into

the domain of their prey.

Like an eagle I wish to fly

let my starving wings and eyes
enjoy the sky

Dead facts in living fiction

Stories are imaginations from facts,

facts derived from stories.

The link never dies.

Form of life lies

in facts and fictions

through croaking words,

memories travel like a nomad

on the lost-and-found stage,

the dais collapses in the oceans of habits,

more of same habits

and surfaces again

with a hope to be written down

and trapped afresh, as if new, in the books

whose pages flutter like a calendar,

the sole object that the ceiling fan

excites in a gloomy room.

In the midst of modern living

imagination is also hijacked,

dark circles prevail around

every pair of eyes

that sees like a mastered horse,

disillusioned by the sounds of gallops

as free will.

This continues in the pool of life

where the imaginative animal

dies like a frog.

Facts and fictions keep on

insisting, arguing, back-chatting

whether the frog is actually a toad

and if it is really dead or living.

The silent sounds in between

Poor power

Power is poor

when you want importance,

prominence by highlighting

your visible possessions, positions,

your focus is on the other,

their looks and their voices.

When you show

how you are lost in your 

flesh-bone identity traps and threats,

how worried and stressed you are

safeguarding your stance,

how you have to work to win,

make things happen for you
at the cost of those others
whose looks and voices haunt you.

Pure power

Power is pure

when you give importance,

prominence by realizing

your unadulterated connection

with the higher self,

when you find your true identity

beyond your body, you listen to your

own rhythm and voice,

when you see

how relaxed you are

with the gains and losses you have

earned and learned

in the forever well-wishing drama of life’

how work is done,

everyone with you wins

and how everything happens
on its own.