My annual exam is over

Winter, autumn or spring
I don’t know
Who cares! I see flowers and fruits all around
vegetables flood on the ground
I have reaped them all
a comforting weather - quiet, pristine
leaves moving; golden, green, or silver
falling or rising why bother
times
now, no more
my annual exam is over
peeling oranges in the sun
listening to birds and brooks
liberated from those
lazy letters in books
vibrant, in peace, at ease with me
nothing to prove; failed and fared many times
with flying, fading colors
now, out of the past,
I am always seasonal, to live and learn
moments of being have begun.

Sources seldom stress

Dictionaries are unaware
of what literature
in volumes of letters
have done with them
adhering to, skipping norms.

Scriptures are unfamiliar
with what religions
in numerous ways
have done with them
with or without forms.

Stars are not all there
their lights ignite,
spread the spark
but at times
left in the dark.

Conception

My lips, drunk

when it touches yours,

with words of incessant praise

my hands, drowned

in the oceans and mountains

mellow with touching organs

jaw-dropping moments

immeasurable bliss
treasures teem in travelling tongues

​​​​​​​writing many stories of love

stealing time, from time
I have become so big

my body consumes the stars

in your eyes

by leaps and bounds

I behold millions of sparks.

Only my kisses can conceive
the boon

what a glorious child

will be born of your womb.


You might as well enjoy the music by clicking here

nomads

For some
beginning of a year
awesome
full of hope, happiness, cheer
for few
it’s nothing new
resolutions lost
in framing images
promises, words

Innocuous years
come and go
writing travelogues
in time trapped
fast, slow
through travelled tracks
of titter and tears.

Changing garden

My green garden

sordid

all of a sudden

free from stony intelligence

no worries, no headaches

bound with bounties

without bonds

surrounded by stars

like currents

flowing incessant, flawless.

I am suddenly in paraspuri*

with parasnath**

in a moment

I have become parasbudhhi***

currently feelings fill the urn

fillers of lights burn

the waters of loving

most affectionate of sins

throwing up forthwith

troubling scenes

even brownie leaves fall

until there’s nothing at all

the pot that was upside down

now in a minute

changes sides of its crown

becomes full

with powerful currents

that which was filled with stones

thrown out

troubling words, definitions

possessions, positions

losing significance

meanings like healings

falling in place

my green garden

​​​​​​​golden, splendid

now full with blooming

flowers, brimming

with fruits

birds in charming trees

I am suddenly in paraspuri

with parasnath

in a moment

I have become parasbudhhi

Note:

Paraspuri* - There are two worlds but we are aware of only one world.  One world is PARASPURI and the other is KANSPURI. In other terms we can say one is Ram Rajya and the other is Raavan Rajya. Sri Krishna is the first Prince to rule the Paraspuri (Golden Age) which is of 1250 years. Kanspuri is the present age that we live in which is popularly known as Kaliyug (Kalah-Kalesh ka yug).  There is a mystery as to why it is known as PARASPURI and why today's world is known as KANSPURI.  Paraspuri means all the human beings who live in Paraspuri are as pure as Gold like Paras. Paras is known for its purity.  Therefore, all those souls who live in Satyug including Sri Krishna and Sri Radha are pure souls. Now, another mystery is that who creates this PARASPURI.  It is the Godfather SHIV who creates this paraspuri. Sri Krishna and Sri Radha are the first Prince and Princess respectively who get to rule PARASPURI.  When Sri Krishna and Sri Radha are small, they are popularly known as Sri Krishna and Sri Radha but when they grow up and their coronation (Taajposhi) takes place, their names change.
(Source: Wikipedia and the Dictionary of the Brahmakumaris)
Parasnath** – Shiv (the only one God who never comes in human form)
Parasbudhhi*** – intelligence with the bliss of Parasnath

Golden touch

I take your girdle in my hand
make a hammock and kiss the sky
the seat with the silky sand
talks to me, of dreams
lived, left
with my hands I hold the band
swing helplessly
songs play and you float
on me, with me your support
time for my golden death
has arrived, opens the gate
I can smell you, witness your gait.

I have come to a place
I didn’t know
the magical rope
freed me from my blue
without trace
tied my silence
beyond balance,
by the sea
waves hold me high
I kiss the sky
sense a golden touch with you.

Out of tune

It is spring now

even though

the long mourns

I hear

from instruments

flute, violin, guitar, piano

playing autumn, inside

memories I’d know

as green, at least remember

them as one

now changing color

full of dust,

suffocating and dull.

The winds outside

awash with bird-songs

sunrays, chirping brooks

do not notice the tired wings

of the overcast leaf;

it goes away, far away

as outcast.

Paradise

Wishy-washy buildings
almost kissing the sky
granite, marbles, tiles
spic and span décor
bank papers pile
insane asylums house
restless inmates and lovers.

Comfort at hands
spotless roads and gardens
to choose
hollows cost inside
blank loneliness, quiet chews.

In chains of files, goes on life
unfulfilled dreams lie
under the azure blue
cries from inside
a thousand wishes die
imprisoned, in plastic paradise.

Once upon a time

English has left England

since long,

reluctantly it went

with oppressors,

tradesmen, missionaries

to unite kingdoms, challenge boundaries

of distant lands,

through cants

forced their tongue

into every foreign thoughts

for easing their stance

looted, plundered, murdered

until English, went out of leash

completely out of hands

pronto to who does it belong.

Now the evolved language appears strange

when even the natives speak or write

errors beyond imaginable range

abound; sound far from right.

Writers weep in their graves

their tongue demised for greed

emancipated English strikingly behaves

but England pays no heed;

how can they,

today the patois has betrayed;

the voice alas, on a fateful day,

went unwillingly for trade.

Sad that matching natives of today

write or speak gibberish

that once upon a time,

was also called English.

Written in good humour for those who are very compassionate towards writers of non-English origin

The space

With a rainbow ink

in my pen

I touch the horizon,

with a brush in it

I paint a picture

of possibilities,

crossing the limits

that lied with the mind

a glasshouse

condemned to think

within the boundaries

of repainted canvasses

overwritten pages.

With a rainbow ink

I become a visitor

of the encompassing surface

and then a writer

a painter

of the murky border

flooded with stories

of douleur,

unspeakable pain

but it’s only here

where the sky falls in love

day and night;

The ink ties me

with the given up place

a lighthouse

unwritten in its midst

forbidden, abandoned;

frequented though

by lovers

stars

who wanted

to write and paint

about the purview

being in the space.

Fearless

failure
my friend
yet no fear
I cannot walk anymore
through life
I move with my clutches
one day, the other night
I am unable to see
my two eyes tired
catch the light of the stars
in my news-less ears
sounds of the waters
do vibrate
what I say
makes little sense
in the world
for my words do not
rise or fall
yet there
in one corner
unafraid
I chat with my pal

being in between

beginning and end

of existence

heard, unseen

lie in the mind

moments in between

sensing memories

come and go

echo, out of nowhere

travails of the stars

days and nights

leaves of stories

changing colours

afresh

living the consciousness

of how their tales began

how they would end

sensing happens 

-perhaps-

being in between