Engaging game

I have nothing more to take

not anything, from anyone,

I have opened with care, the deadly door.

At ease and wide, I won it here now,

by giving more and more.

A light came to me for my own little sake

showed me the way, told me how

I can make it work without being a fake.

With it I was playing hide and seek

I was trying all my wild antics

it hugged me all over, pumped up my heart

ran into my ears and said, I can also restart

working, enjoying every moment

sharing, learning from my environment;

that no to expectations, yes to acceptance

is the key to hidden happiness.

O this is such a tough exercise

from childhood I learnt

to expect, as a matter of right

but I will try, I will rise

like the stars and the flowing rivers

every part of the surrounding nature

this nature to give is in me for sure

it’s buried inside me, under years of the yore.

I will uncover my true self

learning from the teacher, without any pelf

like the lovely light, angelic air, winsome water

energizing earth, enriching us for thousands of years

I am here too only to give

diseases will wither, with all their dotty grieves

bliss will surface, miseries leave

for as long as I breathe, as long as I live.

Let me try this over and over again

the light’s there with me in this engaging game.

Deconstruction

What if my lines
could lie
on the borders
where men, women in uniform
standing awake as a norm
awaiting orders
to shoot and kill
would my lines heal?

What if my lines
my humblest of thoughts
travel in the minds of leaders
and make them see
in a moment of ecstasy
the inane insanity
of using weapons
on living beings!

What if my lines
went straight into the hearts
of millions
and with them traveled into
the lexicon
shifted the old definition
of soldiers fighting
with soldiers with weapons
what if it meant
not dying for the country
but living for it
safeguarding, protecting
nature
working in tandem with each other?

It will not happen.
It will not happen.
I am attached to a sentiment
I am full of ego
that’s why ‘what if my lines’
appears before everything else;
it’s also a race without kindness or grace
I am unable to mellow
down, for I want to wear the
charming crown.

Am I then warring with other lines
worrying too much on how they write
do I then use my writing as a weapon
if I do, I cannot see a weaponless world.
As long as I fight for my written words
my heavy wings cannot lift the bard
for the sake of what I said before
let ego not remain in me anymore.

Not because of what I write,
but standing for
what is true and really right
let the leaders use the soldiers
not to kill other brothers and sisters
but to heal the world and the bountiful nature.

I never looked at me
sitting with an invisible weapon,
writing for the sake of
winning a competition!
It’s the same power craving for attention.
I redefine the soldier lying in me
now writing only to enjoy and learn,
to be at ease, to set me free.

The purpose

For as long as I live
I will write my lines
on what I believe
as true
for me, if not for you.
I will work on them, refine
them afresh, anew
on those patient leaves
my tears will fall like the dew
smiles will paint in various rainbow hues
my thoughts will rise and fall in horizon
lie on the space
with charm and grace
they will chatter and blather
babble and jabber
on those tolerant pages;
with them
my thoughts will talk non-stop
from nineteen to the dozen.

Unread

Each leaf that falls,
on which I write

is a story in itself;

from the way it stands

on the ground
wanders around

you could tell,

if it's heavy with words

or simply light and sound,
if it has failed

going to heaven

through hell.

Each leaf that falls
on which I write

has a story to tell;

it's falling on the stage

like a tired footfall

sitting underneath a tree

a passerby who
in between taking rest
held the fleeting leaf

with the hands
covering the face
with kindness or rage
so one could feel

the leaf
its unsung agony;

but you overlook it all

over it you write your own

stories, with an impending tone

it absorbs your lines
lies
on the bed

brown and unread.

Their game

Mind, meandering

with the moon,
in a rainy afternoon.
Both unheard, unseen
wet within the scene.

‘I love you’… a tune all of a sudden
in a low voice, almost hidden
disappeared, dearly drained
‘please don’t come out in the sun
we are condemned in the dark
until we witness night to be fun
sky’s beating the old drum, hark!’

‘Oh don’t go! Don’t go!
I have scores of chores to do,
mind doesn’t listen to me you know
there they’re out again now?
Their game begins anew.’

The invincible

Since long those people
have become invisible
they left the orbit
long ago, but it’s the habit
that still wages war
against them
creates a mayhem
inside, still-born thoughts
burn to be born
make me forlorn
hatred and anger
bread and butter
energizes the Scar
that blocks and blots
the invisible people
remain and ruin
they become invincible.

Since long those people
have gone
they won
I lost, I accept defeat
from then on
light on my feet
I rise above the ground
Stars in me
heal the scars
harmoniously glow
all there is becomes a bliss
because I let them go.

I bless those friends
let them win, I make amends
I let them grow, my journey begins
as light as it should
those stubborn people
leave me for real
leave me for good.

Writing into blankness

I wish I could send

you a blank paper

without a drop of ink

and you could interpret
instantly, my feelings.

O words

I'm guilty

of molesting you

I have sheltered you,

never lived with you;
in all the fibs and fables
you were the untouchables.

For I have always hidden some words
never allowed them to surface
lest they brutally undress
me, my world
I try now to write on your mind

without the fluid
most of the times
they’d be shy and would cower
at other times
they’d remain as it were
pure, with power.

I now wipe with care the liquid

from those tearing leaves

transcend the innocent thought

that doesn't block, doesn’t blot

but which in me blankly lives.

My home

My home
has become unbearable
words, full of words
lifeless words
they don’t carry any feeling
or have I become too old
that I should leave
and rebuild my own.

Since when did my abode
become so cold
no room for togetherness
no space for friendship
housing jealousy, hatred
competition, in a jungle of gadgets
mindless hands and feet have frozen
all organs lazy, slumber
in figures and numbers
counting days.

Words, words, only words
no warmth
travelling inside the mind
like worms
plastic wings of nightingales
agonizing odor of flowers
roses and blue pimpernels
in tired, tried and tied-up gardens
that yearn to be lost in the forests.

Artificial has the most troubling start
it’s ‘art’ with which the world
is losing its heart
unable to breathe, rest or roam.

Yet with hope,
we built this home
to live
it is hard to believe
from whose confines
now, I wish to leave.

Aimless

Running on my track
of life, I cannot relax
looking left and right
without mercy and grace
I can hardly lose sight
have to anyhow win the game.

To be first in the race

is my only aim

eyeing others, a self-defeating trait

prevents one from thinking, looking straight
I lose and blame my own performance.

Out of sight

It's strange we cannot see

our inside hides from glare

though helping us sound and square
enabling us to survive and be.

Organs singing without pause

without any apparent cause;
pumping in the green room
making us up, letting us groom.

The one gift it requires

to build the body, is air

perpetually beyond sight

yet present everywhere

day and night.