In a Mood Melancholic
Another Day Passes By….
Strange day
mourning the passing of something abstract
unfathomed heartache
somewhere faraway
I awoke
felt no pain
then suddenly a distant siren call
a leaf trembled when you spoke
all things pass
entropy ensures that things will simmer
maybe there will be joy again
and yet, alas
a little dimmer
Faraway Losses
The great tree, many generations old
Fell below the canopy of the dense green forest
The wilderness continued oblivious
Was the sound of the fall even heard?
For the scurrying creatures below,
it gave shelter, shade and solace.
Into its great giving bosom they would scramble,
if the world closed in around them.
Who will now envelop in its shroud of comfort,
the parrot, the squirrel, the snail and the mushroom,
now that the great tree is gone
In a remote corner of the universe, another star imploded
Its memories sucked into a dark void,
not even beloved voices could escape.
Radio waves from this event,
Were recorded as just another inter-stellar incident
by a faraway telescope on a hill.
Yet, for the small planets orbiting this sun,
it was the furnace that gave them warmth and light.
In the confluence of so many parabolic paths
Its gravitational pull, promised them steady nights and days
The orbiters will soon crumble to dust
Unfettered, lost in a light speed drift
An angel died without any warning yesterday,
far away from where she was born
A notice tucked away amongst the ads in the paper,
would mark her passing without a show of emotion
To sweaty readers on the 8:24 train it did not merit a second glance
Yet, to the small band left behind,
Who needed a moral compass when lost in the desert
In the stormiest ocean waves,
The port that sheltered the ship in a tempest, is gone
Cinderella’s Dilemma
She reflects
as she stands at the doorway
unable to take that step
torn between the ghosts of the past
and the outstretched hand
of a hazy future
terror strikes at twelve
Cinderella has no choice but to run
I have the glass shoes
The Assassin
The young assassin steps towards his prey
all the while, twirling the dagger with which he will kill
the cold steel sharpened to a point, the jagged edges glinting
no tremors or jitters, reflection of a strong will
The neon sign proclaiming “salvation” burns its image into his mind
no symptom of emotion emerges from the depths of his being
only a calculated desire to destroy all that was once good
no moral dilemmas temper his thinking
Now there is darkness and he steps up the pace
the victim hears his approach and turns her face
moving swiftly he clasps her hair
he looks into her placid eyes and senses a dare
no plea for mercy, end the pain she implores
the sudden wetness as the dagger plunges in to her core
she is lifeless now, the deed committed
he feels no anguish and no guilt is permitted
the neon sign now blinks “love is the answer for you”
he stands vindicated, knowing that it’s not true
A Life’s Lament
Here we stand,
on the edge of forever
for me there may be no tomorrow
for us there may never be an ever
The Passing
The sun rose
in the eastern sky
a dash of blue
with a blaze of gold
you emerged
from a sea of serendipity
cool breeze
rushed over me
a desire felt
passes like a cloud
the sun set
in the western sky
the day
and a life
were over
Bjorn, Why Did You Have To Go?
It’s a dimming twilight, yet the battle continues
the final set is at 6-5, and the game is deuce
a forehand kisses the line’s edge and the crowd gasped
they bow, and plead for a miracle, with hands clasped
like a phoenix rising, can he play like a champion again
at this match-point, can he dream beyond his pain
he stands bloodied, yet unbowed and proud
a titan of his times, the hero of the crowd
three bounces and the pretender’s booming serve
deep in the backhand corner, the spin makes it curve
his return is wide, a life’s match is done
he shakes a hand quietly, and walks off into the sun
Epitaph
I have a photograph
of a passing emotion
that painted your face
I wrote an epitaph
to a strange sensation
that ruffled your grace
The Lost Wanderer
A path in a desert
changes direction with every gust of wind
as sand blows over the footsteps
of a traveler before me
now I am lost forever
wonder if I will lead others astray
in a similar way
Persistence of You
Picked up a shard of green glass
clouds,
like streaks of pealed laughter.
Reflections,
of a thousand images.
could swear,
every image had a bit of you
On the street, a broken neon sign
flashing,
subterranean messages of hope.
Changing,
words a thousand times.
Suddenly,
your name appeared in blue
On the television last night,
a channel of faith.
an electronic evangelist sang,
tunes
in praise of glories past.
every song,
seemed to mention you.
Song of Loathing and Derision
Towards you, I will not display chivalry
I refuse to be humanely compassionate.
With your private demons, settle your own rivalry
I see your good is dead, perpetually lives the degenerate
I am not the doctor who will give you healing
Nor provide nirvana as your preacher
Find some glue, repair your own brain’s ceiling
You, I have classified forever, as an unfixable bleater.
I give no shelter to your ship in the raging storm
When you capsize, I will not seek, nor rescue
May you be blinded by thirst and by scurvy, your limbs deform,
Lost forever, without hope, in the deep fescue
When you ache, from me, no balm or relief
In troubled times, by you, I will never stand
You I no longer trust, you abused my belief
Live in the mirror, as your friendships disband
At every turn, on you, I will heap abuse
When you cry, I will pull away my shoulder
In a lowbrow dive bar, go sing of your blues
May the sun shine on the world, but you turn colder
Do not seek me to be your white knight,
I will loathe playing your champion defender
Get bloodied and broken in your own fight,
May you show no courage, be the first to surrender
Put me back in the bog
You demand a prince,
I am contented as the frog
The Truth About The End
The flower stared right back at me
daring me to terminate its short life
I reached out to end this charade of nature
a thing of beauty cannot be forever
God’s Ultimate Plan
I imagine this brilliant surrealistic splendor
of a forest becoming a nuclear wasteland
A cloud shaped like an umbrella passes over
Nineteen apostles voices try and sing in unity
the song is the same but the pitch is getting lower
all that’s left is a semblance of the holy trinity
fools, you know I do not suffer
pangs of doubt or bouts of guilt
While heretics, atheists prostrate and proffer
I push the button to end what’s built
It’s over and the task is done
what did not reduce to ashes, continues to burn
The Soul of the Square
The girl stepped up to the tunnel of death
placed a flower and cried at the sound of thunder
in a battle between truth and evil
everyone knew the odds were never even
in its finest hour of defeat
love would take its fight to the streets
cannons and artillery in the square emerged
the evil empire had all voices purged
this land is condemned to doom
this order will perish and new flowers will bloom
Lovers will wander aimlessly once again
the Lama, love and freedom will not forever be slain
The Spring of Discontent
The paid-for crowd murmured, yet dissented
unheeded messages from impeached pulpit preachers.
Inevitable troubles would be fermented
hearing denunciations from carbon dated teachers.
As litanies drift over the tribes, long tortured and tormented,
global messiahs express mock pity for the swarming creatures.
Wasted praise be on the formerly fashionable lords,
their sayings, no longer the order of breaking dawns.
Seemingly immortal infants cut their own umbilical cords,
the young unwilling to play unwitting pawns.
Slay the infidels and kaffirs with unblemished swords
Destroy coherent thought before it spawns
The kingdoms grow silent and emirs fall back into slumber
Jailors man the gallows of the prisoners ships
As blood on the ground dries, the populace grows number
And order in the land returns with stoning and whips
Choose Well
This land prides itself, on
the lack of anarchy and chaos, as
symbols of order and progress.
Attitudes stay hidden under, a
carpeted sheen of discipline, as
big brother watches, to
keep the flock from straying.
Robots occupy cribs, and
grow up to march in unison, to
a systematic piper’s beats.
Should be rebels have, no
grouses against the machine, and
facebook dissent is loudest, on
the brands that matter or don’t.
Will a poet ever be arrested here, for
scribbling a raging litany, on
the sides of subway cars?
My land berates itself, for
a dystopian state of flux, as
no unity of thought is achieved.
The populace is forever, on
the edge of boiling over, as
most young are restless, and
rock showers bloom everyday.
A blood soaked history, and
leaders slain as examples, to
emphasize democratic discord.
Crazed messiahs abound, and
preach sermons of love, and
occasionally of absolute truths, while
guilt ridden riches sneer, at
the untouchable sweaty poor.
A billion beliefs jostle, and
clamor to be heard, by
deaf lords on high pedestals.
Choose heaven and hell well, for
Ghalib, Caravaggio and Gaudi, meet for
coffee and conversation daily, only
amidst this strife and turmoil.
Women’s Lib
Someone suggested that we do nothing
to raise the stakes and lose control
condemnation
damnation
revolution
Decimation….
evolution
anticipation
transformation
liberation
contribution
emancipation
Someone suggested that we do something
to raise the stakes and gain control
The Artist is Condemned
The activist distributes pamphlets on busy pavements,
extolling the virtues he holds sacred,
seeking Yudhishthra in these kalyug times.
The police van picks him up as a loiterer,
In this town, seeking justice is passé,
when charged with assorted misdemeanors and crimes.
The playwright wrangles on changes to his script,
by the producer who desperately needs a cheerful ending.
But Sir, he pleads, that was my life’s tome.
The stars live happily ever after, coins jingle at the till,
while the author, drinks to his death
in his miserable city, once lovingly called home.
Glitzy romantic calendar art is all we need,
the former painter of cubist fantasia is commercially told,
if not a beatific Ganesha, then a dancing Sridevi will do fine.
He makes sure that she is drawn with a smile and oomph,
colors diluted with piss and spittle that was all his own,
then redeems his soul, hawking cheap plastic toys, from six to nine.
Poetry on the metro’s crumbling walls,
declaring instantaneous freedom from capitalism,
for all who supposedly care and feel.
The poets meanwhile live in penury,
seeking alms from every passerby,
scrounging for their next meal.
Dante’s Divine Comedy
There is no heaven in the sky
Or, below us a frightful hell
Peer into your mind, and you shall see
Thoughts that enter,
Persist and dwell...
Yet, from moral depravity
They never set you free.
The Oracle
They foresee the world aflame
lugubrious miseries, eternal damnation
All hope is removed they proclaim
Horrors that extend beyond imagination
Here, take this elixir to numb your mind
seek salvation with a mumbled chant
Search for that, which we have defined
From all desires, with prejudice, recant
But Oracles die too, as old men do