What are we, but similar, distinct
Patterns in a platter of the same elements?
Why don’t we see a common conscious hint,
Despite the same fundamental blueprint?
The answers lie in the combinations –
All the attentive atoms which, unsure,
Arranged themselves in fashions
That fate has prepared the plans for.
So, is it fate that distinguishes you from me?
But isn’t fate just chaos and its entities,
And isn’t chaos just a set of unidentifiable, ordered patterns –
Patterns that decide to form you and me from inanimate matter?
As much as we love to ponder over life’s purpose, in tones hushed,
All we are, are egoistic, irrelevant, individual specks of dust.
The way we are selfishly depleting resources in the name of development, with complete indifference to mankind’s future – this poem on an apocalyptic situation, requires very little help of the imagination.
Every rain cloud is another belief
To be downtrodden by nightfall,
Not a morsel goes in without reminding
The misery that this may be the last of all
Every grim face at my dinner table
Takes the same question to bed,
“The way that it is being forecast,
What if, come ‘morrow, I’m not fed?”
The fields look modest and moan
For what seems like elixir now,
But was truly life’s safest cradle,
That suddenly we decided to do without.
The skies seldom seem to say sorry;
They enjoy this backfired vendetta’s glow
Amidst the darkness that’s now mankind,
Their ex bosom-traveller and now prime foe.
Six days of industrious service
To justify the six figure returns
Have vacuumed out enough energy
To disallow any worldly concerns.
Tonight, the heavy, hustling highway
Seems to retreat to its plushy cushions –
But, as the fading dusk paints a soothing hue,
Let me share, love, what I wish to experience.
Our mother star has ceded the reins
To the partly veiled disc of white.
Distant relatives of the mother keep
Company to this mirror in the sky.
Come, my hope, let us lie beneath these empyrean beings,
Souls bare, bodies raw and our mortal minds dreaming.
If I claim to dream of you every night,
I’ll have to admit to shameless lying.
If I promise you all fears away,
To echo a hero is what I’m trying.
If every breath we shared was perfect,
Then perfection has countable flaws.
You’re not my perennial subject on canvas,
For else is what the mind often draws.
Retreating from all usual ideas of amour
I seem to portray myself as insecure.
But, there is one absolute certainty I have –
If you’re unhappy, a restless heart I have…
Have kissed me goodbye the days of promise,
Has withered what seemed to stay forever.
Was a summit what seemed all ascending
A bolt back in time, is now my prayer.
Had vowed to rain on us, the clouds,
To keep us alive, the showers glad.
But swept them away, a breeze and a storm,
And what’s left of them look ironclad.
These fingers pine for the camaraderie,
That entwined with and made them able.
The looks of the now descry them nowhere
It looks to form a funereal fable.
Dreams of calm and togetherness buried deep in memories firm;
Shall return in sleepless nights and honour me an eternal squirm.
Away away as I went from home
The paths discovered further roamed
Into dark alleys and green meadows –
Choices galore of shine and shadows.
My pulse keeps sync with the throbbing beats,
As the cello and snares keep a cyclic meet;
Notes from the black-white keys linger
As a score of long famous fingers
Roam on a sax and six slim strings
While the sultry voice of a damsel sings.
As metal glides over pulpy fibres,
Blue hue flows, seeps and rests.
Words from letters,
And letters from
Level lines, troughs and crests.
Feelings buried within thoughts,
Omnipresent signatures over bills,
Mile long equations,
Quick, quiet reminders –
All my needs, my darling fulfils.
She stays cuddled, close to my heart;
In my pocket’s corners, as she lingers;
Ready to scribble
When I hug her close, with my fingers.
P.S. In spite of the lovely service my pen provides, I still subject it to all kinds of terrains – cloth, tissue papers, human skin, and walls to name a few. This poem talks about the joy I draw from writing, and how much just holding a pen soothes my mind.
Suddenly all songs made sense to me;
Words began to fill a void inside.
When my sole ray of hope left me,
It is someone else’s misery that I sat beside.
The poet fills others as she empties herself.
She has the power to wield words that can linger;
She can choose to surpass surrealism.
Instead, she exploits experiences.