A Poet's Audacity

Hey you,
are you mad?

... The audacity of him

to think he could,

in a matter of seconds,

turn life as it is

into words,

scribble it onto

the pad given to him

by life itself.

Pic: poetryfoundation.org

Summer Morning

The cold blanket

of haze
I saw in your eyes

has cleared,

replaced by a bright spark,

summer they call it...

But I christen it lust;

I love it

for the bright lights

make you bold;

relentless, stubborn,

annoyingly bold.

Pic credit: newsx.com

The Ear Pull

Then she pulled my left ear,
mother...
The chiding,
it is, I know,​

for leaving you,
for hiding in their city.

The bloodletting
reminds me of home,
of belonging,
of what I’ve grown up to be​,
a slave to the month
—telephone bills and 96 pages.

Heartwarming Winter!

Good morning,
fog and frost...
A bit I struggle,
the hazy dreams,
then snuggle,
hide my face from
the cold stares of
a winter morning sun.

There, I find warmth
in the heart
that sings my lullaby
these nights so long.

The Young Son

The father,
a man,
the alpha of their world,
sweats and toils,
scavenges for twigs,
dry leaves
and some spirit
to light up
their lives...
For the son, angry,
will set in a bit.
The sun will leave his home,
chasing flesh,
in the dark recesses
of his fiery
red mind.

wallpaper.free-photograph.net

Blurry Love

Can’t wipe it clean,

my vision,

to fathom the girth of

the pillars,

the depth in 

those bleary eyes

that watch over me;

I guard ’em too.

But they look distant,

I strain my neck, I can’t see...

The morning mist

smudges my roots

as I fight lethargy,

and a stiff ego,

to look back and capture

the trio shimmer in

the golden yellow

wash of Sodium.

Much before the gold

showered by the sun 

reach a shopaholic town,

it’s Onam.

I leave in haste n waste,

as the blurred 

image of my genes

remind me of karma,

of honesty,

of the simple beauty in love.

Ode to Longing

I long...
I long to
slip and fall,
walking the tear-washed
green carpet,
sprouted overnight,
through many a
long nights, in fact;
too long,
I long...

To fall...
Run home in the rain,
wiping my tears
and muddy pride,
to the hot brew
in a steel bowl,
it's always steamy,
ready for me
on a cloudy day;
the fall...
 
I long...
For I am
too sure-footed to fall
in these insignificant puddles;
have too little time to cry,
too much of anger
to fear the stare
from those eyes
that taught me to love;
to LOVE...

The Night Rain

The droplets on
your neck
glow in the dark,
sway with the tunes,
I wipe the trickle
with my lips.

It rained,
in a dream,
on the balcony,
cleansing the tan;
all white and misty
when the morning
rays overwhelmed
the red, scented candle
I left burning,
by our bed, last night.

Pic: Wallpaperest.com

The Bad Son

Like the helpless
roots I crush,
with her gift,
they bleed tears
for the deceased,
my soul...
 
Boiled and strained,
a pale, lifeless
piece of ginger;
it adds spice,
yet the bad son leaves;
a bitter taste, all that's left...

That bad son
I can never be,
but the bad son,
indeed, I really am!

Pic courtesy: One Bad Son, Canadian rock band

The Hatchback of Notre-Dame

As I reached
the climax,
as the cadence of
my sonnet picked up
for the final yards,
I could see the

insignificant cabinet ministers, 
honking and coercing
their hatchbacks to work; 
in sorry solitude, 
moored in sombre delusions, 
secluded from the love
only an early morning
spring sun shares.

Hunched over a

wheel of less fortune,

towards Notre-Dame,

from Tuglak's ruins,

towards false promises...

The forgotten

ugly bastards

of a Millenium City.

Pic: s13.zetaboards.com

Legacy Doodles

There is a time
when time itself  
stands still. 
Long enough 
for us to kneel 
and draw doodles 
on the loose sand 
while out for a tan.  

On a beach 
we paint our legacy, 
build skyscrapers, 
a few dreams; 
and let time, after its siesta, 
blow its storm to prove again 
that it's ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust!

Pic: Wikipedia

Ode to Insomnia

No, awake I was,
I strained to hear
ye breath in the darkness,
awake I remain...

Into the sleep patterns
I knock n enter,
I mock n leave,
For sleep is death,
death of love,
I fear death...

Pic: wallpapers4u.net

Winter Rides!

The cold blade

that cuts in haste,

through existence,

is hardly noticed

in the rush,

in the obsession;

as I move in circles,

concentric.

Its radius is my will,

but... but,

the start,

and the finish

reek of selfishness;

the point, it’s home.

Working up the cadence and pace on a chilly
morning ride to Gurgaon on my Cannondale

 

Red Riding

The drop of red

I was drawn to,

between your brows,

while in haste,

through the morning haze.

Ye play hide n seek,

while I just

ride n seek.

Right beside fields,

where dust from yesterday

barely get time to settle,

for they build, obsessed,

concrete storeys for women,

muscle stories for men!

The Green Signal

Let the creepers climb,

freely, up the walls,

and kill the gloss,

the made up beauty,

powdered light brown,

decked in rouge n blush,

and some fine talc,

the Taj Mahal white.

Damn the surreal estates,

cover it with moss,

till the signals turn green,

till we glow bright and right.

Then we will make love,

breathing hard

the fresh n scented

alien air.

credit: mydigitalfc.com

Office!

The fading,

smudged end of

a reality I found hanging

above me marks the

start of a reality check

that awaits me.

This hell is bright...

but tricky, sticky,

a quagmire of excel sheets;

where the morning dew mixes

with numbers and dust,

to brew the brown slashes

of bitter slush on my face...

they call it coffee here!

Photo copyright: www.freestockimages.org

Dying Young!

Falling young

for the wealth, immortality,

exuberance n arrogance

of dying young.

For I’d beat time,

freeze it at the moment

I bent will n Iron

–oh, I could mend bartenders too.

I’d outrun rejection,

and the cancer

that would kill the

killer of men I am.

I’d live on,

laughing at the giver of life

I could never become,

what have I become, WHAT?

Pic: bbc.co.uk

The Monsoon Tune

The drops,

transcends in haste through

the once great divide,

to form strings divine

from the Gods to men,

strummed by a southern breeze.

There you go,

a morning concert,

the great Indian guitar

plays a monsoon tune.

 

Pic: msn.com

Pain, Painter!

It shivers, the frame,

which locks within

its rigidity, a reality…

It once was a dream,

born out of a notion,

a hunch, a regret maybe,

just after the young painter

saw blood dripping

from the shaft

she pulled out

from his heart,

made of cold alloy,

forged in hell,

and aptly named love!

The Eyes

There isn’t a story

left to write...

But for those eyes,

and the lores

hiding behind those lashes.

Scores and scores of scrolls

unfurl as I loosen

your knot;

you let my trepid

lips doodle on your fret;

and notes rise high,

towards the creator’s bow.

I find my story there,

there in your eyes.