Poetry Is A Path
Ha! Life!---------------The sound of an unstable ceiling fan
The window with a permanent landscape.
A buzzing noon in this cabin douses
The race of life and thirsty deaths it yields.
The blood the hands have washed flows down gutter.
The earth treasures that in its core and grows
Green on the stolen memory of fall.
The rust is growing on the sinful feats.
The unsent envelopes of letters are
Becoming the placid playthings of mice.
The message from you is one of them, torn.
I look at the unstable ceiling fan.
It is so effortless to waste away...
That I choose to strike a matchstick instead.
a path through these days
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The curse of a dead bird on the footstep.
Stop to stoop over the dead-life.
Horizon full of death is exploding,
See the gust of unfaith it blasts.
The corner of cruel eyes slashing through
The red sky, the breaking of soul...
The path I take to reach the calm sunset
Through the streets of dawn, noon and dusk,
The path is bleached in colorless blood of
Deadly games man plays. The sphere of gone souls
Watches as I move to a rather
Natural end, untouched by them, slowly...
Ride on a fallen trophy(what I saw at the time of a storm)
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The storm enters in the roads of mankind
Just then. Just then I see the horse.
The pale rider. The rider is in odd
With the sinewy grace it yields.
A fallen beauty from trophy-room past.
Storm takes a stroll down the city.
Lanes and lame lives are rolling into one,
Just a rider with dirt in hair
A naked upper part with clotted earth.
The horse closes its eye to storm.
It blurs details of belly and hunger.
A blur is the scene of the horse
Galloping to take its rider beyond
Petty days of a mundane life.
Faces of death
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Sunset, now, on my window begging to write it
A purple suicide note.
'Come on write it for yourself.' I may have uttered.
Selfish-man as I am
Or a man who does not have enough to believe
On suicide or killing.
'Welcome' I tell him instead. A room with a porch.
The long marches of blood
Are the shining mementos scattered on the paths.
Psychic smile of blue moon
Spreads in an extreme slow motion on a pale sky.
Myths are carried by some
Fireflies. We watch them furl and unfurl stories of life.
So, now suicide has ebbed.
But, still with the distant sails of shells I know
There are many faces of death.
A night ride
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A sweet breeze touches the face, plays with locks,
The car moves with the light and shadow of night.
The torn blanket drawn over by side street
The breeze becomes amazed with life's tactics.
The rat with two lights of hunger searches
Your left-over. The car wild with night moves.
Moves the world. The end of the night remains
Down-faced in a stream of a dark gutter.
The green eyes
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Green eyes burn bright. And, deep down the body
Flow streams of the material poisons.
Why is it so we are the prisoners
Of green eyes? Bathers of dirty poodle?
Green eyes turn to house and capture the city.
The sky changes to yellow, white are the leaves.
The unspoken chimes rusts in breathless wind.
(Our) hands draw the curtains on the windowpane.
The rustling bed darkens with lifeless spites.
(Our) green eyes see the face of childish purity.
She breaths the sun on the skylight, pale and
Peeping with a message of friendship-shines.
And, with her turn of the face green eyes die.
Woman inside
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The woman inside the skin of his head
Picks up those stones they have thrown and builds a
Rock garden amid the mess of days, nights
And life.
The curious world peeps through the open
Windows he never minds to shut. The light
Showers a mood he so much cares to have.
Ah light!
Light whitens the black and bleak decors of
Rooms and chores. The days of rain and lonely
Porch, wet.
Wet sleepless miles in the conflict's terrain
What want he yields to and what love he does
Believe!
The woman inside the skin of his head
Creates a world of thousand blooms, cries rivers
And loves.
SNIPPET _I
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His dull scissors fell from a hand too old.
The red dirt of a village road ahead.
The village barber's hairs flow in arid air
Snippet - II
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The inventions of do-gooders to hair, skin, teeth
Even age
Lie on the dressing table with double mirror.
She overlooks
The creeping shadow of time on the pane.
The power-cut at the main street
------------------------------------Outside, the sound of pollution rises.
Midday, hustling around for nickels, sweats.
The power-cut has picked up a book,
The words dance before PC-eyes.
A French window, ajar let lights in.
A hereto-unknown colleague opens
His story page illustrated with
The rumblings an off-colored life.
Strange. Others see that a mirror-house
Slowly consumes the skins and accents.
A coats, not hers
( a poetry dedicated to my friend writer K.c.Klein)
A coat, not hers wraps the little body
Crouched it twists down the alley of slumber.
The girl sleeps on the night-bridge forever.
Spotless sun rises over her and stooped
To wipe out the last of the murky night
Out of a soul that should not be touched with
Slightest of the dimness it lives within,
The days in and days out. Ha, the measures
Men invents to bind slipping time and space!
She stirs and steps out of the tattered coat
And binds of time to reach for a life of us.