House Into Poetry
What is the "house" we live in? Is it a combination of walls and roofs? I think it has a soul. It asks for love and languishment. Above all it can be a subject of poetry.
House...1
Four walls lift it on their shoulder.
Sounds of rain dropping on it was the music
My childhood likes most.
A kite is dangling from its corner.
Roof looks at its brilliant colors.
I know that it would like to have a flight with it.
House...2
Run through the corridor and stumble.
The dark red of bruise,
Mother has gone to market
And you will not tell father.
Is it true that rebuke is painful
Even more than a bruise?
Deliverance
The shadow of the winged creature
Upon the arid-gold meadows...
The shades of the trees have shortened,
The high-lighted flowers on earth
Uplift their faces asking some
Abstract deliverance. Mid-noon.
Watch these deeply, raptly and
Soak these through pours of the body.
Be intoxicated in them.
Mid-noon, buzzing in silent mode
Provides us with deliverance.
Bedroom
The world has sent him early to his bed
The doors kept ajar partly disclose truths..
A world apart, ages apart, half known.
The night of difference that will crawl in
His dreamscapes shall live till he understands.
The bed grows short, time endless and night birds
Rise to the juncture of a blue moon.
He grasps the panes of window of a pain.
Night smiles to indulge in delights of world.
Aftermath of an accident
The subsided men, how was it to be
That close to death? The snub of light through it,
The bitter dark water's fatal embrace
Tightening right to the end. Sheer wastage.
The salt that eyes let mingle with the creek.
How the desperate cries of you, choked the
Anger treasured in minds or desire
Of hopes, premature even to their hearts.
The cold beds of a morgue and the hubbub
And aftermath on the accident did they
Care even iota of it? Their eyes
Frozen in terror never answered them.
Avenue of rain
An avenue of rain, pouring and tumult of
Winds splitting into streets of damp shelters.
The building of white darkness stands afore.
The anxious hands closed in hands in a wait
Watches clouds and rains and cries down his cheeks.
Ticking I.C.U. beyond a bad dream.
Smells of nursing cannot wipe flavors of
Disillusion, awake nights and old sweats.
The choking fire of sleep burns the eyelids.
Love is watching love solving the question
Of to be or not to be. Rain wet windows...
wasted promises
---------------------
The wasted promises are conserving,
One day an explosion will rip apart.
The tree under which thousands of human
Wait, and return to empty dream's graveyard,
And, staircases that upload tired legs to
Rooms and delete them with pleasure and pain.
Everything in our concept'll blows away,
Blast away beyond our memory.
Such explosives promises have gathered
Both the world
The reddish brown terrain of cinnamon
Is it the country you come from?
Evening drops down from this side of earth.
There is always silence to match.
The green rows of this man made oasis
The windows pane in a sore light
Of a flat at the dull sixth floor, dies down.
The door opens itself half way,
Is it you in the guise of gust of wind?
The sense tingles to a presence.
Someone fiddles with the dust on the life.
The window captures misty scene
Of evening walkers there down bellow.
A reddish brown terrain quivers
Between small this and that of both the worlds.
Name game
It was not his name really.
He may have any other.
Yet his presence, eloquent,
Delightful and ever green
Shimmers like an imp in space.
It disappears but remains true.
Like those scripts, futile without
A mind to conjure them up
In a word of its reflection.
His name remains true to them
Who believes it to be truth.
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