There comes a time...

There comes a time in life,

When the taste of wine seems bitter and salty,

And the smell of the spring is dull.

When the new is old,

And devoid of lustre seems the color of gold,

And nothing seems to be alive at all. 

There comes a time then,

When everyone around looks the same,

Needy and wanting, greedy and vain.

When beauty is rare,

And the need to be is now have to be,

And distant and faded seems the will to awaken, again.

There comes a moment after that,

When all seems hazy and grey,

And the darkness spreads across night and day.

When breathing is laboured by the burdens of history,

And no hurt will ever trigger pain,

When no more words come, no more thoughts are left to say.

Then there is black, lightless and dark,

Nothing has any meaning or value, beyond,

And everything said, done and taken seems like vacuous nothingness.

When all the strife and all the battles past,

And every pinch and every praise,

Can never, ever again, light up the eternally spread darkness.

Free at long last...

The colour of my skin,
The creed of my birth,
The place of my right,
Will, no more, my name shall be.
Free at long last will I be.

The road I walk,
The words I talk,
The skin I wear,
Will, no more, my fame shall be.
Free at long last will I be.

The halo I bow to,
The law I'm avowed to,
The roof, to live under, I build to,
Will decide, no more, what my fate will be.
Free at long last will I be.

The flaw of my design,
The preachings of my faith,
The script of scriptures,
Will determine, no more, my destiny.
Free at long last I will be.

The threads of my past,
The truths and lies of my forefathers,
The meanderings of my heritage,
Will, no more, the fabric of my life, weave.
Free at long last I will be.

The fodder of my choice,
The furnishing of my abode,
The hues of my walls,
Will, no more, the brushstrokes of my being be.
Free at long last will I be.

The land that I farm,
The forest that I scavenge,
The stock that I breed,
Will, no more, the determinant of my judgement be.
Free at long last will I be.

Dull

Tall
Windowless and dead
Towering to the cloud.

Convoluted
Imposing and endlessly stacked 
Noiseless, and yet, loud.

Spartan 
Dull and grey
Foul spotting across the land.

Hard
Dry and macabre 
Life drowned in an ocean of bland.

Noise...

The noise beats loud and painful
The screech and screams of the irrelevant
Endless cacophony of the tune deaf
No quiet, no silence, end.

The beats are always off tune
The peaks and troughs are all muddled
Continuous, horrid and unending friction
Headache, nausea, no end.

The tunes are sour, bitter and angry
The overtures riddled with history, long overwritten
All that rings through the endless cacophony
Pain, spin, vertigo, no end.

Waste not...

Waste not the ink of your heart,

For love that but is fleeting like the season;

For there is love for the loving,

That never in eternity will part.

Strain not your chords on a song,

That has only words and tune;

For there is music that comes from the divine,

That will live forever long.

Drown not your breath in tears,

For the alchemy never meant to be,

For there is color and scent in nature's bosom,

That will bloom for you through the years.

WATCHING AND WAITING, BY THE SEA

I stood by the edge of the water waiting for the water to touch my feet,

And watched the birds glide over the crashing waves,

And waved at the boats carry men away to fish from the depths

And watched the sunrise from the mountains to the heavens

But the salt water and my feet, ne’er did they meet.

I stood by the edge of the water waiting for the waves to wash over me,

And watched the children play in the crashing waves,

And saw a few dolphins break the water to breathe,

As the sun changed colour to gold and amber,

But my body never got wet, and my soul never washed by sea.

Tired and angry, I sat myself down waiting for the tide to rise to meet me,

And stared down the fishermen rowing back, boats filled with their catch,

And watched the children swim back all gleefully drenched and dark,

The sun mellowed to a dark red as it met the horizon,

But the tide fell with the sun, and rose with the moon, never to wash o’er me.

Now I stand at the edge of the sea and think over the day,

And the moonlight plays with the crashing waves,

And the night sky riddled with stars twinkling as diamonds in a diamond mine,

Waiting for another night that shall pass by, another sun to rise,

And hoping for tomorrow, with some unknown blessing, the waters will come my way.

A Ghost of Wrong Exits & Turns

Did I tell you about the first time?

It ran like a shiver of love

Running through all of my body

Until it was piercing light in my eyes.

Did I tell you about the second time?

It was like floating in a dream

Through darkness and light, 

Until it was a tearing thirst in my throat. 

Did I tell you about my tenth time?

It felt quite like the sun had run out

And winter and dark was all around,

Until it was time for the next time.

Did I tell you about the last time?

It was like a pain that promises to never cease,

Been burning in your muscles since the last time,

Until there was no breathing anymore. 

Did I tell you of the shadowy streets I wonder?

Amidst the dark and scary memories past,

A ghost of wrong exits and turns,

Until there is only waiting for the next birth.

I found a book of paintings

I found a book of paintings buried deep under the reverie of my attic,
Covered in brown dust through which peeked a ragged jacket;
No one knew whence it came or who painted in it,
Or whose faces were captured in bold brush strokes, and faded paint.

Therein was a painting of a young child and his dying mother,
And streams of grief flowed from innocent and helpless eyes;
The mother had streaks of sickness etched over her face, under her eyes,
Expressionless as she passed on amidst her humble belongings, under countryside skies.

There is a painting made in differing shades of grey,
Of a street corner that I've not seen the likes of before,
And, you see an unkept head of hair under the straw tent under the dead streetlight,
Under the sun or under the light of the night, it makes a dim sight.

Someplace near the center of the book of paintings that I found under the reverie of my attic,
Is a painting of a couple, how in love they seem!
Bathing in the setting sun alone on a weathered shore, along a river meandering along,
Probably watching the rising tide, the tide of promise, the tide of better fortune.

There follow a few violent paintings that follow,
With blood and gore splattered in abstract strokes and patterns,
Like a disturbed yet determined mind that has been dissected on to a canvas,
Pouring out painful memories, flowing from a mountain of dark spirits and dark faith.

There then follow a series of happy strokes with bright colors,
The couple in love, from the weathered riverside,
In the midst of prosperity, and friends, and wealth
Happiness in their hearts and loneliness in their eyes.

My book of paintings that I found under the reverie of my attic,
Ends abruptly with a lonely funeral pyre on the weathered river shore,
Like a poem half written, half formed and half lost in reverie...

My God, Broken...

I woke up this morning to a cold wind

No thoughts, no words, no feeling

Into an emptiness, a hollow with no meaning

Like my God, this dawn, had not woken 

I looked out of the window to a sunless stretch

No character, no colour, no shape

A monotonous plain, featureless with no end

Like my God, this day, had not spoken

I looked up at a grey and dull heaven

No streaks, no hues, no promise

A canvas with no paint, 

Like my God, through the night, was broken

The worst of it all…

You die for your love
And you kill for your hate,
And you’d stand up for what you believe
And fight to the death.
The worst of it all is that here today
No one shall move and none shall be swayed,
And you’d die and kill, and stand and fight
For all that you’d do you’d be forgotten and failed.

You could holler and scream
And cry foul at everything you think
Is wrong and evil,
And must be done away with
The worst of it all is that here today
No one shall listen or comprehend,
The burns of your heart and the acid of your senses
For all that you have said  shall be forgotten and failed.

You could write a poem or  a tale
Or orate an epic that in rhythm paints,
The unjust of those that break your sway,
And live through the storm to fight another day.
The worst of it all is that here today
No reader shall read the fire and bile
That spewed forth in words that cried,
And understand the pain that was seed to the agony
For all that you have written  shall be forgotten and failed.

Quote from Mr. Bachchan....

But I got to stay…

Note: I am venturing to write a song after many years. It is not quite what I would have written 10 years earlier but then age catches up and life changes. I am not brave enough to try a tune to this but I welcome anyone who would want to venture.

It’s just the morning and I’m feeling torn apart
Like I am missing the center of my heart
I have so much to do to make it through the day
And it just seems like such a long time away.

And I miss you, I miss this morning’s kiss goodbye
I miss you, I miss the way you held me through the night
I can’t bear to be so far away,
But I got to stay.

I still hear you joyfully humming away
The song that you said you heard the other day
About a man who lost his way and was gone, for too long
Till loving found him back home.

And I need you, I need you to find my way
And I need you, to whisper me a song asking me to stay
I can’t bear to be so far away,
But I got to stay.

And tonight I will think of you, trying to sleep it through
Till I run back tomorrow, run right back to you
As I look up to the stars, I want you to know
That I love you…
 
I love you, I can’t make through without you there
I love you, a love to last forever and a day
I can’t bear to be so far away,
But I got to stay.

And then came the rain…

The burning and beating heat soared
And the scorching wind feebly whispered around
All joy was drowned in sweat that flowed
All tears dry in the scalded ground.

The burning orb has made aged slave
Of him who once in wealth have played
To toil, and burn, and mourn, and pray
For the ferocious riot to melt away.   

And then came the rain conquering the force
Washing anew all withered dreams
Healing the burns and wounds and sores
Breathing life back in dying hopes.

Of battles we won and lost to you....

The rise and fall of the phantoms of the past,
Have driven through us the realization at last,
For all we've lost and found and lost again,
We never lost the pain.
The morning sun and the evening wind blows,
And the stars halo the lunar glows,
They witness to battles we won and lost to you,
As we struggle, revolt and anguish through.
Futile, this pursuit of the promised stake,
Is destined to bow and bend and break,
Deepest in heart we always knew,
Never shall you shower the doers due.
The hours and days and years go by,
In the reverie, the history you hide,
Have played witness to battles we won and lost to you,
As we struggle, revolt and anguish through.
You betray and belittle and kill our souls,
And curse our beings to tire and our spirit bows,
For we fall and yet we must rise and turn,
To feed fuel to the fire you burn.
The irony of the feeder and the fed,
And the wounds of the suffering and dead,
Be witness to battles we won and lost to you,
As we struggle, revolt and anguish through.

Attempt at poetry…

01/07/2011 10:25 AM

I tried poetry again after a very long time. This one went out to someone as a New Year Wish. I am not even sure it is half good and I will wait to hear from you.

As the orb bids adieu the harsh horizon,
This last of the storm gone by,
May what has been the brightest summer sun,
Shine through the bleakest winters thine.

May the Gods and the stars and powers that guide,
Shower the conquests ahead in glorious victory,
Though battles be shed and martyrs styled,
I pray the wars bring treasures to thee.

The seeds of success in the year gone by ,
Reap fruits, I pray, of eternal pride,
For though now the fields show barren and dry,
We shall yield the riches in time.