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[Synopsis: Ever noticed those little girls and boys by the roadside? They might not have eaten from last night yet they seem so care free. In this poem I just cant help wondering what are they made of! What keeps them alive and kicking or for that matter what hopes they sustain! ]The Illusionist
Of our world she knew so immensely less
Yet those eyes strived, none tactless
Besides her hurried a traffic and its populace
No care for them in her did ever surface
A tangled mass her hair, all battered
Those rags her outfit, old and tattered
An enigma that hunger is none could reject
Outwits attempts to emulate her misery abject
Tiny fingers clasped tight in the sweat of the sun
A little something, remnants of the last luncheon
With better things to worry, undaunted and at peace
To see better days any living moments she did seize
Quick were her steps, as so to chase a wild dream
In those sparkling eyes, innocent hopes did still beam
Dearth with riches, for God is a perfectionist
Calm was her smile, for she is an illusionist!
[Competitions are funny if not healthy! This poem brings out a weird comparision between man made beauty and natural beauty. In no way they can be compared! Nature is supreme. This poem goes on to tell why…]
The conflict
The lamp gave the moon a quizzical glance
To a lawn it lent a brilliant instance
Blending arrogance to man made pretention
The lamp of the lawn was no planetary illusion
Not shrouded by any ominous cloud
None borrowed just its sparkling power aloud
Triumphant it stood illuminating every sight
Boasting no myth to its extreme delight
Hatred! Thou shalt condemn thyself!
The moon smiled, every ray a hope in itself
Darkness seeks her to cordon the sky
Hidden my clouds for she is mysteriously shy
For a blessed earth she selflessly strived
Lives of the night just by her survived
A beauty she lent to infinite darkness
She lent to love, eternity in all its firmness
A world she lit, the earth she guided
The sun rays evolved, she slowly subsided!
[Synopsis: To some, art is to be expressed, admired, worshipped but never misinterpretated and sold with a price!This poem traces a sad possibility of a few unfortunate who have to contemplate art to earn a living!
]
The Portrait
In an “art house” besides the butcher
In a dark corner, antics and all clutter
A portrait beheld a tale, unexplored and bitter
Depicting an aged taboo fraternity
Or a crowd seeking a euphoric mentality
Almost obscene, art with no solidarity
Had it depicted art as a musical
Or as a phrase, profound and sceptical
Or portrait love,life or the immortal
Rather was the silhouette all nude
Fancy to the eyes a shabby delude
An era of art crumbling or its prelude
Art is worship yet chastity clueless
The artist’s theme, weak and baseless
Pleasing to the senses yet still senseless
Should the artist be living hand to mouth?
No success or livelihood anytime about
In a dilemma his sore soul did shout
A shout! To voice himself against a question
For living is a risk with no stable solution
And hunger met him at a rational junction
Time rewarded the portrait a vulgar boast
While patrons of passion are but lost
Striving all means to live and art all lost!
[Synposis: Childhood! The memories sweet and mesmerising! This poem
does compareour present day lives with our growing up. That phase when
we were loved and cared.Close to home and close to nature. As we grow
mature, we lost all of them. Well I find that the differences are not good!]
I
am
missing
Innocent were my young dreams
Pitched were my happy screams
Golden were the sun’s vivid beams
The dark crust masking the gold at night
Home coming birds from the day’s flight
Sheltered cozy over the branches in sight
Hastily evolving seasons, the sun, the rain
The cold water drops still tingle my brain
Tingling my feet is still every pebble every grain
The farm, the field and trees all emerald green
Haunting me a distant dream never to be seen
Nature, my shrine, without her I have been.
Lucky was my childhood, I cherished, I lived
Seeking no green diamonds, I believed
I grew up mature none to be relieved!
A burning city surrogates that breeze old
Without any warmth, today I am sold
Isolated and alone, in winters fiercely cold
Calling out to the rain, seasons and the sun
Pacing heart and teary eyes, directionless I run
Embrace me! And not so callously shun!
Memories! Waves on sand imprints splashing!
A simile or a plead, yet none surviving!
I survived, post my life went missing.
[SYNOPSIS: Many a times we notice- a dying cow, hurt birds, street dogs being beaten. I cant but help taking
sympathy for them. None seem to care for them. This poem
ventures to explore the basic question of why they are being
treated this way. And that they deserve a little care and
concern, least a descent death.]Token of Humanity
A bird, a fledgling with broken wings,
happened to disturb my heart strings.
Hurt by the hell bent hands of a cannibal
sending out cries of pain in excrutiating decibels.
Dust mocking the blood oozing from its fleshy orifice
A scene that could make the hunter suffice
A small crowd gathered in its lassitude
Just to pull me out of my solitude
Sorry, they felt with faces intense
Which to me seemed a fretful pretense
The lone survivor of humanity, my soul in my being
couldn't tolerate any more seeing the forbidden thing
The value of life tried I to describe
to a crowd unwilling to anything humane imbibe
The thinking part in me ceased comparision
And I quickly passed by, but for the daparted soul
said a secret orison ...
