Belated Dreams

[Dreams and aspirations would sure take their own time to come around. When I am not over with my fulfillment over my own lifetime, what do I do with the bits and remnants? I would be silly to not gather courage and enough trust to pass it on to another person who aspires the same!]

Far from habitation’s latent shield
Across a dry after-harvest paddy field

Few dying miles left, the old steps hurried
Empty grains and husks the cracked earth buried

The old man had a young boy for a rendezvous
Reminding him of a spirit he had bid adieu

Stood he against a future improvised
Enthusiasm and hard work, resources marginalized

Soiled books on his rug, a technique naive
Young knowledgeable eyes against the twilight alive

The old hands fondled him, cumulating hope
Livelihood and learning is a tightly ended rope

He stated a purpose, those young eyes now even brighter
He must overcome or achieve or such either

A tinge lit to burn living and all its realms
In him, those eyes had realised its belated dreams.

The Dark Depths

[Suicide! This 'word' is worth a debate ( ... because I am unable to come up with any better terms for it). While circumstances and the subsequent thought process leading to it are scary; at times it might seem justified. Or is it plain old madness!]

With an excruciating recital her head burned
The overnight mill near the river, loudly churned

Voices in her head, aghast and far louder
She flung from bed and watched from her shoulder

In the darkness she heard voices of her children wailing
Voices of her better-half, abject and failing

The doors creaked loud as they got shunned terminally
Behind her, the house roared back ballistically

The hunchback moon and the creep darkness devoured
Her quick steps which the draconic voices savored

Her bent heart and mind pitched even higher
The grinding mills and its noises grew nearer

The mills, the river and the faces within the voices
Silence resurfaced as she plunged into the deeper darkness

Duality

[There are always two sides to a coin, pros and cons of being what you are. On the one end you are strong confident and people like you, yet you are scared, lonely and lost.]


I am blissful, confident and so serenely strong
I follow people and they, in numbers, throng


I fear God and that’s how I am taught we’re pious
Some faith is my soul, never a thought- ambiguous


And yet for years did I hide an insipidity?
Few lies, a true self- that never approached my vicinity

Love never sustained me, but a sympathetic crowd disillusioned
I drowned in my own heart, its depth never to be measured

To God I turned for an only sole average life
I cried out, unheard yet a hope of a skeptical strife

I need to be heard and free; buoyant yet loud and big
This is me, my thoughts on living is never a gold-dig

Reality and truth had to but coalesce and conspire
An “acceptable” persona masks all the insecurity and despair

The Healing Heart

They met they chitchat
Compassion covered all like a giant hat

The talk and the silence
Not of love yet of benevolence

Suddenly, hard it was to talk
Life took me thru a walk

Have you ever revisited a grave?
Old wounds and feelings that you crave

Wounds which age couldn’t bury
Feelings that spilled out never in a hurry


Lost in a passing saga lone
A sting remains if the wound gone

Imperfections shaped me
While august spirituality adopted thee

A lost and wild turn in spirit
Character with none a merit

A deep plunge in a euphoria unbound
A bite instilled by a poison hound

For a kind touch my fingers tremble
In futile hopes those fate lines feeble

If only god and love had a say
And not destiny and life vaguely play

Unused lane, incomplete dreams and an unfulfilled wish
Time vapourises all in its sedate burning Petri dish

Healing a heart is my life-time
Unhealed wounds yet none their crime

The Illusionist

[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!

The Conflict

[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!

The Portrait

[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!