Friday, June 19, 2015


Let such be the romance
that, if unkempt hairs asks
for any boon
to shift her silence
in ecstasy and fall,
let it do away with voluptuous and wider hips

The only leitmotif
that shimmer the 'evening-glow'!


With wealth
The litter and glitter,
Your art will increase
The heights of tomb and Taj

Alas, alas, what waste
my tears sigh,
Proving the love
in marble and earthy mound

Unfit for tombs and hearse
I adore my hermitage
On some lonely stars
Pruning love in sweet verse

Alas, alas, what erudite
Fastidious tongue holds,
begging heavenly azure;
Quailing my masonry free

With wealth
The chosen and the few,
My art will increase
The heights of state and spirit

Alas, alas, what fire
Your vault aflame
Nothing I look
That does not burn to ashes and grey

With wealth
The chosen and the few…

ONE 'morning'

One 'morning' more
Red, Ochre and yellow
Wagging happiness
in one more of a stroke;
expressive and elegant
scintillating and vivid,
the habitants
More joy, more light

One 'morning' more
Vacuous, pensive and sad
Crimson, sienna and red
Wagging miseries at its fore
in one more of hunger look;
empty and prolonged
ebbing and dwindling
the slump, the death
No more joy, more of grief

One 'morning' more...


Do you really need to
munch words
To pave your character

Please tell me your story
with fewer words
When did you last cried your belief

Do you still need to
worry your words
To extend a helping hands

Please give me your sadness
with longer silence
Till I heal you short, by my loving heart

Did you call me through muted response
needless of my worthy words
Find me beside you then, soaking thy pain

Please give me a compassionate look
worthy of mutual kindness
Weaving eternity upon us!


You only give me reason
to wing my fish;

My fins of steel
have mighty strength to cross the boundry of depth
diving in through an ocean of tears

Saturday, June 13, 2015


In your vague and distant looks
I can span your far cry, and
Can measure the crush
Hidden behind thy dusky veil

Some nonchalant and dull words
prefer me in passionate quash,
The extent to which you point me there
was never unknown to me, ever

You stood by your haughty pretension, that
Only you are the repository of deep and dark;
Raison d'etre are not those vague symptoms, that
Put you in distant reach.

Some dead points linger, between us two;
To quell the might of reason and faith
Why did you protrude your distant looks!


My bicycle
Sees me
through her sparrow eyes,
Hopping and bopping
The road so nice

All intuitive feed
Soak my visceral from
As, not of iron and wheels
But of perceptive demure:
Modest and shy
My little linnet, ferry me along

Creaking and screeching
She rasps my gyrating mind;
Tacit and silent
She pecks me
To lubricate the run

Yet, with grey plumage
My bicycle sprint:
The rust and oxides that weaves its turn
My little Rolls Royce runs

My bicycle
Sees me
Through her many forms
Cuddling and clasping my steel hands


You are there
without a body or form

Now, go
where the broken hearts
calls you
in cry and pain

Speaks thy might
accruing the gain
in tenderness and warmth

You are there
Without a complexion or hue

Now, go
Where the blood
smear the face red
in agony and anguish

Speak thy compassion
weeping warm drops
in togetherness and oneness

Thursday, June 11, 2015


Your faces repulse me
Gaining many stitches to my shadow

I pause awhile nailing my breath
As night gallop wearing deadly spikes

No semantic words cross my ears
Abated, I grow my life to fade

Your faces hiss me
Gaining many curl to my lips

I pause awhile lampooning my last say
As night swells extending a bigger sore

No talisman fetish my love
Obsessed, I deface my shadow mask


Painting is not finished yet
Camel brand 'Artists Oil Colors’

Desert is most alluring these days
For the water of love is scarce;
Rare the parched lips thrust a kiss

The vacuous warmth takes
All the heat away;
Rare the mirage feed the imagery

Painting is not finished yet
Camel brand 'Artists Oil Colors’

Inane the days pass, dimly of sight
For the well has been all sand;
Rare the salty drops offshoot tributary of tears

From the pencil sketch to camel hair
Never the brush galore any number of hues;
Rare the white canvas not fed by cobweb

Painting is not finished yet
Camel brand 'Artists Oil Colors’


Placate death
O, the fiery rage
To enliven
No more loss
In pyre heap;
The journey transcends!


Most quizzingly
I enquired my daughters:
Who mended my torn half-pant,
The stitch of which was worn out from that place

Keeping mum, the seconds quipped lovingly:
The Grandfather did it so!

She knew the bonding through her witty remark
as she drew a parallel between us two

An octogenarian my father is
Weak of eyes and trembling hands

The needle and the tread
have so much common in them
The one pry and the other pave the mend

By the time I soaked the murmur of my heart
A warm drop mapped my cheeks

Pondering the beat
I withdrew all reasons from my crawling heart
You are more that any definition to me
You are the murmur of my heart;
My Father!


Check diameter of the downpour
Showering you as droplets in your bath,
As you are the most wet
When amniotic fluid take thy seminal charge

Euphoric moments surge in by the ceiling
Through every sieve of the funnel upturn,
As you are the best judge in nakedness
When shelving your own thoughts

Check diameter of the downpour
Buying your thoughts in abundance,
As you are the most vernal
Seasoning thy innermost sprout

Verily you are the man of ceiling
That takes cupid in your eyes,
As you face the oozing faucet
Frothing down the curves of your naked bath


and I shall flow again
Sluicing the frozen moment

No pendant of icicles
Can hang me down in seclusion8:48 AM 5/31/2015

and I shall draw again
Bridal arch on piers of dust and doom

No pebbles ornamented
Can check my faith in pledge and promise

and I shall sever again
Shackles of time sounding thy cut

No horizon orb
Can clad the mystery of thy mirage

and I shall distance again
Thy lunge of attack serving my vow


Desktop clouds vertically aligned
Windows peeping in momentarily
Pondering aftermath of rusty silence


Where the glories are
Bowed down by wisdom,
Let the wise cultivate
To reap their fruits, there!

When the compassion grows
The rational mind knows not;
But, to share
Love by heart

Where the choice, finds
An expression to reflect;
Reflect briefly thy ephemeral life,
Fleeting thy temporal abode

When armour of fate
Wear thy grail and grin
Knocking thy gate,
Broaden not thy elephant ears!


I find You, not
in any thoughtful script
nor, in muted recital

Yours, are
the other ways
to pace your silent steps

I find You, perching
on high branches
pecking half ripe fruit

Yours, are
infinite ways
to smudge my tears

I find You, not
in rosary count
nor, in tinkle-bells

Yours, have
other options
to rule by space


A half clad man, seated
dusky in the night,
by an iron chair
on the roof top,
a chunky laugh
Throttling the shadow of darkness

the layers of gloom,
One silhouette to the next:
The concrete floor, the cracked walls
the whispering flower vase, the wayfaring clouds

To that,
I guffaw a chunky laugh!

Imitating the shadow lines
I plan my own remedy
Winnowing the chaff
From my present existence

Plaintiff I was
to adore my laugh;
No lesser breeze blew, that
When I grew my hoot
By the night owl

There, the guffaw found its true essence
Throttling the shadow of darkness


Multiple times
have I counted my curly hairs
on my bald head
stroking invisible fingers;
exclaiming an angle of cut
to my silvery hairs,
you hang the remaining years
with sissors and combing streak
pasting alum
and a lubricating cream
to my enquring face
showing the course of flight
treading one barber shop to the next


You plug in bigger sound
Publicizing your pride
Flaunting buggy and boots

Your serpentine love, have
Bigger ear than its feel
Trading opium and fuming deaths

Your beauty
Pall over a gloomy trail
Hankering your crime

Drudging your beauty
I slog my past
So much strain you hide in your vanity box

Your beauty must wane,
Shining my glory;
So much sparkle I weave up in the sky


You only give
Tonsure in the night

When the days are busy
Happy and carefree, on the head;
Stealthily you come
Bugging my dreams at night

You only torment me
Wriggling my murky bed

When the roads are screeching
Mercedes and Nano;
Taxing high in the night
You eat half my paper life

You only give
A run to my breath

When LED sprinkles light
In voltage low;
My desire wanes
In your price so high

You only give
Tonsure in the night


Show us brave
O, the men of courage
We must meet
the fighting foe
by our cause;
taking thousand blows
pressed by the walls
still fighting back
drunk by Newtonian force;
An adage of yore,
a mountain full of strength:
To whom, but
To wisdom and truth!


Give me instances
to pluck, all
Your loving dreams

Not all boons,
ferry me across
Rolling by my tears

Merited by your virtue
Patiently, I suspend
my reason to earn

In momentous heave
I haul my richness:
The booty treasure in a rented body


Far into the city nights:
Shrill crickets and howling heights,
A lone bulb cries its birth
Fearful of power cuts and load-shedding

The aches spires a flickering beam;
The meaning that abor its well-being
Drips down the corner of squint eyes
and pierce pregnant thoughts

In semantics of common grief
All friends seems similar of fate;
Those that savour trans-linguistically,
Come to see the fuse and the hanging filament

This poem's pared-down ,
Noirish overtones capture alienation
in a suburban setting with precision.


Catch me by thy Radar
To gun me down, for
the battle is won thus

Scan thy beaming light
In direction towards space,
for the magic charm whirls thy spell

To the spirited gunfire
I maneuver my flight
static and still, to pall my stay

Some crazy creature
Board the trip
an escapade to heavenly jaunt


What gloom hover the dark sky
as you spit by my window sill
the drops leaking by raffish air;
To covet shill by my silence

What thick phlegm wedge my throat
as you slope outward, draining
all the air out from my empty cells;
To stake respiration by my silence

What grievances drizzle out the vent
as you groove my inner turmoil
cloying an excess of your sweetness;
To pall my hearse with dust and smoke


To frame the beauty
of dark nights,
an open vistas of an open window

stroke gently
the child of my cheerful dreams

Such, juvenile crime
I always do;
I find myself,
caged behind
the iron window bars,
occasionally to be laughed at, by
a raven, that
slide a shadow pass
outside my pillow view
flapping wings of bat
ever silent ever fearful

To accuse myself
for any crime;
Let that be a boon,
to shovel beauty of my dreams:
My juvenile crime!


How this body
Swayed to music, rich
To your mellifluous sound
O the dancer of my feet
How much I must revel
Thy wondrous respite, when
Such my parsimonious gasp
Take thy frugal leave


Have never replied
Your silent praise
But draped my other you
Behind my wet eyes