Violet, yellow, green and red

she walks right in, full of life,
with colors dripping off her feet.
hues so bright, as the sun in her eyes
she paints the world as she dearly likes.

her sorrow, her secrets and
the whims of her joy
were all treasured whites,
like the bleak empty nights
whence the moon seems so guiltlessly bright.

oh, the volatile violet
with the mellowed yellow.
and the green that screams
with the dash angry red.
how I wish her colors were
all dull and dead instead!

but no, she colors it yet
with all that she got,
along with a smirk so colorless
that drives the canvasses wild.

what do we do when the colors fade?
how do we adorn the coming nights on our way?
blinded by the hues that lit our days,
we have only four to use, to paint our memory’s distant daze.

Djinn, tree and me

Under the cursed tree, the solace of noon winds embraced me.

I remained! Intrigued and attached to the feeble rustle of bi-colored leaves.

Parched lips and an empty heart skipping one inconsequential beat.

Still I remained as an oblivious speck, flinching at nothing at all

The drunken djinn ogling from the crumbling branches above whispered a silent tale.

A tale of a mirage that glimmers in light and dims out at dark without a hint of a fight.

The djinn let out a smirk and it shook me awake, a droplet fell through the carpet of leaves and on my head.

A cold spine, a meddling heart and the salt of my own tears hurt my morbid wounds.

The rain stopped, a puddle was formed on the dent I made as I had sat through the time.

On the hazy mirror that the puddle made, I saw the djinn mounted on my shoulder blade.

Without a pause, I jumped and danced. The djinn fell into the puddle, drank the water and left me with nothing at last.

bird advice

dusty space on the window sill

on the fluid view to the way long fields,

the sun rises and falls to death

to deny me the night I long to have.

Dreams do reveal in glorious form

lucid as they might be, harmless and true.

The day I had today shed me a trace of light

and what a day to shadow the wise old glow.

A flutter of reverberating tone woke me up,

a tune from the eastward window blowing low.

T’was the crude spout of the albino pigeon

jealous on her kin who never let her swing

on the forbidden wire under the bearing sunshade.

Rewinding few hours on my dazed morning head

I knew the universe is playing himself, corny and dead.

The remains of my dream stroke my being hard

and there was I with cold sweaty palm on my thigh.

Reeled back to the momentary lapse of consciousness

just to mid range that hovers between slumber and wake.

I had dreamed of a pigeon grey and white.

not the usual shit spewing grey and black.

He had asked me to wake up forever then

to make me contemplate the vastness

of such an empty  and morbid life.

He asked me to fly, he asked me to jump

but he didn’t stay to teach me how.

I sighed for myself on my miserable state

and there I heard the ugly groan of the pigeon again.

There he was in a cage he never knew existed

on the window sill, by the damp steel pane.

Symphony of Freedom.

Unbeknownst, the winds of change blew right into our face.

Tunes that resonate with the symphony of a forgotten freedom.

A freedom devoid of inhibitions, like the crude essence of wild strawberry tales.

Slurp the juice, spill it on the sleeve. And our soiled shirts- becomes a Rorschach reveal.

Did this ebbing into the wild quench our merely thirst?

Or is this a parchedness that doesn’t leave until our sweet tooth is satisfied?

Lips and dainty fingers now become dirty crimson red.

And thirty seconds until we recede uncoordinated out of our dreams.

Static- we have become and yet our vibrant multitone dreams breathe the winds of freedom for our sake.

the stone

lying among the rubble and dust
too long have I been for a human touch.
A contact that would set me free of
the burden that I carry within; dense, dark and useless.

He kicked me once, the inquisitive little kid.
as far as I could go, I went. Laying there as I was,
crude and unwanted again.
He kicked me twice, a hard poke on my sharp edge
I rolled over a few times, ending up by the gutter’s side.
Maybe he wanted a soul-less company
with which he didn’t share any feelings as such.
And I was happy to be, I was so stupid and stone-like to see.
Wasn’t it obvious when he kicked me the n’th time?
No, it wasn’t. I’m clingy and I felt his inconsideration
throughout this forlorn rant put down not as rhyme.

lying among the rubble and dust,
just altered in position and place.
He looked at me once with all passions at rest
and boy I could not forget his face.
As I lay there as an unwanted stone
just in the eerie coldness of the curb
and at the entry of his lovely home.

Shaa-inspired lines

Who is here to stay with me?
To swallow my thoughts for real and free.
Who is here to reach for my dreams?
To weave the dull night sky with stars to see.
Who is here to unfold my magic in words?
To read between lines of stories
from my thousand nether worlds.
Who is here to rest under my shade?
Whose smell should I expect to fade?
But I warn you now that my fire would carelessly drown
under the weight of joy another soul has stole and shown.
My dreams would wither, my words would die.
Yet in my thousand nether worlds, I never would have lied.

Who am I?

I’m the cursed dirt immured among roots,
I’m not the part of tree, neither am I free.

I’m that murky air that precedes a summer rain,
Never the blob of a drop that cuddles exposed skin.

I’m always a mere trace of shadow,
I’m not the light that adorns the day.

I’m that malodorous stink inside prisoner cages,
Never the olfactory divinity from valley’s spice-infused wind.

I’m always an uninvited burden taking space,
I’m not the zero-attributed void that I seek to be.

Give him, God

there are lots of things You can give him, dear God.
Give him blood sucking wars, give him the beauty of stars,
give him the melancholy bristle of wild chrysanthemums in the valley.,
give him a space to smoke up, maybe a quaint quiet alley.
Give him twisted books and the worlds that the authors shook,
give him today, tomorrow and money to borrow.
Give him blotters, give him plotters,
give him friends, give him the sadness that
creeps in when all the love in between beautifully ends.
Give him camphor lights, give him momentary lethal frights,
give him the taste of his mother’s sacred tears,
give him the habit that dazes and amps up his involuntary fears.
Give him anything that you can think of,
give him a life that is split into half and half.
Give him a mask, give him a face
give him gruesome tasks to bring him disgrace.
Give him the right to fly away
and tie his wings for him to stay.
Give him lust to shed his soul apart,
But no! Do not give him a delicate heart.

bird advice

dusty space on the window sill
on the fluid view to the way long fields,
the sun rises and falls to death
to deny me the night I long to have.
Dreams do reveal in glorious form
lucid as they might be, harmless and true.
The day I had today shed me a trace of light
and what a day to shadow the wise old glow.
A flutter of reverberating tone woke me up,
a tune from the eastward window blowing low.
T’was the crude spout of the albino pigeon
jealous on her kin who never let her swing
on the forbidden wire under the bearing sunshade.
Rewinding few hours on my dazed morning head
I knew the universe is playing himself, corny and dead.
The remains of my dream stroke my being hard
and there was I with cold sweaty palm on my thigh.
Reeled back to the momentary lapse of consciousness
just to mid range that hovers between slumber and wake.
I had dreamed of a pigeon grey and white.
not the usual shit spewing grey and black.
He had asked me to wake up forever then
to make me contemplate the vastness
of such an empty  and morbid life.
He asked me to fly, he asked me to jump
but he didn’t stay to teach me how.
I sighed for myself on my miserable state
and there I heard the ugly groan of the pigeon again.
There he was in a cage he never knew existed
on the window sill, by the damp steel pane.

The ghat-men

a dying wish to be a ghat-man.
To breathe in the air of thousand meters high,
to know the denseness of my tessellated self.
As hairpin curves lead way to foresee shadows of heaven
that God had guiltily retained for men of passion to see.

We could measure the heights
where mists and misfits dance
but we could never understand
the soulful purpose of the same.
We could hear the weary whistle
of the ever-passing wind-
telling secrets of yesterday
that died in unadulterated vain.
A longing to go out of breath on each step,
a dream to be the warmth between
the sweater and the fabric of the shirt.
A desire to be in the air of
three different damp smoke,
one of the cigarette’s,
one of the tea’s and
one from my own breath-
owing to the cold dark soul.

See when I fit there, I’d exist as a whole.
A part of mine that makes me none
would never be there anymore.
I’d shed my curious dead-drop glance
on the hanging drops of dew that cling on
to the green of the leaves with hopes so few-
as though wishing for a vile storm to pass.
Reflecting the muck on the surface,
the clinging dew drop survives and sways.
And right then I’d tether the drop to my finger tip-
just with a graceful touch like a painter
finishing his lady’s face with a freckle.
The dew would embrace the reach of my tip
and I’d walk it through the storm
with the other hand on my hip.