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.

Nightmare, wolf and the hare

The end, the beginning and the concealed secrets
of dreams are ghastly reminders of our depth and fears.

The dark and eerie gloom of the dawn
made a fitting presence, with the sweat on his palms.
He stared across the camouflaged air
to catch a glimpse of the wolf’s despair.

The ravening soul’s utterly disregarded salvation
was etched on the rocks he dragged his prey by.
The prey-the rabbit wheezing out a whistle of its breath
had its salvation etched on the teeth of the savage holding its neck.

Blood and lust for hunger survived somehow
to reveal the subtle truth of deliverance from the God’s sins.
Being an illusive complex of web built to capture the weak and the weary,
the intricate patterns of which turned out to be dark, vile and scary.

The dreamer-the listener heard the decibels of howl and
assumed it to be the cry of hunger from the wolf’s fluted wind pipe.
but only the last few breaths of the rabbit knew
that the howl was a disguise of a delicately let out burp.

The dreamer woke up with a sweaty palm
his eyes misty and unclear with a veil of tear.
The end, the beginning and the concealed secrets
of dreams are ghastly reminders of his depth and fears.

The sweet cane dream

Once upon a random daze of night,
the man slept through the gaze of his might.
He crashed and went into the hold of dreams
his crooked mind was let off like leaves in streams.
Through the pebble and dirt of the nothingness
his celestial thoughts thought of nothing less.
He had a magic cane in his hand
which has powers that none could even understand.
A grab of the polished willow stick
made him a wise old arrogant prick.
Strangers saw his black and white beard grow
as the dream he was in went by really slow.
Still with the cane, his alter-ego lived;
his lips carrying the remains of cigarette he lit.
Kins and foes stood in the trace of the line
to steal on the wisdom of this old and arrogant swine.
“Be as you are” the old man said
and he lost the cane to his soul that is dead.
He never again got the glimpse of this dream
if it does, his euphoric core of the life would scream.

Dreams for sale

You count your days till weekend arrives
with numbers that mean nothing dead or alive.
Friday’s breath sulks with anonymous joy
till Monday, and then you plunge like a crooked toy.

Tantrums and papers that fill your days
complete your wallets in minimal ways.
You burn again in that cabin-cage
with nowhere to run and hide the rage.

You wish you could do something else
where your mind relaxes and your heart tells
“this is where you belong to now,
this is what you do and love”.

Supple and waving your thoughts have been
like winds of nature nowhere seen.
Your wings will not be pardoned then
if you quit to fly and stay in the den.

Your dreams are not for a conscious yard-sale
your dreams are not so blue and pale.
And you could conquer your world when you wake up now
still doing the things with a glow when you do with love.