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.

Lost and found

Days of doom went by since we last met.
I called him up and asked him “Where are you at?”
He said “Come over my man, let me thulp down my meal
and let us hang out to chill our souls down to zeal”

The impatient friend argued with a zest of being rightfully free
to rebut that his mom’s ill claims of him were utterly false as well.
I waited for him outside under the shady midget tree,
he walked out with a smirk and the burden of boredom suddenly fell.

Walking down the aisle of God’s own little cabinet
where shelves are littered with lives of awe.
The empty afternoon street sounded like a clarinet
that muted itself but still letting out a rhythmic claw.

We walked down to the field abundant with green
grasses and cow dungs that reflect the sheen
of the fiery sun that murders our lifted eyes
through sunglasses that seldom polarize.

The first roll of cream was fruitfully smoked
and we listened to indie songs of dazed up hope.
We ranted at each other letting out honest choice of words
we laughed at our own self for being so hopeless and worse.

Then came the shepherd, the old man with a patch-less single eye.
His one empty socket revealing a secret that he can’t hide.
He came close to us with a varnished stick 6 foot long
and he started accusing the world for being so wrong.

No introductions were exchanged and names were sought.
His voice was so weak by grazing the herd dreadfully, we thought.
Supported by the tip of the varnished stick in the ground
he told us about the trouble with a disrupted rupture in sound.

He had six beautiful goats and a bountiful herd of cow
which grazed along the fields for the past few months and now.
A he-goat so manly and possibly a very good meat
was stolen right out of the field last day by rudest bikers across the street.

He wished he could chase and catch those dickhead thieves
and crush them into a pulp to sugar out all the essence of their heists.
His story of the lost goat had no purpose to be told right then
and that is when we figured out how lucky he was, the preposterous zen.

At least he knows what he had lost
and he could blatantly cry it away.
We looked at each other and wondered
what have we lost and what do we have to say?

Masks of very different men

To hide the face behind that mask,
he lost his sense of gentleness and pride.
To adorn the newly found face with lies,
he nurtured his ego and lost his stride.

He killed men of war and he wore his rage as feathers
without embracing the essence of love and bonds.
He put down his shield of wisdom he feared
and he let down his bloody push of reason in head.

Why did he choose all those masks of shame?
and why did he wear it in the resonating instances of fame?
Did the touch of grenades and guns in his hands
made him someone else that the presence can’t withstand?

Where did he cultivate that lust of blood and flesh?
Does it really take him to the paradise of satisfactory rush?
Does the grin in his face while he rips out a soul
covers the gloom and sorrow of the lives he raped?

Nowhere to go and no heaven to be
the mask he wore made him a devil on a murdering spree.
For all he murdered was himself and his race
and all the beauty that life gave him. What a disgrace!

The key

Beach side cottages and double fortnight long stays
clifftop winds and damp clothes in monsoon wind sways.
9 rooms, a cat and the caretaker partner of the place,
his words so wise fervent with Islamic grace.

In time to come, we made ourselves good friends
our late night conversations seldom abruptly ends.
Closer and comfortable by the passing of our time
we cooked together and our impaled souls rhymed.

A day was gone so tired and dread,
my rooftop daze went into a malicious dead.
On that night I lost my single strand of key,
that was etched with a Chinese scribbling spree.

Locked outside the room of my deep blue sleep,
my guilty shame found the shoreline away from the deep.
I consoled myself that the caretaker would get
my level of stupidity and carelessness to forget.

The blackest dark cat Milu at door,
welcomed me with a meow sitting at the floor.
His pale green eyes slashed with a striking black
made him look calmer with a devilish smack.

Knocking the caretaker’s door subtly and twice,
my feet moved back the same count closer to Milu’s eyes.
His half-awaken sleep deprived and killed,
I stood there with my tip of the backbone chilled.

On hearing my loss of the key to the room,
he smiled at me with no anger or gloom.
He walked back and took a plastic cover of jingling keys
the jingle let me know that there were lot of these.

His tiredness and half-sleep made sure that he didn’t know,
which one was the right key to get me into slumbering flow.
Out of fifty one odd keys that I had in my hand,
I walked up to confront my lock and test the luck of my pineal gland.

The first one I took was shiny and clean,
like no other key I have ever seen.
The smoothness of the metal piece getting into the hole
of the lock made me wish that it was the one from the whole.

To my surprise and joy, it opened the lock.
I smiled to myself to balance the mild kick of the shock.
And then I remembered the caretaker’s smile,
if he was angry and disappointed it would have taken me a while.

Under the moonlight

Light of the evening summoned itself down
with the shimmer of bluish and pink sky scattered above.
Clouds of white fighting the bright tides of ocean,
moon hiding behind as the shy crabs in the shore.
Selfishly cleaned cent of beach land in the stretch
poets making a cozy circle with listeners up close.

Black boxes of amps making sweet and feeble thunderous sound
when the poets hit them twice before they shed words on the ground.
Twinkle and sparkle of the artificial lamps married the space
where the glow of unsung souls expressed their songs in grace.

Old, young and the depressed hearts
got together and showed their naked parts.
Parts that make them an irrelevant yet beautiful part of the whole
like the dead stars that rage today and show off the spirit of a whore.

Bottled egos romanced the essence of love,
a love for expressing the gentleness of absent hate.
Each of their voices told a part of their story
and hid the remnants between the pores of ocean mud.
Everyday the poet cries and everyday his stocked up heart dies.
He was the poem that wanted to seek the touch of the lives as we speak.

Son and the working mother

His moist pink lips do not speak,
his eyes burst out of his lids to seek
where and why his mother went
leaving him and his tantrums for a day to spend.

The working mother does tear his heart
when she leaves for the day away and apart.
His reaching palm look gloomy and sweet
as she walks past the gate and down to the street.

His grandma picks him and rests him still
by her tired hips and his emotions spill.
She caresses the sad one for quite some time,
she sings him songs in which the verses rhyme.

A day would pass with toys and games.
He would burst out often and become untamed.
Grandma knows to calm his fears
as he waits for his mother with held up tears.

And the day would turn out to a dreamy night,
the mother would come back to make him all right.
Now he doesn’t even care about her beloved return
it is time for the mother to worry about him in turn.

Happy birthday Beeku

His million charm takes over him.
Eye of an artist and high on the whim.
Subtle little troubles of his life
Neither cost him the joy nor did it survive.
He loathes about the things that give us a kick.
Munchies and minions are his first hand pick.
With a smile that melts his eyes to the shrink,
he laughs with us carrying a consistent wink.
Worries mean nothing and they don’t make him sad
His lunatic self beats them with a subluminal fad.
Merry and blissful his life has been
till this 23 years that he has seen.
There are more to come with his joyful wisdom to see,
We wish that you stay as you are and be lovely and free.