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 sadnessĀ 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 stickĀ 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?

To please Dear Madira

Not pleased with my mundane rhyming sense in lines,
she found no purpose that is worthy enough.
Yet, she made up her sugary part of the heart
to read and praise the rawness of my story-telling songs.
The same reason pushed the tears of my words
out of the gland to reveal my lost and benevolent mind.
I hope she loves this to clear the clog of my egoistic stride
I hope the poem sweats out the heat between the raging swirl of souls.
When meanings of pale paired up words murdered my willful taste
here I’m looking for concealed gems of worth shy under the dancing shells.
I wish she finds it beautiful as the naked gloom of the monsoon clouds,
while the loud and deep breed of voices recognize the duel of opinions and thoughts.
I summon my fears and doubts to fight back the wishes of her effervescent hopes.
with my twisted and haunting spree of words to find her daring part of the whole.
They are no match to her blackest hidden core of lust,
a lust that keeps her alive to decipher the meaning of spaces between the words.
I wish and hope the erotic romance of the desiring rush
finds its love as she reads the bold rantings of my gullible self.

The poem, the poet and all the words that try hard to mean
are here for the purpose that has already been.

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.

Purpose for and of life

Walking to the end in our very own ways.
Touched, loved and did all that our heart and mind says.
Finding questions was the last quest to conquer
We slipped, cried and did too many to prosper.
When our life’s purpose popped in as dreams
our wisdom and conscience wept and screamed.
To do that and to do this we hopped out the bowl
and breathed so much to fill all our soul.
Why are we tired and why are we drowning?
For the sea is eternal and forever moaning.
Let us swim and push back the silt of shallow tears
depth is our soul and all our living in million years.
Then we plant the roots of changes to come
we change with that and we become
what we are and what we want us to be.
Let this happen, let our choice be free.
We are the sun, we are the soul.
we are a part of us that makes us whole.

Murder of crows

By the cement levee of our so called lake
many stories have passed us by.
One of them was held at stake
for all of us to know, thereby.

A murder of crows landed on the tree
that stood facing the lake and forever free.
Three of them stout as bombs in their scale,
One looked ripped off of it’s feathers and pale.
Ripples in the water made them pry
into each other’s freedom they get when they fly.
A duckling left his hunt to float
and the deadbeat fish rose up the coast.
The murder of crows stared at the treasure
a floating and bloated fish was always a pleasure.
Those plump and stout three set their foot
steady and stable as they didn’t move about.
The half-nude ripper took his chance
and flew to land on the lake with a dance.
Claws and wings steady as a sail,
two times the ripped soul gladly failed.
Three fat ones still still like a stone
on the tomb of the dead left alone.
Ugly little one made the third last jump
and got the grab of the fish’s floating lump.
As he took it by the cement side,
the three stout black ones acted snide.
Hopping towards the ripped off crow,
they planned to rip his pick off too now.
The bloated fish right in their sight,
they showed their wings and cawed with might.
The ugly hero calm as a cow
took the spill and took off with a bow.
He dropped the dead spill in the wet of the coast
and came back like nothing was lost.
The sorry three stared at him dry,
And he cawed back at them like,
“Don’t be sorry, just tell me why?”

Choice of lives

Right before the banks of the black ugly river
exists a forest of weed pink flowers that shiver
as the railroad locos glide past the bunch
and the front end engine throws in the punch.

Civilized men ride in those boxes
that travel through stations and million paradoxes.
A trail of steel lines guide them to stand
right aside each men’s greedy dreams at hand.

Men of certain nature glance out of the box
and make up things that are weird as their socks.
Songs run through all of their mind
had the flowers dancing as they left them behind.

To know of this routine morning and night
Butterflies hover with their beauty and might.
Some disheartened men only love them as far
as they stay away like a glistening star.
Let the flowers stay cozy and safe by the side.
Let the hovering butterflies seek refuge and hide.
The men in the boxes have envied the lives
and abnegated the choice of being there, alive.