I am

I am a rusty car in your backyard,

Which has lost its touch at novelty.

But still it possess the mighty touch,

Of the godforsaken time's cruelty.

 

I am the barren old tree,

With one leaf just hanging still.

On the wild land of rocky slope,

Which has never known of care and till.

 

I am that empty reservoir,

Which hosted a spree of quenching thirst.

To the whole city or small village of beasts or man,

Without dividing who comes third or first.

 

I am those empty caverns filled,

The dwelling past of some mighty beasts.

That upheld now an empty fear,

Nothing the most but to the least.

 

I am those airy castles grand,

Which saw the grandest feasts and wars as well.

But now host some frequent crowd of logs,

Who has lost their souls and the heart it dwell.

 

Can you discern who am I, see?

For only then can you revive me.

I am rare now in those empty logs,

I am true now only to those who wrought,

I can be built up above the highest top,

I am that feeling that's too hot for the cold lot.

 

Guess who I am, where I stand,

Can you discern where or what I am?

Okay, if no, then you read on,

I am that makes you survive and live,

When you jump off the highest top,

When you slide down the steepest slope,

I am within you, your joy and hope.

It's me

I laugh with you,

I can be funny,

I can be very charming,

When I want to be.

I talk little and I write a lot,

For you, words I constantly brew,

And People think I am very shrewd.

I crack jokes,

I make fun through,

I laugh with you. But

Cry when alone in room small,

I am the guy who feels it all.

I am jovial,

With you friends, I am great and cool,

But if come a time when you wonder and it grow,

Within, I'm the loneliest guy you'll ever know.

I miss writing poems

I miss writing poems.

My pen gliding fluidly on paper,

My thoughts flowing freely,

Writing the things I want to say.

I miss writing poems.

Every verse and rhyme,

The thought of you everytime

I write words in verses.

The mere thought of you

Kept me writing poems

Lets me say to you

Things I’m too afraid to utter.

I miss writing poems

Showering you words of longing

The mere memory of you

Wants me to keep writing.

Alas, I cannot.

For I have lost myself.

I have stopped writing poems

The moment I stopped my feelings for you.

Still I do miss writing poems.

The same way I miss you.

Your voice calling my name

Was enough to get me writing.

One last time

Before I stop writing poems for you.

I will get back to writing poems

But this time, I’ll write it for myself..

-the wrestless pen

Smile

When the sun is up,

And the cool wind blow,

She wakes up in that morning, slow.

Her fair eyes search for light,

For she is in a cell alone, her oldest plight.

Wrongly accused of what she would never do inspite.



She speaks in her voice,

A hoary one,

To the best person she knows,

Second to none.



“Good morning”, she utters thus,

The walls, the earth unmoved,

The gods yet nonplussed.

She expects the world to revolt,

To understand and feel her sorrow,

Yet it remains just the same,

The present and the morrow.



She sits down on the cot and weep,

Full of wounds in her heart so deep.

Then, she feels a touch so soft,

Softer than the floor of her loft.

She turned behind with murderous eyes,

Where stood a dove,

After a perilous flight.

She casts aside all,

The jewels she withheld,

In that forever prison,

Of fear and solitude she held.

Her palm engulfs the dove so warm,

A life beating in her hands,

Sweet, serene, blissful and calm.



She feels a surge of hope and joy,

A will to jump to the moon and fly.

She brings it to the windowsill,

And feels the glow, of the morning sun.

Kindling in her that long lost thrill.



The dove soars high,

Higher, up in the sky,

And farther it went,

Farther than a mile,

Leaving behind a maiden,

With a smile.

Beholden

Her eyes reflected the love of mine,

that tumultuous ocean in her gaze.

I went out of this embodied self,

and yearned to get out of that selfish maze.

I reap what I sowed of all my seeds deep,

to love or anguish comes to me, and I plead.

Ha! The angelic bells the farthest heaven rang,

in the moment's depth as she touched my hand.

Her hair in disarray, her eyes speaking its voice,

"Who art thou?" asks it in Shakespearen vice.

My whole body sways of that feeling of oldest fashion,

the mind lost, eyes watching,

the passionate dreams, all in succession.

It pleases me more, to look in her eyes,

to search the heart where that love resides.

Pleasures of those kinds, I yearn to possess,

to tell her with a kiss and my heart's warm caress.

She looks away, her contemplation dwells,

the sorrow in her eyes, her throat swelled.

Was I the man she must have sought?

Or the fate was righteous of what she has already got?

She sees the storm that my eyes protests,

the unspoken fervor, at my sealed lips behest.

Hence she be happy, augment her joy manifold,

for the image of her face and frame,

will my heart forever behold.

Homeward

The sky opened up, the clouds parted,


the first drops of drizzle it departed.


The leaves stood still, the lake calm, in mourn


had it still if it knew about,


the cloud’s tears, the upcoming storm.


The trees sigh in relief,


‘pittar-patter’ it speaks, its language so sweet.


Stems so joyous, the otherwise dusty leaves,


the saddening flora, so green!


The birds chirping, on that old oak,


the flowers blooming, so peaceful, serene.


It stops!


Wafting in the air, sweetness drifts,


so sweet, it enchants and entangles,


healing all wounds indeed.


In this blessed realm,


I thought of her, suddenly,


The old woman, that kindest soul, agree


Who smiles and showers,


her sweet kisses on me.


The rays of sunshine parts aside,


the greyer clouds where that loudest thunder resides.


I came out of that canopy, from under


Vigilant that tree, which stood tall,


sheltered, protected and hugged me.


I ran quickly, and it was no stride,


To my home where, that wisest angel,


my mother, waited for me, aside.


I care not, wish not,


afar, any other dreamland or a shrine,


for there is someone who, through time,


cared for me, cherished,


and loved me her entire lifetime.

Passion

The ambrosia of passion,

When it goes down your throat,

It turns all facades,

Into pleasurable hopes.

In that mist of pleasure,

When you twist and shine,

Yet you don’t reveal through

The love you’ve hidden behind.

I look through her,

Titillated to the core

Whether I’ll end up in her arms,

Or at the foot of her door.

On both accounts, I won’t give up still,

To love and spread bliss,

Will be my life and my thrill.

My hopes and my smile,

Might reveal it all

To kiss her hand, or to bend on my knee

If I have that gall?

To kiss her goodbye,

I hope I never do,

To wake up to that sunshine,

In that beautiful dawn I hope,

I’ll always end to.

But I know not what,

She has hidden inside,

A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’

I cannot decide.

I wish to see her smile,

Waking up in that morning glow,

And I hope that cloud of doubt,

Let’s the rays of my wishes through

Thoughts....

A lonely traveller on the silent sea,
Travels in hope to be free,
From the wretched woes of his mirthless life,
No affairs of wisdom or love ever,
Came across in face or disguise.

He sails aloft a merry boat,
Yet alone, in search of that place,
Where there is that love that chokes his throat.
In the moonlight, aghast,
He reached a land, on black sand it dwelled,
Where stood a damsel, a shrouded figure,
Closer looked the eye, beautiful as hell.
She casts a glance so tender and sublime,
That turned him besotted, all through time.
Her devilish charms worked magic throughout,
That he forgot about his strife,
Of what he was made, what he was about.
He cured himself of that terrible disease,
World calls it loneliness and solitude,
By just hearing her voice, he did it with ease.

By time again coursing, he was smitten to the core,
He forgot the mark, of that curse he wore.
Sand shifted within his feet,
Departing was the beach, the moon and so was she.
She went afar with a crooked smile,
Taking the land with all its glory,
With closed eyes, to the sky he asked
Was it truly love, or was it her guile?
He opens his eyes and find himself again,
In those lonely quarters, those same faces,
Same thoughts and the same pain.
His eyes glistens, heart skips a beat,
On the thought of her,
If her he could again see.
Were those moments a reality of his mind?
Or were those times a dream divine?

Thoughts...

A lonely traveller on the silent sea,


Travels in hope to be free,


From the wretched woes of his mirthless life,


No affairs of wisdom or love ever,


Came across in face or disguise.





He sails aloft a merry boat,


Yet alone, in search of that place,


Where there is that love that chokes his throat.


In the moonlight, aghast,


He reached a land, on black sand it dwelled,


Where stood a damsel, a shrouded figure,


Closer looked the eye, beautiful as hell.


She casts a glance so tender and sublime,


That turned him besotted, all through time.


Her devilish charms worked magic throughout,


That he forgot about his strife,


Of what he was made, what he was about.


He cured himself of that terrible disease,


World calls it loneliness and solitude,


By just hearing her voice, he did it with ease.





By time again coursing, he was smitten to the core,


He forgot the mark, of that curse he wore.


Sand shifted within his feet,


Departing was the beach, the moon and so was she.


She went afar with a crooked smile,


Taking the land with all its glory,


With closed eyes, to the sky he asked


Was it truly love, or was it her guile?


He opens his eyes and find himself again,


In those lonely quarters, those same faces,


Same thoughts and the same pain.


His eyes glistens, heart skips a beat,


On the thought of her,


If her he could again see.


Were those moments a reality of his mind?


Or were those times a dream divine?