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Jul 4 · 48
Trail.
Where do the birds fly?
After the last sky?

Where do the feelings go?
When there's so much to show.

What do the colors mean?
As if it never begins.

What does a limit seek?
A bird, a feeling, a colored stick?

Where do the women go?
After the evening show?

What does a man need?
A limit, a feeling an evening deed?

Where do the birds fly?
After the evening sky?
May 25 · 64
23Days of Summe₹
Why do you remember?
Something which is sad?

Why do you think about,
Your evenings with your dad?

Why should the music speak of a song?
Why does it feel so good to belong?

Why do you have faith in God and in ghosts?
Why does your government tend to be your host?

What is the reason for Love and for hate?
Why do you check the clock and it's date?

What is hunger and what is thirst?
What is the physical state of fire and lust?

When should you die and decide to begin?
Does it really matter to be always able within?

Take care and live your life,
The wind is whistling by,

The crashing waves of time and age,
Makes a memory dry.
May 21 · 56
Coexistence.
This land is mine.
I stay here, started my career.
I have seen wanderers, on this land.
I assumed they were sugar in the milk.

But if there is a brighter tomorrow,
A colour for them and us
A line to be drawn between you and me,
I assume the land would have eyes to see.

This land is mine, you're waiting for yours,
Memories are made of a political force,
The milk should be warm, and the sugar brown,
I assume you can stay in this town.

Thinking of you, I remember things,
Such as religious beliefs and suspicious inklings,
The pattern of your beard, the bleeding men in the park.
I don't know what you think,
I assume you were not sure.

This land is between an object and
An-other tryst
You're the first to comment on its beauty and on its sleeping beast,
My land depends upon the issuance of a game,
Don't worry about the troubling nature of your shame.

This land is mine, linked to many souls,
The source of warmth and of heat,
The fire resembles the state of pride,
I assume the conflict of interests would subside.

This land is mine, welcome hither,
Posters and flyers bubbling thither.
May 8 · 128
Could you be loved.
Days go on. They never resemble time.
A spring, a summer, a shadow.
An idiom for growth and honour.
In the dusty lanes, children play.
Evenings are ******* with you.
You are old while planning your trip.
And you're older than the wind.
You blow the whistle, the hope is brighter.
You might touch your hair, and it's bald.

Do you remember what it meant to begin?
Do you remember what could've been done?
Does it bother your eyes, moist and cold?
Should you require your coat to hide your soul?

Do not hesitate and fritter like a code,
You're in warm waters, you're a frog without legs.
You're boiling, and the points reverberate.
Your mountain is melting with your thoughts.

The rooms are available for dinner.
Eat and sleep while you can.
Days go on. The Colors on the wall.
Keep asking questions about your plan.

Streets are like snakes, winding mossy ways,
You begin time, you're in the park.
Hot balloons and the voice of a lark.
To the beach for a shell,
A short crisp clear sound of a Bell.

Ringing in the ears, you end your song,
You part your hair, you pack your bags,
Days go on, they're all not sure,
Why do you think you should remember more?

Take the time, the wind, and your boats,
A journey to be taken to the other end of the coast.
May 6 · 31
Jeremiah.
Since useful tends to be useless,
And the worth of it seems to be dead,
A message comes from the weather,
All things are counter, original and strange.

Light is fast, the mind is faster yet,
A cheetah seems to be the wind, but the wind
Pretends to soar.

A statue is tall, a giraffe pretends, to seek,
What's the use of a relative difference?
As the coordination repeats?

The sun is brighter, the camera records, the fact,
The Colors seem to call,
And keep all resplendence intact.

A healthy diet helps to grow, a blessing,
Does the same.
A rolling truck kills a shadow, the darkness kills a man.
The music of Mozart and the sound of rain,
Generates a good gorging delight,
The pattern of silk, and the warmth of fire,
Gives the direction to the night.

All things counter original spare strange,
Since useful tends to be useless.
May 6 · 19
Check your friend.
A shadow is my friend.
As flowers never bend,
From the kitchen, I bring-
Lots of honey and wine.
I have been to the station,
In the park, in the mansion.
Like flowers without a fragrance,
My shadow never resembles, a layer.

See the desert, the snow, the rain.
See, go on to see some more.
Seeking to see the shelf of shells, alone.
Flowers and shadows do not have souls.

I am working, be patient with me,
Jingle the bell, words will fall.
The wires seem to call,
I eat and drink and sleep.

What leaves do they read?
What on earth does it mean?
Even now they all seem to have shadows,
Purchasing sugar.

Go on, go ahead, dance the antic hay,
A shadow is your friend,
As flowers never bend with what they say.
Apr 26 · 30
Will.
From the canon of thought,
The mind moves like a twirling body of smoke.
The leaves rustle, the breath of a cloud,
gets mixed with all his heroic deeds.

As the flow of a river continues like time
flowing, it tends to engulf the sufferer.
His bed of rocks shiver.

Balancing the proportionate use of memory,
He begins his speech.

Destruction is sustained, in motion.
Smoother is the course of action.
From the language supreme- it emanates-
The principal way.

He understands the resemblance, he presumes,
the family, the king, the extensions.
As the witnesses question-Who are you?

The irony of life kills the man,
It is the realization which remains.
His dignity is torn into pieces.

The shivering bed of rocks followed the pattern,
of an unconquerable host.
The way towards death, dusty death.

The moment recedes into the past.
The present records the past.
He was one of us.
Apr 12 · 96
An Ulcer.
I am close to comfort-
My lights shine.
I see the screen of words,
they seem to die, each minute.

What if the words are not sounds?
but a vision locked in my mind?
Silly questions.

I understand.
Time and more  Time
for days and works of hands.
Crescent bays, megapixels.

Zooming.
Feb 7 · 75
Mira.
Mira is like the color of dusk,
Life without rhythm is no life,
Today she is leaving,
The dark clouds would burst.

Mira.

Mira is like my drawing book,
The pages are clad with steams of life,
She would be leaving, like a crying
dream.
I would pretend to sing a song.

Mira.

Mira is my room of mirrors and signs,
Life without meaning is no life,
I'm born a weaver, My chance of birth-
My mind is like her heart, made of sticks.

Mira.
Feb 7 · 59
Here and There.
Hope is deaf.
Thought is blind.
Afternoons pass away,
Watching clouds.

A feeling is cold,
A maddening delight-
Syrupy evenings,
Watching eyes.

Two eyes, Two,
To the days before,
The Sun is old, kind,
But fraught with noise.

Cheer up, go along,
I don't care,
I never did wrong,
Silver nights.
Jan 30 · 47
Amal.
Amal was a friend of mine,
We were together at school-
He used to fly kites, And-
I used to stare at the sky like a fool.

Amal was a friend of mine,
We were two good friends,
He used to get the highest in Chemistry,
And teach me the relative velocity,
of trains.

I was a little slow in math,
Always had been the fool-
But Amal was a friend of mine,
And, we were together at school.

During Summer, the evenings were long-
We used to play cricket till our bodies glowed.
I was a spinner, like the soft dying cloud,
And, Amal was a friend of mine,
I used to get him out.

He first taught me that girls fall in love,
And watching **** was wrong,
As Amal was a friend of mine,
And the summer evenings were long.

We were together at school,
Amal was my friend,
Recently we are getting old,
And we don't talk about the velocity of trains.

He now keeps a goatee-
His soul demands for a job,
I start blaming the government-
While he makes me stop.

Amal was a friend of mine,
we don't meet like before,
He took a a train to go away,
And I don't understand velocity anymore.
Jan 19 · 233
Jam pam
Dream Like an idiot,
Dance like a goat.
Deep like a wound,
The future's present ghost.
When you would be dead,
There would be new flowers at your door,
Time would not stop, The soul would
stop begging.

No one would speak, Pity would bathe,
like troubled twin babies.

You would be dead, the message from lights,
stills from photos, so many things.
Dying Young, wrapped and covered, boxed,
and released.

You would be dying,
Like the slow soft treble of leaves,
at a summer's night. The Forests, The clouds,
The half eyed moon, would stop begging.

You would be dying, dying like the river,
traveling again in a realm of strange colors.

Where is the music of The sunsets? The glowing flowing-
Youth?
The delicacy, The purple hazed yellow sky?

Trust me, someday you would die.
Time would stop, souls would stop begging-
wrapped, boxed, released.
Dec 2018 · 63
Submarines.
The world is a missing music box,
Where the voices are lost.
All spirits are dancing, in spaces, between-
Madness and laughter, A child's tale.

Narrate the stories and ingest the thoughts,
The world is a missing music box,
And You are not what you rather seem to be-
Your religion, Your place, Your position in between,
A lost truth and and a crooked meaning.
A child's tale.
Nov 2018 · 114
Glow Worms.
First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
First as a river flowing,
then as a dawn mist glowing.
I Cannot but think of you, our souls,
like lost little clones, swimming in a pond,
With dreams to fly, I am learning that I've pride.

First as a cold winter day, I love the
gift of light.
I understand that you hate the mode,
of fright. It is easy to float, like bubbles
of wine in my throat.
I am not trending as a goat, And you are loved,
Therefore we are dreaming to fly,
I am learning that I've gorged with delight.

O! Happy days, Happy Happy days.
There was an age of suns and glory,
And heroic similes.
Fortunes favor the brave, I have been dancing,
over the grave, the gravest of thoughts,  
As an ashcan, Like a patient on a table, etherized.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
Nov 2018 · 192
Haiku Sutra 007.
A body needs a soul.
The flower blooms at dawn.
The motion hides a force,
A jumbled overdose.
Aug 2018 · 203
Curtailed.
"I am an addict.''

"What do you take?"

"Not ****** or marijuana.
Or even alcohol or acid."

" O that's awkward..."

"No I mean, I am addicted to Reality."

"As in?..."

"I expect. I dare to communicate."
Aug 2018 · 119
Butterflies.
I do not comprehend you my love
You do not comprehend me.
  Distance grows, correspondences cease.  
  As a sunflower inhales the bars behind which,  
  Her brown bud blooms in the longing for the Sun.
I do not know you my love,
You do not know me.  
And winter like a cat emerges
in the shadows of the green.  
   Her eyes glow like emeralds  
     Made from frozen teardrops,
   brought by these cold words.  

I do not call for you my love,
you do not call for me

  While the waterfall dazzles
  in its own silvery glee  
    My metaphors fail to touch you,
  though this water  
    Flowing through my fingertips,
  reminds me the touch of your hair.
Aug 2018 · 619
8.
8.
A man must die.
Every evening at eight.
When he sips the coffee with,
Hot chocolate cake.

Whatever is begotten,
      Born and dies.

But A woman is not,
And I'll show you why.

A woman must be,
A picturesque deity,
Giving and taking all the
Evening in her.

The harmony, the health,
The warmest of thoughts.
A woman's a farmer
Every evening at eight.

Watching the steam,
And taking within,
The fetish of hate,
Every evening at eight.

Makes her a woman,
Who isn't born to be great.
But kind and mild,
And As timid as a cow.

A woman never dies,
For she is never loved.

Since she is born to witness
A death.
And, A man is a member of a community,
Of men.

Practising a composition,
To produce hatred.

   Every evening at eight,
With hot chocolate cake.
Aug 2018 · 766
Sailing.
What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?
Aug 2018 · 109
A pursuit.
I hate the rising sun,
The gift of light.
I hate waking up and watching
The limbs.

Time moves on tired feet.

And, I have watched and I found
A picture of a thought.

Since, we are never loved.
And, Therefore we are.
Jul 2018 · 238
Gratitude.
I have eyes. Two eyes.
I have thoughts.
Thoughts, many thoughts.

I sleep, I repeat.
I begin to shine.

I add sweetness in my days.
Jul 2018 · 88
Histories.
The sea had been mine,
The Sun was all yours.
The land had been lost,
Since all Time will fly.

How would you still then deny?

The growth is a law.
The choice was my slave,
The Time will all fly,
Since they try to be loved.

How do you manage to listen about...?

The courage was all yours,
The seas had been old,
Moved like a ghost,
With a powerful voice.

How do you still manage to rejoice without food?
How do you even think when the times are not good?

And all days are but told,
The numbers are alone-
The body was my slave,
My soul is my king.

How would you manage to ever possibly begin?

Since there would be leaves,
A released reverie,
We would be there-
Perhaps a witness to this game?

How would you then manage to whisper your claims?

And all Time will all fly,
Like I said they would do-
There would be Time yet for more...
And you would look at the gates.

Would you still play this game of a battle between states?

Too Dearly, it'll be gone.
Casually alone.
Jun 2018 · 288
Cues.
The body is my slave,
My soul is my king.
My mind is my labor,
I think I am existing.

The words are my speech,
I express pleasure and pain,
I am an animal to be tamed,
At the beginning of dawn.

The whitest night glows,
The foundation mellows,
Like light.

The principles of partnership,
softens the fright, of life.

The conditions are given,
I harbor my axe,
I breathe to produce,
I exhale to relax.

The whitest night glows,
The foundation mellows,
Like light.
Jun 2018 · 80
George.
Where all things were out of bounds,
There resided a king of clowns,
He sang and danced and leaped in mirth,
He moved along the lines of hate.

Where all things were out of bounds,
There resided a king of clowns.

The pranks of hate and love resolved,
The pawns and workers were there to ride,
The canvas of winged and fried consciousness,
A deference to capabilities, to ignore.

But there's a little place,
where Beulah sleeps,
Dances and leaps in Sunshine and rain,
Pure as a concept and whole as a grain,
There are such things but without a strain.

Where all things were out of sight,
There resided a mode of fright.
They sang and danced and gorged with pride,
There resided a frame-less light.

But there's a little place,
where desires are kept,
Prances and plunges in a Pinkish Paradise,
Pure as a conceit and whole as a root,
These are all things that the king had to loot.

But The pawns and workers were there to ride,
The canvas of winged and fried delight,
A deference to a foundation, to demystify,
Where all things were alibis?

Of Mice and Men and an out of bounds,
There resided a king of clowns,
The pawns and workers were there to ride,
The mode of fright from out of sight!
Jun 2018 · 75
The Cutest Knitting.
Fantastical ******, I give you shape.
I shake my single state of man,
that function now, is smothered in surmise.

And,
All Blood, reeking wounds and I'm
bathing more in red.

Fantastical ******, you I see,
are withering on the ****** thorn,
I gave you lease, a proper pride,
a vault to brag of,
This wine of life is drawn,
and a pleasure do I seek.

Mournfully.

Morning, O-******, Withered ******,
Time elapses in units and,
Ye!
what fools these mortals be!

These imaginations has now given forth,
to such bleeding forces of-
an Ecstasy.

That I run behind curtains and cadence,
To witness a grinding gorilla,
gorging in glimmering blood.

I dream to see a translated thought-
as If, ****** is reincarnated as meaning,
As truly ambiguous- like trails of secrets.

Such Islets?
May 2018 · 63
Patch.
I have understood understanding yesterday,
It was as ambiguous as ambiguity can be,
A box should have been opened to sequence this phrase,
I understood that understanding is difficult to relegate.

I thought that maybe thinking should have been better,
It was as imperfect as any perfection can be,
The forest of glass was like a mirror burning bright,
I was hoping again to think again, alright?

And the sausage of chicken was too meaty and fried,
I was ready to digest my chimed and beaten body ghost-
I have understood to develop my thoughts yesterday,
It was as meaningless as all meaning must aid.

I explained the process to my friend who explained some in return,
I was hoping I might think a bit alright,
But it was Summer and we had no leisure at all,
He went back to work as all meanings must go.

I was tired for the day, thus I came back home,
There were things that I actually had to complete,
I understood of things of being at primes,
I was merely seeking a knowledge to understand these lines.

The curtains were pulled, The sun went home,
The bombs were fired, the birds were alone,
I was afraid and so was my friend,
I was thinking to understand ambiguity again.
May 2018 · 172
Three Mistakes.
The wind had a name,
History for an age.
An attempt to be red,
A singing liquid overflows.

The flowers were all bricks,
And, all petals were like stones,
The pride of ecstasy-
Jumped on the ashes of time.

The memory of reason is dead,
The liver can turn milk into wine,
The seriousness of a conception is a lie,
A butter is nothing but disdain.

The neglect of mobility is fresh,
A team spirit, no more, no less.

The concern for such a-
stupidity is predicted to burn,
A method, as good as this,
can a turn a word into a gun.

An obtuse flash---------
Mar 2018 · 198
A Constitution.
Life is pretty short.

It is a crime to solve this amorphous riddle.

The dear, dear sun-
moves like an aged old ghost,
jovially, with histories and stories on its hunchback.

Feeble teeny lights of flying dreams,
drift over the cities of civilization of roots and roses,
like a thick sloppy smoke.

Life is pretty short,

intricately designed to wipe out-
all the songs of sparrows and nightingales,
and nothing else can be exciting after death.

Or is it the saliva of some slimy poison-
which inducts the motif of grief,
feeling,
and a body without a mind,
or a hope beyond a trace?

You see,
it is just about a day or a night,
the dawn or the dusk,
a winter or a spring.

And somehow,
In this grand play of time,
Life is what ebbs away,
Only desires and a fountain of a foundation...
remains.

And I therefore, may ask-
O Me? O Life-
what Good amid these?

Since you see,
These walls were unusually dry,
They slept like milk, on Saturdays.

And, life is pretty short,
It is an industry of cowards,
manufacturing vision.
Mar 2018 · 143
Paucity.
Again A Day, and Again a Night,
Dawn And Dusk, A winter A spring-

In the Play of Time, Life ebbs Away...

Only Desires Remain.
Mar 2018 · 63
The Youth Parliament.
The head which today proudly flaunts a crown,
Will tomorrow, right here, in lamentation drown.
Mar 2018 · 79
The Tall Girl.
I love a tall girl.

When she sits on my knee,
She with nothing on,
And I with nothing on-
I can just take her ****** in my lips-
And stroke it with my tongue...

She is my pretty princess,
my ***** sober *****,
When She begs for mercy-
There I scream for more.

I love a tall girl.
Who traverse through my skin,
Gets me dripping wet,
until I soak the pleasant sheets.

The mind's wandering eye,
inflamed by the promise,
desires the inevitable.

The scale of rationale tipped beyond reason,
overflows in an endless ecstasy.

She is my pretty wanting,
my ***** sober thighs,
When She begs for mercy-
There I scream for fights!
Mar 2018 · 77
The Policies.
Is it true that you can stab your memories, thrice-
to rescue the ashen laden priorities,
of all fueled desires?

Is it hard to understand that the motion of an extension
point towards a dot?
An Eternal bathing, under the shower of a movement.

Some flimsy verses stringed and sung-
With feigning voices for a black body moon?

There and here,
A universe cannot be constructed, For...
Death is pardoned-
As the land is never tilled for bread and belongings,
But for death, itself!

But true to that,
The splendor of birth is conserved within time-
Reason, Romance and Vigor,
lacks the pace to forfeit the game.

Thus,
Give tending, to the decorations of all sorrow,
A False face must hide form all defining tomorrows.

But,
A false heart-
knows how to be a serpent underneath,
Thus, They apply this motion to the process of-
an extensive defeat!
Mar 2018 · 87
Uncertain Conclusions.
"The answer, my friends, is blowing in the wind.
The answer is blowing in the wind."

-- ****? You mean?
Feb 2018 · 274
Toil And Trouble.
Magic is my name, I can play some pranks,
Fearing is my fright, I can cheat my self.
Shining shimmering trees, I can feel the breeze.
Cloudy sunny rays, fills my shelf of souls.

Who but you? But I can cause the move of games,
Who but they? But they would dance in antic hays,
And I would do, what is true, and what else does a pinky promise need?
Joyful truth and a sweet melody?

Now, The time is ripe for breakfast now,
I would cut all ropes in four, or eight-
Chime and chew and spit some soy,
Gaslight anthems on abroad!

Fish fish fish fish, fish-fishy dreams,
Black, pepper garlic doomed dark nights,
Magical magazines and meatballs,
Think of offbeat opposite kicks.

Lock and trick your fearing doubts,
Double your strokes of sightless strings,
Harp your body and spring your files,
Bark at zips of melancholies!
Feb 2018 · 114
Cockneyts.
We'll begin with a box, the plural is boxes.
But the plural of ox is oxen, not oxes!
One fowl is a goose, and two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose is never called meese.

You may find a lone mouse, or a house full of mice-
But the plural of house is houses, not hice!
The plural of man is always men,
But the plural of pan is never pen-

If I speak of a foot and you show me two feet,
And I give you a book, would a pair be a beek?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't two booths be called beeth?

If the singular's this and the plural is these-
Should the plural of kiss be ever called keese?

We speak of a brother and also of brethren-
But though we say mother, we never say methren;
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his, and him-
Now imagine the feminine- She- Shis and-Shim>

~ Anonymous.
Jan 2018 · 307
Bangistan
I scream to have *** with time,
A morning brings a contradiction in terms,
In between the other and all forces of allusive virtues,
The style awaits for an arrogance to bloom!
Jan 2018 · 451
Presence.
A sweaty toothed madman, looks into my eyes-
With hunger, power, pride, and thirst,
insolence and disguise.

The sweaty toothed madman, begins to bite my nails,
With bloated bulgy human nature,
Expecting a recurrence.

A mighty mixture of anger, base and immobile,
The ring of magic, a realm of life,
Churns the paste of light.

Not so much on a wintry night, I expect so much more,
The sweaty toothed madman, wears a coat of holes.

He looks upon an eternity, the landscape of all parodies,
For I couldn't sing a melody to feather a community.
Jan 2018 · 169
Fixations.
Where is the center of the sea?
Why do waves never go there?

Is it true that sadness is thick
and melancholy thin?

Are you a bird or a fish
in those nets of moonlight?

Are you the reason?
That a man might question?

And, like a train,

-you lost the motif of time.


Why don't they train helicopters
to **** honey from sunlight?

Where did the full moon leave
its sack of flour tonight?

Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do men conceal
the splendor of death,
in their graves?

I know not how-
the smoke of a ******,
talk with those clouds,

But Such desires-
must be watered with dew!

The windows must be open,
To watch buried time.

Isn't the smell of gravity,
made of both iron and peace?
Jan 2018 · 61
_()_
Enter Hamlet.

   O ****-
                 Exit Hamlet.
Dec 2017 · 183
The Travelogue.
Your hair is short,
And, You've beautiful eyes.
I am a lonely street,
Listening to the evening wind.

But, The wind would come to
spoil the moon,
And, I would fit in this noisy truth.

A natural flower being too dead,
to mock the
sleeping sequence of-
a buzzing hope.

The scraggy anger would get absorbed,
like salty waters among the gravels,
deep below, and all down below,
The foam of disguise.

But I would rise again, to make it sure,
like-
The Eclipsed Moon,
to eat your Rose,
And I would toil my Greeky hands,
All hunger, but an image fails.


And, I would capture an orange light-
For, I would burn my fear with an asymmetrical fright.
And, I would intoxicate the absence of all links,
upon the suspended mechanics of all-
suspicious inklings.
Dec 2017 · 95
Hide And Seek.
Mangoes are sweet, a fire is too hot,
Flowers are nice, a raining device.

Two eyes are as cold, as tales too thick,
To be told.

And shotguns are quick, like an aged old memory of rings.

A sickening joy, and all colors of a toy,
She's Counting the breeze, as my curtains release,
the breath.

And a history, who hosted, the castle of prunes,
Sang to the tune, of all spirited debates,
Now, Fritters like a meek and mildly innate,
Shape.

But, Partly, in parts, of all particles, in flux, starts along with statute of laws,
Of loss, and all locks-
As, Innate.
Dec 2017 · 93
||
||
Your life is ending one minute,
At a time.
So, Beware!
Dec 2017 · 99
High but not Tall.
And then we are free,
When fear is no more a mystery.
But a concept is fluid like a juice,
We do consume, but we can never choose.
Dec 2017 · 94
#Gingerfeet
I have learned it in school that soldiers seldom die.
I have learned it in school to remain a bit both silent and shy.
The teachers in my school had huge degrees and dark sarcasm,
With which they often used to rule,
For they used to say-
“Don’t yell or shout or stoop or cry! For,
A “WHATEVER” might just come in the way....”

I have learned it in school that sharing is not fun,
I have learned it in school that to re-exist superficially you gotta run!

I have learned it in school that there’s a good and a bad,
I have learned it in school that “writing poetry makes you mad.”

I have learned it in school to finish papers “within” time,
I have learned it in school that if you’re a bit poor, well that’s a very sober crime!

I have learned it in school about much history and “NECKTIES.”
I have learned it in school about wearing short skirts and not eating rice!

I have learned it in school about chicken nuggets and low waist jeans!
I have learned “this” in school about fancy twilight books, ice creams, and suspicious inklings!
I have learned it in school, about a classroom- “A FISHY MARKET.”
I have learned it in school about high esteemed mediocrity and about so many things.

The fat bottomed teacher did teach us about science,
I have learned it in school that “IMAGINATION MAKES YOU BLIND!”

I have learned it in school that you need to have a shave every day!
I have learned it in school not to yell or to shout,
For,
A “WHATEVER” might just come in the way...

I have learned it in school that the president is nice.
I have learned it in school about both virtue and vice!

I have learned it in school to keep myself calm and to proceed...............
I have learned it in school to love myself more, “MORE” than “I” should “Thi(M)nk.”

I have learned it in school about both “BOYS” and “GIRLS”,
I have learned it in school about both shame and fear!
And, I have learned it in school about both heaven and earth.
I have learned it in school that only with a good grade, comes a joyful mirth.

I have learned this in school and about so many things!
The teacher did teach, they did teach well!!!!
I have learned it in school never to shout or to yell
I have learned it in school that I have nothing else to tell!

I have learned it in school to manufacture myself as a product,
As to Something which I Can sell.

Pretty Well.

I have learned it in school about such a fairy tale,
For,
A “WHATEVER” might just come in the way...
Dec 2017 · 171
The Song of Sparrows.
Mostly it was the sky that never changed.
The same star pictures were there years after year.
The Moon grew from nothing-
to a thin silver,
and then to a round ball,
and then back again into nothing.

When the moon changed,
the women used to bleed.
Sometimes they used to shrink down at noon.

He used to stare at them with awe and wonder.

Faraway lights blinked in silence,
and they planned to obey the rules.
For, Rules were sacred.

The stars were far away.
When he used to climb up a hill or a tree,
they were no closer at all.

And clouds came between him and the stars.
But the moon never ate the stars.

He thought they were his children.
They flickered strangely,
cold white faraway light,
many of them all over the sky,
but only at night,
he wondered what they were.

But if the stars were holes in his skin?
He became afraid!
He never wanted to fall down through a hole,
and into the flame of power.

He moved. He survived.

But, One day there was a storm,
with much “thunder, lightning and rain.”
The little ones were all afraid.
And sometimes he too was afraid.
But the secret of the storm was hidden.
The thunder was deep and loud,
and the lightning was brief and bright.
Maybe to be a wolf was bad.

Someone was angry, maybe up in the sky,
he thought for a second.

But then after the storm,
there was a flickering and crackling in the forest nearby.

He went on to experience.

It was a bright hot leaping thing, yellow and red.
He never saw it before.

He named it “flame”.  
It carried a special smell.

In a way it was alive, he countered.
It ate food.
It ate plants, tree limbs,
and even whole trees if they used to let it.

It was strong but not very smart.
When the food was gone, it died.

It never walked, never danced,
but when there was more than enough food,
it gave birth to many flame children.

One day he had a brave and fearful thought,
to capture "the flame",
befriend it a little, and feed his taste of desire.

But the flame children were weak, they died.

But still, he used to shout out loud,
with all his good wishes-
“Do not, no, no...never die. Never! Never Die...”
Nov 2017 · 151
কৌটো
দূর এর কোনো মধুর বাঁশি,
সন্ধে বেলা বাজে,
নিথর নীরব তুলসী তলা,
মন লাগে না কাজে.

দূর এর কোনো ঝাপসা আলো,
সন্ধে তারা জলে,
এমন হটাৎ হতেই পারে-
থমকে যাওয়ার ফলে.

দুয়ার ভাঙে, শরৎ কেটে,
ঠান্ডা বরফ আগুন,
আগুন চোটে নিজের মতন-
হাওয়ায় তখন ফাগুন.

দূর এর তখন মধুর বাঁশি,
ক্লান্ত মনের মাঝি..
আলো'র ঢেউ এ পাল তুলে ন্যায়,
অবাক স্মৃতির দাবি.

সময় যখন শুকিয়ে যাবে,
ঝরবে কত পাতা,
তখন দূর এর মধুর বাঁশি,
আঁকবে রং এর খাতা.

সন্ধ্যা হলো, মধুর বাঁশি,
মন লাগে না কাজে,
দূর এর কোনো মধুর বাঁশি,
সন্ধে বেলাই বাজে...
Nov 2017 · 93
!
!
A poet must have a pain in the ****,
And a pen in his hand.

Of nothing else, I know not.
Nov 2017 · 373
Marks.
An old picture for an old room.
An old song for an old day.
A visit to the other ways of looking back at time.

Sweet sensations, bitter sweet blood,
Rosemary and thyme.
Nov 2017 · 594
LackMan.
An Apple a day,
Can keep the innocence away.
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