My mister is so delusional,
Pompously ranting of forbidden flames,
And secret lovers.
Oh wait till I tell him with a bow
"Thy missus is dirtier than thou",
And watch his innocent face
Change a million colors.

Plan A: there is none as such;
though unflinching ego makes
complex calculations, concludes,
reassures it is best laid for sure.

Plan B, hence has no actual relevance
A mountain river, life is, it rushes
the way the cryptic GPS message directs.
If you ask how it works, try to understand
the intricate organic correlations, involving factors
that  even a super computer can't process
but your mind would, somehow easily tell you
in a clear voice, if only you are ready to  listen.

Every best laid plan is merely a wish
the more profound is spoken as a prayer
words addressed to the voice inside, that listens and acts
fulfillment then, is an emotional construct
you need the scent of that flower to inspire life.

Who says the cosmic plan is mysterious?
One who walks the karma path right, even when eyes closed
knows how to reach where one is headed to.
The truth this: one leads oneself, so keep the inner eyes open.

Subtle wishes that bring smile on the face of thy neighbor
are much more meaningful than selfish desires

this tree would grow big
and bear fruits

crows would come
honeybees,
ants, centipedes and all

then the wind, rain
and sunshine would come

savour the taste,
in one way or another

the tree would grow again

when the branches
grow beyond their reach
children would leave the tree

then comes the contractor,
and the chopper and carpenter
arrive in their turn

when the chisel touches
the same branch, where
the crow used to sit,
there arises a sound, cawing

hearing the sound
the remaining children
would fly away sturned

when the nail pierces
its windblown shoulder
there 'll be an eerie silence

desolate like the midday
of friday without anyone
going to the church

gradually it becomes the door
and enters inside
and sits as a chair,
then lay down-
as a cot, tired

I am waiting for her
under that tree

Writing about him
Is an addiction
That I convince myself
Is in remission,
But my heart knowingly
Sees through the deception.

Writing about him
Is an undying compulsion,
Just like loving him is.

Love those accouterments, my eyes catch, even if hidden,
though I don't particularly pry for them in any one, such ambiguity
helps to see world as a place, cryptic messages get transacted,
some are very open even, though no one seems to notice,
like this women I go out with, a free spirit, not the type
who keeps few secrets stashed away in a dark corner of an attic.

Enormous wings she has, I was fascinated by their lasciviousness
how light she would feel, when she soars up viewing the scene
from above, blessed she is , an envied celestial being
she would be in all other's eyes."Ever fancied flying on
your own wings?"  I ask her, in a tone so matter of fact
not revealing I know her secret, as if  just to know her feeling
as a flier.But her words make me think how strange this world is!
Just imagine this, she was never aware of her wings! How strange?

Pure white, delicate, befitting to her petite figure, soft yet sturdy,
her wings weren't a reality, how can it be, when I myself am a witness
the wings never came to her notice, so they cannot exist, she argued.

Her wings were thin, white, silver petals, that shines during dawn and dusk
at a midnight moment she levitates, we fall deep in a pit of velvety clouds
but by some quirkiness of reality, quantum physics may explain perhaps,
it isn't there, her wings,though for the purpose of mathematical calculations
it is counted as a reality; in my imagination, she makes me fly with her.

I close my eyes
And gently trace
A finger on my lips
Vivid memories awaken
With a sigh,
And lazily eclipse
All reality
Now it's you and me,
My senses in your grip
Intoxicated, electrified by
Your finger on my lips

On the 9th, I was driving in a hurry from Jerusalem to Jerico, laden with kisses for you.  A cop waved me down at the Bank junction at Aluva. Unnerved, the car hit something. All your kisses scattered on the road. My hands, legs, face and ***** blushed with gashes. My kisses for you lay around in the middle of the road. The orphan kids from Janaseva were picking them up. They packed them in their sling bags. A beggar woman who was passing by picked up one to smell it. College going kids make fun of my kisses for you. A cop tramples one of them with his boot.  A pock marked tipper truck crushes it under its wheels. A procession agitating for drinking water marches past it. My kisses for you are strewn in the middle of the road and holler for the moistness of your lips. Covered in a sheet woven with wounds, I lie on a hospital bed. Lamenting 'my kisses, my kisses’, you catch a flight and land in Nedumbassery.  You come to see me. In haste, you forget to buy me oranges.

I kept looking at you.
It was raining outside.

I looked at your lips.
Then, all the flowers in the front yard roll in laughter.

I look at your throat.
Then, a white dove takes off from a mango tree.

I look at your ears.
Then, a thrush flies off seeking its mother.

I look at your strands of hair.
Then, the plumeria leaves pick lice from each other.

I look at your eyes.
Then, the well in the court yard gives a missed call to the sea.

I look at your nose.
Then, the glare outside sketches the spring.

I look at your arm pits.
Outside, yellow woods sing a song.

I look at your *******.
Outside, bird’s eye chilies stand sharply *****.

I look at your cleavage.
A mother who bore six squats outside and coughs.

I at your navel.
Outside, a thousand bats.

I at your feet.
Then, a sweet gooseberry falls on the yard.


At knees.
At tender thighs...

Always
Always then
Outside, the drum beats of a road show grow in crescendo.

I trace pictures of our kids on your lips.

Then, in the middle of the road, the souls of kids crushed under wheels queue up with oranges to meet us.

When you and I wail without a sound, a slice from it falls on the ground. I make up a simile that tears are the slices of oranges that drop from the hands of those who have not had enough of loving. You give me one more kiss. I stash it away doubting whether you will be near when I die.  Our kisses attack us asking us whether we will abandon them again. We lie on the hospital bed covered in wounds from the kisses. A bunch of angels come with syringes and bitter pills. We run away without paying the bill. Our kisses follow us like a procession of bare bodies with running noses. Unable to bear the sorrow, you hug them right on the highway. I buy a cigarette from the petty shop nearby and, puffing on it, watch you.



Translation : Ra Sha

It is difficult-
Separating from yourself
A part of you,
A part of your ideas,
your dreams,
Letting go of elements
of your being,
For someone else's essence.
It is difficult, making room
for another's entity,
but then again,
when was Love ever easy?

I realised that Life
was a scheming, vile *****
the day I felt the pain
of a sudden, shattering loss
Indifferent, and unforgiving,
you may keep questioning it
fervently, relentlessly,
but it won't give you an answer.

Life isn't answerable to you,
It will cradle you with the
illusion that you're in control
Then will suddenly wihdraw,
And watch as you fall

Whoever spread the notion
that life was a gift,
forgot to mention that the gift was accursed
You could relish it for moments
But when it would be time,
It would leave you to darkness,
And never look behind.

Believe everything has a life
look deeply into the eyes of it
connect your soul on what you are writing
make a feel of it
flow like a wave
follow the path it takes you to &
get lost into it,

Writing requires no education
it just requires a language to express
writing is a medium where we can express our thought
where every thought can be beautifully calligraph,

Dont write to earn money, as writing is not a profession its a passion
Dont write to gain popularity, as it will disrespect the love of poets
Dont write until you have a deep feeling of it, as deep feeling can be only put into words,

Write like its your lover
Write to cry in the pain of others
Write to be happy in the happiness of others
Write so that every emotion passes through you & every peak can be feel within you,

Everyone has got a pen
Everyone has got a hand
but everyone cant be a poet
a hand may look a solid thing
but under microscope it vibrates energy
and if an energy can be put into power to write
                "You writing will be a weapon to  make difference"                  

Be proud to be a poet
Fools may blame you its a waste of time
But a true poet knows, what writing is
Dont let criticism makes you fall down
as only your word can create excellence
you are original owner of your words
which nobody else can take it
And yes
           " I am a poet"

Seventy million light years away, my eyes fly

see two spiral galaxies collide and get distorted

taking eyes off from the telescope, I turn to  your face

where the impact of the collision is on graphic display,

in many colors of fury of a love gone sour, for no reason

we still are seventy million light years apart, my smile

a dove orchid, withers in this shower of inter galactic dust.

A bedspread on which bold, red and blue
esoteric, Tantric, motifs embrace
copulating triangles, the ideogram of cosmos
batik printed in vermilion on it's center
is spread, right there on the play-field of cupid
where the confluence is to happen,
a transmitting point of fecund energies to infinity,
a point on the spring board to transcendence

Beloved, here in the holy fire, receive in ecstasy,
the sacrificial offering I bring from the
incessant Ganga of my lineage,

Shakti and Shiva come in for divine union,
together here on the mark beyond time and space.
right in the center is "THE BINDU" the mystical point
both culmination and beginning of the 'beyond'
passage from here  to timelessness of cosmos, we invoke.

Here Shakti is holy fire leaping up for Shiva's offering,
sublimated they fuse, may that be the seed for karmas lumenant.