Buy tickets, and go late
When the movie has moved on.
You know your thrill, too, has flowed.

Recharge your card,
Reshuffle your busy schedule
When it's India and Pakistan T20 final,
And reach home in a whisker
After some overs have been bowled.
Irritation will catch you
Like the cold in sheer winter.

Your bride is waiting at the door.
It's your first visit at her house.
You miss the bus, get on the auto,
And her smile is over.
As you meet her,
You say, sorry, sorry, sorry.

Getting late is swimming in troubles.
Waking up in the morning,
Not with the sunrise,
Is booking boredom, passivity,
And drinking Bisleri frustration
For the full day.

Travelling is not an occasion or a moment.
It's a long journey to find out what lies for one apart from usual problems, smiles, relations, and earning.

Penning a poem on love
Is forgetting failure,
And fear of not forgetting
That feared the poet,
If he'd been the victim of veering
Of his long love.

Words don't work themselves,
They're pushed in the ring.

It needs courage to combat
The loss that lasts for many years,
And their shadows shun
Chances of a cool vibe.

Love poems are heroic.

I long to live in their minds
For such greatness.

My belief.
Hang on at poetry,
If you don't attend sermons.
You're at your best when goodness matters

I told her about the leaf
blowing in the wind
and she replied that the leaf is then
subject to the wind's whims...

but, as I consider the leaves spiraling
in gorgeous brilliant hues of
cascading joy...

the leaves are free
the leaves dance down
fulfilling their purpose
and leaves do not know fear,
they do not chart their course
before their fall.

You radiate past the sun,
blinding sonar waves bleed
into my every thought

Soft rays of you spill across the sky,
blending our consciousness together

as one.

Loves skin
paper-thin
like porcelain
deep rising eyes
draped in a sadness

An immortal touch
a caress through
a dream
insisting upon
my love

Drawing in near
conceived of dust
illusions of the unreal
a blur in the
vacant night

A ghost
of what once was
haunted
by you

How soon the things are seriously shifted.
How soon some are replaced with others.
That are placed on the scales, if scrapes.
That are deposited in the dustbin, if cards.
Last month, Mr. Khan, contracted with cancer,
Passed away peacefully during sound sleep.
The name plate was Mr. Rashid Khan on the twentieth day.
The main gate was near the stairs the other day.
The cycle went to the hawker for a little amount.
His clothes were determinedly doled out to beggars.
Whatever was his in the house  was of others.
Black was brown, and he was out of his right.

Silence describes your wisdom

It will be the first snow
After many moons
And my bare boughs
Won't brood over showers
I will hold the love-some lily
And see its smile
Sunshining around
The beautifully blanketed bed
Oblivious of onus
We will write our wishes widely
On the edges of our eyes
In some silence

The purpose of poetry
Is to plant trees in every mind

Whatever you get
Take them with open arms

Happiness is hidden in everything.

I don't want to be the grass.
It can't hold the dew completely.
I don't want to be the leaf.
It can't bear the drop for long.
I want to be earth to soak your love