I don't seek your permission...
To write about the what, why and how.
It could be a haiku or come in the shape of a cow.

I don't need your approval...
When I don't sound the least bit poetic...
In my mismatched metaphors or ill-rhymed acrostic.

I'm not asking for your blessing...
When I pen down and put up what I think...
Be it in cloying cliches or in tear drenched ink.

I don't crave for your understanding...
When my 10 word poems weren't filtered through your poetic lens,
Or if my contributions in collaborations lack in sense.

I don't hope for your likes...
If my content does not tickle your fancy,
Or if my words just rubs you silly.

I mean no disrespect...
But don't be too quick to click on the 'comment' button.
Private messaging has been put there for a reason.

I don't mean to cramp your style...*
You're entitled to your own opinions of course...
But if you've got nothing good to say, please save it and shove it up yours.

"You control our world. You’ve poisoned the air we breathe, contaminated the water we drink, and copyrighted the food we eat. We fight in your wars, die for your causes, and sacrifice our freedoms to protect you. You’ve liquidated our savings, destroyed our middle class, and used our tax dollars to bailout your unending greed. We are slaves to your corporations, zombies to your airwaves, servants to your decadence. You’ve stolen our elections, assassinated our leaders, and abolished our basic rights as human beings. You own our property, shipped away our jobs, and shredded our unions. You’ve profited off of disaster, destabilized our currencies, and raised our cost of living. You’ve monopolized our freedom, stripped away our education, and have almost extinguished our flame. We are hit… we are bleeding… but we ain’t got time to bleed. We will bring the giants to their knees and you will witness our revolution!" ~ Jesse Ventura

"Palestinian boy chucks rock at Israeli soldier.
Sixty-seven unarmed civilians killed in self defense,
against these evil terrorists. Prime Minister Netanyahu declares
'These continuos violent aggresive terrorist attacks against
the kind, freedom loving, law abiding people will not be tolerated.
If necessary we will **** countless more, until these monsters cease their terrorist attacks.' Senator Mccain, when asked about what he thinks about the situation said, 'I think Israel has every right to take justifiable military action against the terrorist government of Syria.'
Man on the street wearing a **** all ragheads tshirt says, 'All these heathen moslems are all the same. We don't need any reason to **** them, other than the fact that they hate us, and want us and Israel to be wiped off the map. These sandn*#@ers, are all irrational, racist, anti-semite, violent, camel ****** savages. I hate them, and if it wasn't for my extreme cowardice, I'd go over there and wipe them off the map myself.'  This is the thousandth case of Hamas terrorist aggression in the last year, and many experts believe that war against Iran will be necessary to stop the violence. Coming up after the commercial
'Are Prince Harry and Emma Watson seriously dating!?'

When gentle breezes turn into gale,
     remember that you will prevail.

       You may tear at these pages daily,
in search of peace and tranquillity.
   Planting hope and scattering wishes,
    Spilling blood in smears and blemishes...
       Flying out of the dark on
     wings of birds.
       Bridging the rippling void through
           severed words.

                Seeking...
             Reaching...
               Imploring...
            Writing...

     Be not wary of eyes that speak.
  Be not afraid of mouths that leak.

Know that our scribbles are only
   sacred to us.
       Emotions and thoughts we
           bind and truss.

  What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves...
     Bits of us we've kept hidden in the
darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves.

You...
      are wielder of your mighty pen.
You...
      determine how far or long your
         words would span.

   Your words... They're precious gold.
Many or little; be them new or old.

So let drip your ink with little reservation...
  Let us grow from strength to strength
     as life teaches its lessons.

   Rise up and live on in these here pages,
     For here exist only
         freedom;
               not cages.

We sit in the still
and through tiny buffeted windows
watch the stubborn shore arrest the fierce sea.

An old clock tocks as slow as winters
as we recall the beach of crowded summers

The cold wind whispers along the scurrying dunes
to throw the sand in abstract arcs
against the ice blue sky

In large coats, billowed scarves
and stout boots
we trudge against the bickering wind
blustering in its niggling argument
far into the sea.

I never thought our steps
could be this close
as we huddle and cower
against the wind

and in a tiny distance
the gale rips up our prints
as if no foot had ever trod.

Yet behind our watering eyes
We know that once two footsteps touched
Our shoes kissed
in the wild wet and wintry night

There will be warmth
in the accordion blessed bar
with pipe smoke leering to the rafters
and yellow light from candled glasses
casting tall shadows
of the shawled women
waiting for the long lost sailors’ return.

Shall I be a sailor then
to board the narrow boat of your body
in all the crash and yaw
the swell and deep
the thunder and breech
the pounding and clamour
until in the safe soundings
in the harbours of morning
we drift like flotsam
on the shoreline of sheets.

And driving home on a damp Sunday
will we marvel at the twisting rain
and how the tiny ship of our footsteps
survives the howling gales
and the all wild wide oceans of our watery ways

I woke at two
In the deep dark
with rain making soft lullabies
beyond the window.

In this space,
this moment
beneath the mantle,
There are splatters and deltas
Splayed like stretched fingers.

The drip from overhangs,
the dribble from ledges,
the patter at the glass,
as sure and soft as fingers on flesh

and there the hush
like breath against a summer tree
or a sigh of ghosts; still warm
with the memory of lost loves

So for a little while
I lie down in the darkness
and listen

From the lip
of the forest green leaf
I drip
into the infinity of falling

Tumbling down the bright air
to capture a millions suns
in the dazzling rapture of a splash

And all the tiny beads of my becoming
like oceans
in the acres of time

Until evaporation
as vague as night
gathers the dreaming clouds

One day
perhaps a thousand days away
I will collect myself
Into the brief holiness of rain

Just as you go to bed.
when the day is worn and old
and all you want to do is sleep;
take me with you
in the travel of your dreams.

In the late evening
when all the earth falls away
and the world soothes your open flesh
with soft fingers of breath and temperature.
Your open soul is caressed
by the ever unfolding spirits
of love and joy.

Take me with you
In the quiet drift of such places.

“I want to feel weightless. Warm too... like this foam”, he added looking down as he dabbled his feet in water.

She saw him with an amused expression.

“Do you come often?”

“Yes. At nights. Alone. Whenever I'm too tired to sleep”.

“How can someone be tired and sleepless at the same time?”

A smile lit his face, “Can be. Look ahead”.

“The ocean's tired of gathering all of river's salt. Still tries to push it to the shore with its waves. Sleeplessly”.

“But why?” she asked, clearing strands of hair out of her eye. The cool midnight breeze carried salt in the air on a quintessential moonlit summer night.

After holding a pause, he added, “Maybe the ocean has no choice”.

“Why not? Who's stopping the ocean from resting down in peace?”, she questioned.

“The same melody to which all life must dance”.

She looked at him with questions in the eye.

“And what of these waves which crash on feet of rocks? What pleasure does such dance bring? Everything just dies eventually. This can't be a melody.” She was curious to hear from him now.

“Not all silence is death dear. Not all ends are the close. This.. and not even a trickle of water which lets loose from sky leaves its place without a reason. That rock has a reason to be. That wave needed to die for a reason.”

“What's all this thing about silence and death then? There's no melody in silence, or is it?”

“If there can be a music in sound, why can't there be a music in silence?”

“Now you're not making any sense. Silence is the lack of sound”.

“Not quite. Sound is the absence of silence. Sound is a cloak which hides the real face of being. Actuality is not sound. It is silence. And in this silence hides a million possibilities of being. Including this crash of waves... this tumble of the midnight tide... of you and me.”

“Hm.”

After reflecting on it for a few seconds she asked, “So end of things is just one possibility? What are the other possibilities then? Immortality? Isn't death unavoidable?”

He tried to lay it plain now. “Look at the chances of you and me being here. Right here. This moment. Sitting on this rock. Few months ago we didn't know the other of us even existed. What could be the possibility of this happening? Life is all about one possibility growing roots into another. Of chances forming relationships with each other. It all forms a web of instances which we connect with. Which we remember as life experiences.”

“But ultimately, we do have to die, don't we? We need to stop somewhere”

“Yes but what suggests that possibilities of existence end with death of body? The wave doesn't really die with a crash. See? There it came again,” he pointed with a smile.

“That's not the same wave...”, she was quick to revert.

“No that one was bigger. but”... “yeah i get it”, she interrupted him

“Its a part of the same thing. Same ocean i mean”, she said.

He smiled and added, “Also has the same rhythm”.

She smiled back, “So everything is brimming with life then? Skies and seas, plants and rocks.. all of it? Sounds like something out of CS Lewis' fiction”.

“Mhm”

“Guess everything could be as fictional or as real as it can possibly be then. Depends..”, she said looking at the midnight sky.

“Totally.”

“And this applies to everything, hm?”

“Completely.”

“What's real then?”

“Redness in your cheeks when you smile”.

A giggle followed to which he pointed his finger at and remarked, “As I was saying...”

“... stop it silly”, she interrupted him grinning.

“I meant what we see and feel this moment is real. Feeling is real. Maybe what we felt yesterday was real then, but we can't feel it now. We can't feel the first rays of dawn yet, so future is not real either”

They faced midnight's horizon. Immersed in placidness, pondering upon the gaze of sky and water with something which connected them both incomprehensibly.

“I think I can feel hearing to the sea now. Its refreshing.”

“Sure is.”

“To the silence of sea now, I mean.”

“Yeah.That's what I always come here for too,” he mumbled slowly.

"And to see the waves break themselves on feet of rocks with longing, while the rocks are deeply immersed in hearing the silence of their being in tranquil quietude".

wish you were here
in the void between stars
slowly floating in spaces
left between fingers and the night sky
away from hot splashes
of bitter sun

wish you were here
keeping me company on a long winding road
where tree shadows hold each others hands
till the end of nothingness
where birds forget their nests
and are forever lost in blissful amnesia

wish you were here
draped in colours of autumn
fragrances of spring and gusts of rain
in silent chills of winter whiff
hunting like an arctic fox
the no good prey of meekness

wish you were here
on the attic walking on a crazy rainbow
shamelessly fragile
like the love of a baby for a new toy
so pure, honest...  yet so
insubstantial

stuck in a fishbowl
ensnared by smiles of the moon
alluring me with chants of professed freedom
life throws darts on a balloon heart
wish you were here
to rid me of fears and lies i tell myself
and you

in times when diamonds doubt their worth
boundaries of satisfaction orphaned by loneliness
wish you were here
with a wingspan of monsoon clouds
to soar over and flood the parched earth
preceded by rhythms of thunder

but here you are
hiding in pillars of laughter
swaying to music of freshness
meant for my hazy eyes to seek
and I dare not dance on orange flower-beds
left behind in your footprints
etched on my imagination

I dare not lead this dance
I will not change the music
and let delirium echo in air surrounding us
for too much of a dream bewitches the sleep

but somewhere in the spaces
left between my fingers and the night sky
draped in colours of autumn
carrying smile of a baby who found his toy
with footprints on which spring grows
just for tonight...

could you walk my rainbow

I don’t get feminism.
The term, that is.
When they ask, "Are you a feminist?"
I reply, “Sure.”
They nod in bobble-head approval.
“I’m also a childist and animalist”
A confounded grimace glazes over
“Huh?”
“Of course. Aren’t YOU a childist?
Aren’t YOU an animalist?”

“Uh. What do you mean?”

“Well, don’t you believe that children
and animals should be treated with love?”

“Well, naturally.”

“Well. There you go. You’re a childist
And animalist.”

"Besides,  you would extend this love
To all sentient beings, I’m assuming?”

“Ummm. Yes...”

“Well, then, you’re a masculinist too,
Just like me!”

This is about the time their cell buzzes
Or their double soy frap is ready

They whisk away

“Oh, I’m also a worldist!” I belt out

Before they exit

As I resume reading
Remaining clever, and

Alone.