I am not a hero
       but never reduced to zero

This is the consolation of tears:
it will build the strong fortress of future years

Life is a musical instrument
   to play well it has to be tuned

Every life is literature, though unwritten
unspoken,  unknown and hidden

When empty is the larder
marriage  is in danger

The long ago is still here
memory holds it just too dear

My arms can stretch only this far
never in my life have I aimed for the star

Would you appreciate beauty
when you're hungry?

Life isn't a place or a spot
it's more the grandeur of your own thought

Whatever you wish to become
only ensure that it should cause none any harm

Don't ever mention you're a dancer
to someone who's in a disability person's  armchair

Honestly I know my folly
but I don't expect others to be like me

Because you're part of mankind
it does behove you to be kind

I have no money to join the local club
my meals I prepare myself--yet the best I sup

The Beatles -- they truly knew the right beats
that's why their songs have been sung in all streets

The past,  remember
but let the present be the master

What hasn't been said
might carry the greatest weight

Why would I need any GPS
when my heart is the most reliable compass?

Those who have known the deepest sorrow
no longer fear any adversity that might follow

The best can't be seen
it's hidden

Many times the same places they visited
but invariably returned empty-handed

Thus says truth:
      I've no substitute

If your eyes choose to desist
       what's before you doesn't exist

That which is self-deception
is hard to amend

What you failed to see
doesn't mean that was not reality

Few people would admit
     their reasoning has a fixed limit

Life is the music-floor, dance
while you still have the chance!

Life-
the story incomplete:
nuances, replete
bittersweet

what the eyes
do meet
is but an iceberg
the truth lies beneath

Not necessary

First understand yourself
before you can know the world

When I'm gone
the sun will still glow-
in towns and cities
people  will come and go-

in the green meadow
flowers will cease not to grow-
everywhere -hither and whiter
the winds will continue to blow-

come summer or winter
lovers in their hearts will know
that vows are meant forever
as unto each other's ***** they throw-

when I'm gone--I'll not be alone
I'll still feel the warmth and mirth below:
those  I've cherished will remember me
and love me as dearly as before.

* after listening to a love-song on 'end of the world'

We should live
rather than question:
in diving into living
we'll find the meaning

a question posed
another to be mentioned
if we live in such a lacuna
we'll die for want of reason

Life is never 'complete' and this makes it enchanting-
we would be like children, wondering in our innocence.

If its veil were lifted, there would be a sense of loss
as the wonder and mystery would have gone-
no longer is the awe.

Incompleteness is rare beauty.

You like yourself?
That's really fine
but don't let that
rule your life!

Let me fade away
without pain in silence
the night is bitter-cold and sombre
and I'll be beyond remembrance

love I've sought in vain
but I seek not any vengeance
heartless destiny I don't blame
I'll not speak a harsh sentence

farewell we've both said
there's no need for repentance
millions of dawns will descend
I'll not beseech love's recompense

ah,  how I long for the unwakeable sleep
to gently drift into the nameless sentience
time shall be forgotten, all shall be forgiven
as I lie gladly in the ***** of transcendence

It's not sadness
a better term is melancholy:
the poets have said this poignantly
in much of their sublime poetry

if I'm silent at any moment
think this simply of me:
something within
is bearing an undefinable story.

Yourself, teach
towards others
don't you reach-
avoid such itch!

Writing
is not just
the enjoying
it's more
much, much more-
not just the words
the feelings
the sentiments
the haunting rhyming
the dancing
of the rhythm :
all this
is just the mechanism
the acquired art
of words--stringing

the great poets
this they will be saying:
my writing
is really me
in my total being
to the muse surrendering
in the mystery
of creating-
within my heart
and soul
in rapturous stirring
and act of totally
being absorbed
in worshipping.

They studied you
your weaknesses to scan
taking advantage
was their real plan:

life-- the law of the jungle
from beginning to end
so dauntingly Darwinian -
it's not easy to find a true friend

You thought
you were special?
But a different tale
was told by your mirror!

Your voice
it's what you are:
its nuances bear
your every joy
or scar-
'twas with you
since you were
a child
gathering
your first words
transformed
in your growing-up days
youth came
and then adulthood-
the same person
you've remained
but in every season
the voice
has witnessed change
in suffering
or joys

time rushes on
and in your last days
you'll hear
so intimately
what each word means
as conveyed
in your own
unique voice.

Revenge is always
disproportionate
to the grief it afflicted :
this is human nature-
it can't forgive or forget

It's not just poetry:
directly or obliquely
it's really about me

Because time I conserve
every day I've 26 hours

because time I waste
the day shrinks to 22 hours

We're the past
already the tomorrow
suspended in the present
with time in the flow

sandwiched in time
the here and now seems a shadow
in its lack of clarity and illusiveness
we live but life's mysteries we hardly know

We are each
a product of time
it relentlessly carries us along
to an unknown outcome

like a tiny leaf
in its stream we glide
whither to we know not
by its will we abide

is there any free-will
are we each in any freedom framed?
Destiny always has the final say
what's that which has to be blamed?

Caught in the intricate web of time
each shall struggle their own to be
despite the odds against us
we must not bow to its tyranny.

Forgiveness
is not the product
of reason
but compassion

I can't guarantee
my words shall stay
as fertile tomorrow
as those of today

inspiration
is a queer thing
it's miracle now
but next be nothing

ah,  this is the sad lot
of the lonely poet:
he can shine one day
or drown in nought

as his muse diminishes :
words, oh words--the grief
when away they hid
and such void it does leave!

There are days
when words
glide by gently
with such ease
like water springing
from a full fountain
and other times
when it runs dry-
so sadly

let love be
the river flowing
ceaselessly
from the heart
in tender longing
and here I am
waiting, dying
to hear your voice
at the setting
of the trembling evening

you will help me
in finding
the right words
in speaking
and I'll no longer
be in any wanting.

Do you
have any clue
as to when
the dew
will drop
on the pool
from the sky
so clear and blue-
plenty drops
or just a few?

Don't ask me
I've just asked you!