The moment cracks
in cleavage-- nothing
anymore seems to be the same
only the regretting and aching

the rock once impermeable
is in ravage-- weather-beaten
the last rose falls in late winter
the change of season has spoken

the sea has lost its vibrant voice
by its own waves neglected and forgotten
the night hides away in furtive silence
the heart of love has broken

the past belongs to me no longer
into the nowhere of time I have been driven
beauty asserts at my darkest hour
in vengeance: 'you have not been forgiven!'

It's the cliche
of the dawn
every poet praises-
'a new beginning'

not for me
the tiresome repeating

give me then

the sad languishing
of a mellow sunset
the day put to rest
its chagrin and fret

give me only
the heart in calm accepting

people are loathed
to denying
their love for craving
amidst
busy hours rushing
through their veins
and their entire being
the perennial pursuing
'what's there for me?
am I not-deserving?'

evening shadows
they lengthen
me into such
they are drawing
my very motives
they are questioning

but

I am not answering
as the truth is:
life the enigma
is beyond my knowing

like past years before
the wonder and awe
(to me ) of living
but lies in the Zen-ness
of not thinking
which is the cause
of human agonising

hush!
a tiny star
is appearing

is it listening?

Wordless
I am
the moment
in embracing
is worth
my very dying

Cliches we all are
but most don't know by far

I feel
therefore I am
I think
to doubt I succumb

feel first
the heart is calm
in clarity
is found the desired outcome.

Intelligence

is fearful of intuition

I went in hurried search
of the colour of my heart
and it replied, not in good mirth:
'none--
for what worthy things
have you done?'
no other words
did it bother to impart.

I'll be the least upset
if the reader were to interject:
how bland your poems are
tasteless, colourless, abject!

Ah, where's my imagination fled?
are the flowers in my heart 's garden dead?
how would I fresh seeds cultivate?
would any poem of mine be worthy to celebrate?

What's the colour of your life?
   an immediate answer it's hard to find
   let me speak without hesitation or strife
   I am colour-blind!

Colours,  such wonders
they speak-- listen, do listen well
each offers itself in unabashed nakedness
hear, oh hear what tales they tell-

yet, their voices, so tender
(they seek not to impress)---so demure
how they sink into your depths
your inner eye wakes to explore

your own life, the present and past
for you have chosen one of your own
what you are and the love you feel
is a colour---unknown to others, only to you alone--

a thought, a feeling, a joy or sorrow
is coated in colour and from the spectrum
one arises to console your heart or your hand to hold
what is the colour that dwells in your sanctum?

A thought is a colour, so I deem
in my dream so many colours
it does assume--ah, paucity of neuro-science-
it labours and struggles in shadows!

but my love is well beyond
words, thoughts and borders
ten million rainbows pale in comparison
with its infinite beauty and wonders.

Colours are the emotions of the heart

blue depicts a sense of melancholy

a sigh from a world far apart

in their desolation and misery-



ah, will love come to deliver me?

my loneliness seems an eternity

though abandoned without pity

I am still haunted by her strange beauty

Comedy sternly spoke to me:
' don't you count my words as hilarious
  if I turn to a different direction--be ready-
  I could be deadly serious!'

Come to me, not in my days of prosperity
but knock at my door when I am in poverty.

I have returned to myself
this natural home of mine
which I left in ignorance and folly
and having then  lost my sunshine

now as I look around
my mind-scape one again
is  a lush green field and a rosy garden-
ah,  the coming-home, the end of my pain!

How I do dread
to be ever remembered-

let me be alone
my dream to own-

among you all I was before
all said and done--I wished for nothing more-

there was joy and laughter
then in our being together-

the day's light is fading
it's the time for resting-

life has been lived--now the fare-welling
I am blessed as I'll step into days unending

.....the sanctuary
     where the self is set free
     and all that which abides in tranquillity
    is pure joy and beauty

Looking only at the cover
and not the contents--
how could you discover?

People don't want
       to be regarded 'common'
       to themselves they say:
       for bigger things I am born!

..but people are their own
  you will always be alone

Everyone wants to enter
         but the host doesn't bother

Count me in-
         the theme everywhere
         (apply the smartest scheme)
         morals---who does really care?

By all means---it's a public park-
    any flower don't hesitate to pluck.

To oneself:
        my trump card I'll hide
        (not everyone is trustworthy)
        I will never be taken for a ride!

Of others' words I quickly tire
mine are hardly enough--they are full of treasure!

You are right, boss
  I am wrong I admit
  (there will be no salary loss
   this should be every employee's wit!)

My neighbour is no singer
    like a crow he does caw
    I am the village's best tenor
   honour on me abundantly the villagers pour

We idealise
and idolise
as life is deemed
to be drab and dry
but are later agonised
as reality wakes
and sweeps away
all that
we've in error
over-prized

Better than other people?
myself I could not
I spare myself the trouble
by banishing this thought.

Compassion
but not by compulsion.

Compassion
everything it encompasses

I know the stars are angry
     I am stuck- up, so they say
     but I can't speak to so many
     90% of them live so faraway!

The truth
one should not dissect
it must be held on its own
or count it dead-

to compromise
is its heart to stab
how weak is human nature
such mindless solution it rushes to grab

as the parties parley
and to mutual advantage negotiate
what's on hand tempts the stoutest of hearts
let the deal be sealed and then celebrate-

who does care if truth should perish
right before the negotiators' gate?
profit and gain is the substance of the game
morality is an easy word to set aside and forget.

Writing to achieve fame?
that thought would only bring me shame!

Even my own self
I couldn't move
vis-a-vis others
what do I have to prove?

Have I reason
to confess?
how would such
I address?

a twilight zone
the good and bad
( how's that defined?)
I might leave more sad--

would I've to return
the same confession to make?
  I would then be more sinful than sin
  is my life then such a grievous mistake?

     Would it be adequate explation
if I list in my poetry my every ill?
      let that then be my litany of confession
      I'd regard that a not too bitter pill.

Knowing most things
I couldn't be
my teacher advised:
Try poetry.

I was naive and young
thought that was easy
an old man now looking back
a poet I could never be!

CONFESSION

Your love I can’t claim
it’s not my right
I should not beseech
that would be self-serving
one-sided
inconsiderate
with nothing
left for you
(don’t you soften your heart
it’s not worth it)

and pity from you
would be my worst affliction
for I would be tearing your heart
with my deceptive tears and pleading

you shouldn’t say
in a moment of weakness
‘  I’ll meet you half-way
   or three-quarter way’

this softening of your heart
it won’t stick
vulnerability is a trick
it would make you sick

a single drop
of dark ink
makes pure water
murky
it blemishes
its beauty
(I would rather
drink hemlock
than be
that dark ink)

no, oh no
I would never want
to make you suffer
on account of loving me

no, oh no
you do wrong
if you should sacrifice yourself
for the sake of another
out of pity or compassion

look away
look far away
as
that which is *******
is not love
you would merely destroy yourself
and regret
in perpetual imprisonment

love
must be free
free like the wind
to travel where its heart chooses
to be its own
without any boundary

its raison d’etre
is to live
to grow
to blossom
to beautify
to embrace
to cherish
to share
in the fusion and convergence
of two true hearts
as
the bow is to the violin
as
the sun to the sky
as
the moon to the night
as
the flower to the garden
as
the water to the sea
as
the song to the singer
as
the poem to the poet

that, that purity
that perfection
that miracle
that devotion
that faith
that beauty
that sublimity
which outshines
the grandeur of all eternity

ask yourself then
before you reply
do I fit
do our hearts meet?

My own morality
if any
is judged only
by others---not by me.

Neither excess
    nor deficiency
    this is equilibrium
    the point of rest


*. 'Doctrine of the Mean' in the Sage's THE ANALECTS, 600 BCE

What's my true content?
you hardly did know
so far I have conned
ten men!

The night
it must
spill over
to the day
the latter
(with reluctance?)
descends
into the hateful dusk
and unfriendly dark

time is the bridge
that provides
the crossover
with men
and women
as the hangover -thus
is its hallmark

life the linker
of the past
to the present
to be taken over
by the future
everything either
stays together
or breaks
apart

in the darkest hour
where is it
to be found
the spark?

This is the message-
the great conquerer
is one who can manage
their rage

Falling
but not falling apart
bruised and fractured
untainted still the heart

that knows
the wax and wane
of life in variation
the cut of pain-

what falls
shall rise again
nothing forestalls
loss will turn into gain-

however thick the mist
however rough the terrain
the self that conquers all odds
shall flourish and remain.

But conscience is only a word--too trite
its meaning but resides in the domain
of the speaker, does he indeed struggle
or announce it in feigned orchestrated pain?

Silence--I have nothing to declare or say
some feelings of mine I can't even give a name
what I've omitted or all that I've done
defined my humanity--need I live ever in shame?

Conscience: is it a healer
or tormentor?

Conscience only needs to whisper
it's louder than the harshest thunder

Ample free food on the table
for breakfast, lunch and dinner
I shouldn't have more than my share
it's only right to think of others who come later.

No one can always
be consistent
we are each
dictated by circumstance

Are we always consistent?
The answer is 'nay'
We change with every circumstance
even moments within the day

but one relevant issue emerges:
about love, what can we say?
Can we make any excuse
for failing part of the way?

Far have I travelled
farther still is the destination
compass I have none
would I end in isolation?

In the bitterest of winter
my heart speaks in consolation:
as long as you keep me all the way
you've no reason to feel crestfallen