If of the second chance you did think
    consider a leaking boat about to sink

Some types of reading are to be avoided
beware lest you find your mind being exploited

For your enemies you are prepared
  for your friends the same could not be said

The world is ruled not by the wise
  but by fools and idiots with blind eyes

Money talks for sure
it doesn't have to be pure!

Google-
   ***** of the people

Yes, I write
     don't assume it's right!

It's better to be happy
     than popular
     to yourself you belong
     content and sober

People
make you turn purple

Keep the last coin
  your life it could save
  it should give your hope
  another chance you would have

Adventure
  (ad in Latin is 'towards')
   you add stature
  when your venture

Enough gibberish for the day
go to sleep---let every word go away!

Learn to pause
  it's benediction
  those who can't stop
  court their own perdition.

I am successful because of my past failures
from the wilderness of life I stepped into lush pastures

I have spoken
my promise shall not be broken

It doesn't catch the worm-verily-
the early bird
rising while still sleepy
is ornithologically absurd!

Just because everyone said
  that the forest was tiger-free
  didn't really make it safe:
  today's headline: ' A tiger killed John Henry'

The rich we should pity
their hearts live in poverty

My best friend
is a fool
we have much in common-
never went to school.

Wanting nothing
  happy sleeping

I'll look into the future
the past I can't change
the prologue
I had written long ago
is now but sand washed
from the languishing shore
into the tumultuous  sea of time

(now the interregnum)

all that which
had gone before
I count as folly
and trivia-
love and hate
doubts and fears
the questioning
the angst
that wouldn't abate
the right direction
I missed
I didn't know
where to go--

( realisation--
  through pain
and tears
I stepped into
  a new long-awaited morrow)

I've since outgrown
the weeds--
in the field
of experience
a new life
I've assumed

though I'm
still a bud
but I know
someday
this would grow
silently flower
and in the gentle breeze
steadily it would blow-

the essence
that life must be
should appear
in the final chapter
the epilogue
that summarises all--

what I would be
is not for others to see
for in this simple corner
at the brink of time
only I
and I alone
could measure
what I truly am
have I lived?
have I betrayed myself?
what do I stand for?
do I sell myself short?
what else do I have to deplore?

from the epilogue
I'll return to the present
bridle in the prologue
a new map
I would draw
where road-blocks
are absent
and forward
I'll walk
engaging
in a dialogue
of my own
every step ahead
on my planning board
I'll highlight
with a strong chalk--

salvation
there's not
but only
within the spot
where my heart and mind
intersect
blend
mutually support

where the rough edges
have been shorn
and a fertile interior
has been born--

where thoughts and feelings
are synchronised
like an orchestra
where all sounds of instruments
are in rapport and tunefully harmonised--

the prologue
must end
in the epilogue

to the sky
at night
I would look
even in the faintest light
as the hours creep by
silently and unnoticed

I would no longer
have tears and know not
how to sigh or cry
as to all that's gone before
I would happily bid goodbye--

in that somewhere
of time
which would be
hidden from my eye
that moment
I would welcome
and embrace
as what has been
predestined
in the mysterious scheme
willingly I would accept

I have lived well
(regret I have none)
my earthly task
has been done
a wondrous experience
it would be to die
into a new beginning
I'm returning home
which was my prologue
long have I travelled
and far did I roam

it's the same gate
that did usher me in
at the very start
now it welcomes me
to pass through
in fullness of heart--

without
the prologue
there would be
no epilogue

nothing that does exist
in life and time
is ever lost--
the prologue
and epilogue
are inter-locked
they leave each other not--

the river flows
into the sea
the waters
become one
not a drop
is not absorbed

life is a mystery
relived
somewhere
beyond the claim
of time
it magnifies
it never dies--

when tired eyes
wake from sleep
from the night before
the awakened
will be greeted
with a bright light at dawn
and all joys
shall be theirs
to eternally keep.

It's not a matter of waiting
it is life in its unpredictable flux
no one is ever in control
time ultimately holds the cards-

what you're pursuing
however grand your design may be
they are like leaves drifting
precariously  in life's mysterious  sea-

it would appear to be
there's no escape from destiny
the silent and ubiquitous hand
that brings joy or causes misery-

but what does count at the end- nobly
is our rising above every calamity
in our hope, faith and patience
which will mark our very epiphany

A struggling writer
   to the end still an amateur

Only some glances
     nothing seen in full view
     broken sentences
     written in dark-blue

When I am dead
let this be said:
'some tears he had shed
of death he was unafraid'.

Not my fading
away but life
still of its own-
pulsating

It has an equal right
as reason--
unreason!

Much of life
is erratum
pain, angst, regret,
remorse, boredom

What error?
who said so?
no one is my carer
that word I don't know

To have essence
I have to learn
to give up my ***-sense

This is the essentiality-
      BE!

It's OK to **** when none's around
no reward is offered for that unwelcome sound

Not just once
but too often: Et tu, Brute!
even among the closest
who are encountered most of the day!

Death is a metaphor
of that I have no fear
of my  own law I should be the author
euthanasia should bring me no tear.

Even if
I could move back
some steps into time
it would not make any difference  

I know myself too well

with the same pulse
my heart would beat
my thoughts being imbedded
in my brain's hardware
would assert their dominance still

nature is to me
more potent than nurture

I would once more
draw from my language-well
the same vocabulary
every word is wired
to my psyche
and nothing new
would I enunciate

how I deceive myself:
I would have been a better person
sounder decisions I would have made
much more would I have achieved
my mistakes I would have avoided
in greater esteem would I have been held
yes, how much happier
would I have been

after-thoughts
are from the weak
in will and this is me

even if
I could move back
some steps into time
I would have gained nothing

in my full nakedness
I know the true person
that I am
nothing else
nothing more.

Even if I could
I would not
it's not my home-ground
but someone else's spot-

even if I were invited
and my advice were sought
gently would I decline
I won't get tied into any knot.

A foot-note writer
even that I aspire not
I fall far behind
the superior lot

thousands, hundreds of thousand
out there with stunning brilliancy and lofty thought
sadly they have been left out
such posthumously time forgot

only the moment I clung to
I stopped short to write on the spot
the fluff had been cast away
when the poem had been wrought

scarcely could I comprehend
the words that inspiration brought
a few lines here and there was all I penned
yet a foot-note writer I counted myself not.

Every 'I'
as long as it exists
is but an unknown
hidden cry.

We each have a story to share

      but sadly most are not keen to hear

      I keep a diary everywhere

      I record my every joy or fear

If

Above or below
high or low
left or right
tall or short
sunshine or rain
front or back
forward or backward
here or there
stay or leave
remember or forget
hot or cold
black or white
love or hate
success or failure
friend or foe
hide or appear
beauty or ugliness
loyalty or disloyalty
faith or doubt
doing or not-doing
act or hesitate
waking or dreaming
abroad or home
going out or coming in
opening or shutting
laughing or weeping
buying or selling
speaking or not speaking
walking or running
advancing or retreating
yes or no
hold back or show
a thousand more of such things
but everything ends
with the heart
love your heart
follow your heart
cherish your heart
share your heart
in the beginning was the heart
at the end is the heart
the Alpha and Omega
this is all
and all you need to know

Everything is a beginning
  the start is a leading-on
  to another --giving birth
  to a ceaseless continuum
  a thought, an act, a meeting
  in time--each bears a meaning
  life is thus summarised
  in moments tied to a chain
  mostly a struggling for being

  and what shall be said
  of love and loving?
   will it take off
   and retain its blooming?

   how then should
  it be defined--the ending?
  only that it will be seen
  through the eyes
  of the beginning.

'Some day'
is a banal excuse
our problem we hide
our unrest we seek to defuse

Either be accepted
or be exiled
no other choice
is open.  They have
the power and the means
you can't beat them
they are too strong
they are everywhere
they will hunt you down
some time , somehow--

though I'm alone
and weak
without a single ally
to them I won't cow.

' Big Brother' -the role
they claim.  Either I'm in
or out. But I'm no one's tool
or fool. Their rancour I've incurred
and I'm exiled never to be accepted into society again. They mock while I wriggle in pain.

But I survive. Without them I thrive. What exile?

So often

all the light outside

is blotted out

by the heart's darkness inside

Not wounded
nor paralysed
but the desolate lingering
life that's marginalised-

the pause, steps faltering
time that's circumcised
living has lost its shimmering
nothing is left to be energised.

Today is a repeat
of yesterday's  music
but in a minor key
makes life rather sick

We weary--too easily-
the same old grind
of day and time-- the ennui-
nothing seems to assuage the mind-

we worry--so frequently
peace seems so hard to find
to love, laughter and joy
our eyes are dim and blind-

we blame-- so unreasonably
whether the person stands in front or behind
discontent tears apart our inside
we have hardened and ceased to be kind-

how I long for  those moments so tenderly
when I was a child with so much innocence and wonder combined
where has fled the vision, the dream, the smiling sunshine?
some vague melancholy  has settled in that couldn't be defined.

Life's major part--in brief-
is lived in the ngawing interim
a bridge to the future unknown
the cross-over from the past's every unrealised dream-

the lacuna, the conundrum, the angst
the contradiction, the mirage--it does all seem
a barren and arid land-- what's to becoming
never ever falls even to the best-conceived scheme

hence, the panting, the gasping
the longing--the darkness without a single beam
after all the struggling, striving and sighing
what's left is but the emptiness and nausea* that perennially teem.

The self is not luxury

it's the bearer of misery