Pessimism, to me, is to be preferred to optimism.
I have planned my life based on this belief since my young days up to old age and have come to realise that what I am and the small measure of success I have been able to achieve has been due to this choice.
Pessimism is more close to the pulse of reality in the face of life's uncertainties and vicissitudes.

The pessimist plans well ahead and has a contingency plan but not the optimist who is left high and dry when his plans don't work out-
he has no resources to cope in these eventualities.
( I was happy to read, after my diary entry,  that a scientific study published in 2015 came to the same conclusion--the article was entitled
THE DOWN-SIDE OF OPTIMISM).

Being pessimistic hasn't dampened my love for living---the quality of my life has not changed--I am stronger and happier--thanks to my pessimism.

I know many would disagree---each unto thy own--whatever suits you, that you must espouse.

But what is perfection? Can something be perfected---a novel, a poem, a symphony, a play, a dance, a painting, an invention…?

It seems to me 'perfection' is not achievable but only looms as a benchmark against which we subjectively measure our works.

It is in the realisation that what we have done is imperfect that we strive for a higher achievement----

most of us do that but as for me I never ever dare to think that what I have done is good enough--- it is a just a step forward.

Not one
but a mask over a mask
over a mask
which hides some

and the wearers
feel safer
stronger
assume greater
control over themselves
'  I'm a face within a face
within a face
a phantom within a phantom
within a phantom

you can peel a layer away
but not all
and I remain
a shadow within a shadow
within a shadow

one moment you see me
and another moment
I'm no longer there
an apparition within an apparition
within an apparition

I'll cause you confusion within confusion
within confusion

I'm obscurity within obscurity
within obscurity*

I'm a person within a person
within a person'.

All sorts of rooms I've entered
save one I don't have the key
the room of your heart I can't unlock
you are a complete mystery

yet you stare deep into my eyes
as though to say you want me
but  when I *draw close to you
you walk away without the slightest stint of pity.

What have I planted today
but the seeds of words in my mind's garden?
would they germinate and grow
would they beautify?  and gladden

the heart in verse and song? I'll not fail you
  my love,  as it was you who gave me
the seeds with your white tender hands
which I kissed--your love I'll enshrine forever in my poetry.

There are those who are more enamoured
of dreams than reality
wherein lie their secret longings
cradled in imagination and fantasy--

to be in love with someone they had never met
to surrender to a face, a smile, a kiss,  a moment of ecstasy
beyond the pale of insipid daily living--
far transcending every earthly beauty.

You hold love too tightly
it rebels and says: 'Let me be free'
letting go is the greatest wisdom-verily-
if lovers are to be happy.

Each unto their own in liberty
and yet each is drawn closer in harmony
love is not meant to be one's monopoly
but letting the other to flower into utmost beauty.

It would not be enough
to fall in love and love but how
to keep this flame alive
it's easy to assume now

'  All will be fine
we'll love each other forever'
love's journey is hurtful
often painful--never

should the lovers forget:
real tests are just to begin
(the honeymoon is over)
would their love turn cold and thin?

Love is not everlasting sweetness
as the poets would have lovers believe
millions of tears would need to fall
and would need time for healing or relief.

From the schadenfreude of some
you can't escape
it comes in many a size
and many a shape.

Should I be regarded
as being rude
to enquire:
is human nature intrinsically good?

Such-ness is such-ness
not such-ness is not such-ness
the mind has no say

Spring comes without sound
clouds drift in no direction
the moon knows its place

Clap with just one hand
imagine you hear a sound
this is classic Zen

You seek certainty
then uncertainty appears
mind should be neutral.

Z is for zero
E is  for enlightenment
N is for 'no-mind'

Z is for zero
E is  for enlightenment
N is for 'no-mind'

Everyone is a wanderer
so few find their hearts' desire
the winds their fury unleash
the sun burns like wild fire.

There's no resting place
only slippery rocks, sharp ascents and mire
but there's no turning back
though the prospect is dire.

There's no food or water
for the hungry and thirsty wanderer
the night sky palely looks from asunder
the stars are weary and lose their glitter.

Everyone is a wanderer
destiny is the driver
but none wants to be a loser
this defines him in his perilous splendour.

Reason confuses
its foundations are shaky
intuition rules

The bird fears no heights
it knows not how to reason
'no-mind' is no fear

No questions are asked
no answers are expected
life is what it is

Ev'ry thing is now
quintessence is the moment
the mind is empty

It is what it is
do not ask the why of things
a rose is a rose

Words --polished by the shine of the moon and stars
strengthened by the hardest of stone
words the alpha, words the omega
each word triumphs on its own.

Let every word ennoble
and kindle the heart
let none cast a dark shadow or blemish
at the end as at the start.

Is life but a mist?
the eyes can't see clearly
we have to imagine
what is before us--sighting partially

is the angst of everyone
journeying in uncertainty
with hopes and dreams
as each seeks to chart their destiny-

who ever does say
living life is sailing in calm waters? verily
the mist is testing man's courage and nobility-
he who dares walk through will score the final victory

to be greeted by pure sunshine
which dispels the mist and lo ! beautifully
mysteriously he emerges as a man reborn
he has become what he aspires to be.

I am a little child still
in life's kindergarten
learning my ABCs, how to talk
to communicate--every lesson

I cherish--I am so eager to know more
I love the sound of words-their beauty
each is like music to me
above all, I love poetry

But you say to me:
' Your learning is well over--you are too old'
my reply: 'I can't help it--it grows within me
I must move forward before time turns me cold'.

I am a child still
my heart beats wildly
when the sky, the stars, the roses,
the clouds, the ocean and the fields I see.

If love were but words
I have plenty--too, too many
bland, repetitious, habitual, like a stranger's greetings
I would be the least worthy.

If love were but words
the banal I would find from a love-dictionary
'forever, eternal, ever-lasting, unfailing
sweetest,  dearest, angel, darling'--what type of person would I be?

Inside it does stifle
and suffocate
I want it out
fresh air I need--before it's too late.

I am not made
for an inside-something man
freedom has been my most faithful friend
as the world and people I scan.

Don't get me wrong
no misanthrope am I
beauty is in the open air
not in shut-doors--I shouldn't die

before I've tasted life's sweetest wine
don't lock me in--the room is loud, smoky, *****
dim, the carpets sting, cigarette-butts all over
the tap doesn't run,  people are rude--being out is the way for me.

'People in glass-houses should not throw stones'
What a great piece of advice
Last week I threw a stone at my neighbour's
I've built steel bars all over my house---I am wise.

'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush'
But I never go there
No bird in my hand (what 'two'?)
And tell me, how does one capture a bird in the air?

'  Mum, what should I do
  Now that I'm married to Lucy?'
' Son, do what you may
   But never be like your daddy'.

' Dad,  what should I do with my life?
Please advise me'
' Son,  do whatever you may-
But never marry'.

Let your dreams be few
too many would confuse
even one or two
(though small and homely) would do--wisely choose.

Many have dreams-wild and foolish
which but dazzle for a while --- only
to sadly fade away---there's nothing left to cherish
but a trail of regret and misery.

1
Roses are asleep
under a calm autumn sky
night breezes drift by

2

Under the ocean
a hidden world of its own
beauty beyond words

3

Under the lamp-post
a woman anxiously waits
it is past midnight

4

Cyclist in the night
riding across a steep hill
no one is in sight

5

City bars are closed
the waiters are rushing home
it is two a.m

Ding **** bell
***** in the well...

But
Let me tell
This fat man's tale was hell.

In Melbourne's city main street named Pell
Into a manhole he fell
It took six men under Brigadier Mac Mell
To rescue him--he survived a trauma but was physically well.

Twinkle, twinkle little star
You are a busybody
I'm lying in the field with my love tonight
I don't want anyone to see.

Twinkle, twinkle nosey star
Don't you broadcast what you see tonight
I am with the Princess of Persia
I know you would do what is right.

Old MacDonald had a farm
A very pretty wife too
They had 20 kids
Cows, chickens and ducks quite a few.

Old MacDonald no longer has a farm
He has donated it to charity
Yesterday he won the US Powerball
Total prize of USD 500 million-biggest in US history.

Fishes swim in the sea
Birds fly above
My fair maiden
You were born for me to love.

The last time you said to me
' Don't you ever come near my side'
I should warn you, sweet maiden
Millions of girls like you won't end up as a bride.

London Bridge is falling down
Falling down, my fair lady
Now let me tell you
My sad story.

The Aussie market is falling down
Falling down,  I am so unhappy
I'll sing this song no more
I'm caught up in Melbourne's Court of Bankruptcy.

Too much of serious verse I've written
It's time I tried the comic
But it's just as hard
I don't know the trick.

A professor of poetry in Melbourne said to me:
' Enrol yourself in the School Of Comic Verse-
You were not born a writer
It can't do you any worse'

When and how shall I be
'  wholly I'?
a dumb question

to me
to be whole
would be a cul-de-sac
a full-stop
a coda
a nightmare
as I won't be able then
to go anywhere
to grow
and would not even know
my real self-
I have been too used
to my not being 'whole'-
I delight in being what I am
in my not being complete.

Because I am not
'wholly I'
I would still be able
to flirt and play with life
pull its ears and retain
my innocence and incompleteness
dance and run with it
in mirth
and that makes
for joy
for freedom
for spontaneity
and real living.

Being 'whole'
then
would unmake me
and turn me into
what I desire not.

I don't want
to be a fake
of a human being
I want to be incomplete.

There's no perfect moon
no perfect sky
no perfect stars
no perfect rose
no perfect poem
no perfect beauty
no perfect happiness
no perfect love

for
what has become
loses the grandeur
of the coming-to-be.

Life should not be
a final summation
but an unfinished equation-
work-in-progress
that shall never be
a finished product-
that's where the wonder is--
the song still being sung
is more beautiful
and more desired
than when it has ended.

I don't want
to be the perfect I
the perfect man-
to be in that state
would make me inhuman.

You, whether a friend or not
if we should meet
just regard me
as a person incomplete.

Is it true-
poets, more than others
weep?

beauty they worship
and if it is blemished or defiled
by man's callousness and indifference-
they lose heart
and even in their sleep
they are inconsolable

there is healing
in tears
despite the anguish
over time and past years.

Is it true
poets, more than others
love?

their yearnings
know no rest
and their passions
fearlessly sweep
over the wildest mountains
and the most tempestuous seas
even the bitterest Arctic

they burn like fire
and melt
every lingering piece of snow
they write across the sky
their poignant and painful poems
' Love is life's most sublime gift
and stronger than death'.

Are poets, more than others
lonely?

dwelling in the universe
of words and feelings
they are strangers to the world
even to themselves
as they struggle to find themselves
and unravel life's multifold mysteries.

Are poets, more than others
melancholic?

they dream of a world
beyond time
wrapped in eternally sweet dreams
only to end
in disillusionment and despair
(reality is too harsh and too cruel-
purveyor of the baneful, mundane
the uninspiring, the inane)

Should poets
be scoffed at

because
they long
for the beautiful and sublime
and draw
everyone's attention
to the ugliness
of the world?

Too often the heart can do what the brain can't and puts the grey matter to sleep---it has no limits and is free as the wind, it is spaceless and encircles the whole universe.  It is a mystery beyond the brain's finiteness.

THE HEART OR THE BRAIN?

In my youth I held
the brain to be superior to all
the seat of all wisdom
and the university dons said: 'the call

of genius lies
in grey matter-
nowhere else--you students should know
lest you academically falter'.

I wore my degree
on my sleeve
I could talk my way through
it only brought grief.

I found through the years and tears
reasoning and logic was dry as leaves in decay
I learnt to laugh and smile, I smelled the flowers
I talked to kids, I tried to write poetry and in every way

my childish innocence and wonder
returned and I was transformed and born again
I began to feel and understand life's mysteries
its wondrous  joys and its every deep pain

and how profound was peace and contentment
(who ever dared say ' Knowledge is the end-
the door to bliss?'   Trust not lofty philosophy
it's a cynic, a joy-destroyer and not a friend).

My heart is with me every moment
and with it I converse and only in it I place all my trust
my brain is arrogant, without warmth and obtrusive
garrulous and obtrusive---say goodbye to it I must.

Faces in the crowd
among which I am one
each heart silently bears its joys and sorrows
the business of living is never done

as we have to wake up everyday
with the never-failing rising sun
(even the weakest, frailest and most sickly)
though the day's prospects are grim and life isn't fun.

Holding on, clinging on
dangling in the limbo
of survival and existence
what the future holds none really does know.

Faces in the crowd
passing and fading images--I know no one-
yet I feel their pulses as I, mine--- murmurs
of existential* angst---until life's sad drama is done.

My heart I neglected
it was grievously hurt and turned away
it refused to talk to me
by night or by day

inconsolable
incessantly it wept
we didn't talk for years
as though our happy past had been swept

into the dark bottomless sea
I have lost my best friend
and it's too late for healing
I'll regret this until the end

of time---I was young and too arrogant
to give way to feelings-I knew no meekness
I prided on my strength and resolve
remorse has come too late--what is left now is but my sadness.

I am in outer space
I am levitating
light as a feather
in another state of being

but I am no alien
( I am not dreaming)
I was born with a heart
I have every human feeling.

I touch the tips of stars
I sleep in the cradle of the moon
I dance with the clouds
to the music of the heavens I swoon.

Lighter, yet lighter I am getting
(I know I am not dreaming)
weightlessly I am drifting, flying
in space infinite--in a world without ending.

The song has ended
and faded into the silent night
it lives on forever
in the lovers' hearts--true love never takes flight

only resides to endear and charm
to rekindle desire--beyond the pale of words and time-
ah, my beloved,  be my ever-shining light
as we embrace and abide in the eternally sublime.

The prattle* and clamour* of the day
is deafening my ears and jarring my heart and mind
I have to walk away into my aloneness
be courageous enough to leave the world behind

lest I turn into a shrinking man
someone faceless in the long and tedious queue
day in and day out--the same mindless engagements
in inane conversations and senseless pursuits--have but few

moments of real living and savouring
of beauty---I wither as I am, nay, dying
a little as time passes me by, life is fleeting
and I am in limbo--just dangling

hanging to a cloud of nothing
in a moral wilderness--bleeding
( I make sure no one is watching)
hoping for my self-redeeming.

Space-- silent, serene, mysterious and majestic- covers all
and there is infinite peace in its emptiness
we should learn to be empty
for that which is full could receive no more--we should address

ourselves:  what is this fullness and surfeit
doing to us?
once emptied of all our desires and vanities-
all that follows  serves only to bless.

The heart is the beginning
and the end
the world would forget us
but the heart never ceases to be a friend.

Where else in a troubled and sad life
could I bend
but only towards this sanctuary
whose comfort in my every sorrow ever does lend?

Existing is that state
that links
the present temporality
to the infinity of time

man dangles
between two polarities
he strives and struggles
to understand and too often

he is frustrated and disillusioned
for the larger part of his life
seems shrouded in incomprehensibility --
the monotony, vexation, ennui--even inanity

and there seems no escape
from the meaningless round
of just existing-while time mocks and derides
without a single whit of sympathy.

Easy? hardly-
even taking a step
at a time forward
calls for unusual courage

for
old habits die hard

as
the self has been concretised
for too long--immobility
holds the reins--change
hangs over like an unwelcome
stale, wet and prickly blanket

doubt* and fear
makes the limbs tremble
( adults are no better than kids
  when they sense uncertainty
imaging dangers that aren't there)

' It's better to stay put
on safe and sure ground'

He who doesn't have the courage
to put his foot forward
will be nailed to the spot
where he's rooted
ending as less than a man
while time and fair chances
bid him good-bye
with an unsympathetic look
and downright scorn

he has to turn
his face away
to hide himself
from the light of day.