When glancing through the mental pictures
Of pure and innocent babyhood and childhood
(Pure and innocent, in the righteous sense that
Of being distant from and unknowledgeable of
The mischievous pranks of elder humanity-
‘War, ******, treason, terrorism and all felony’
Which contribute to building a senseless world,
Composed of a grown-up and misled community
That claims ‘mature’ and acts immature.) ,
I regain true consciousness
Of the wisdom I possessed as a child
And of the folly I bear along now.

It’s a truth undeniable that I state here-
One lives his/her life the best and most best
In the un-grown, underdeveloped human form
And the un-waiting glide of time transforms
Purity into impurity and innocence into guilt,
Maturity into immaturity and wisdom into folly.
For when humans understand what’s right and wrong,
They advertise their tendency to choose the wrong.
Exceptions, in this case, are rare to note down.
As much as the wicked world of today is concerned
And in general sense, mere physical growth
Undermines necessary moral growth.


Now here, being a part of this wicked world,
I sadly reflect on those joyous days of old
And in this present age, I try much to recollect
Those sweet memories of childish virtue.

If love is the term for what I am feeling,
Then it's too low a word for what I know;
For when in my soft smiling thoughts you glow,
You are the bloom of morning, the star of evening.

Like the lotus that blooms to greet the Sun,
So does my heart beat to greet your heat;
You are the Moon for which my tides beat;
So here blossoms a season of love in the run.

Perhaps I find in your eyes a starry night
Or perhaps an ocean, a sea dipped in emotion,
In which I may reflect, float and swim in seduction
Or may, in that night, delight in flight.

Your smile rises a Sun on my face;
Perhaps that causes your cheeks to bloom roses.
As a returning rose, my heart in itself dresses
And I, toward you, pace with an unmoved gaze.

You flew into my life as a messenger dove,
Blowing into me emotions intense with a message dense
That love is beyond words and human resistance;
I ask you this, my dove, do satisfy my love.

The day palace in which abides the Sun emperor,
Who knows not to despair when once fallen;
The blooms that flower as the fierce Sun's delicate followers,
Greeting him at dawn and mourning for him at dusk.

The star string that adorns the night
Like a diamond ornament light and bright;
The tides that whisper something to the Moon -
Perhaps a love song, for he glows back in joy.

The sky paper, varily coloured with splashes of paint
And patches of pure white and filth - stained grey;
The feathered fowl indulging in flight
And sometimes resting in self-made melodies.

And the splendid sea, a wanderer who, but, is fixed to her spot,
The mirror of nature, breakable yet in fact unbreakable;
The slithering creatures facing the wind of water,
Sweeping past other iridiscent colours under the sea.

All done in distinct beauty by the Divine Brush on Nature's canvas;
And all creations - being homes of the Divine Maker,
Being one as Nature - the beautiful maiden divine,
Does display a dazzling dance divine.

And as sweet as honey trickles the mouth,
So does my eyes as jewels shine wonder -
Awaking joy from slumber and lulling the Devil to sleep.
Gratitude to the ray that woke the idle mind.

While resting by the blooming blossoms,
I happened to see a butterfly flutter by.
With fire- red wings added with a black tinge,
Above the placid plants it flew high.

The winged colours leapt from blossom to blossom
With each splendid leap better than the last.
An audience stopped to watch and listen
To the admiring silence the tiny angel’s wings cast.

As an added touch to an already perfect painting,
The butterfly danced among the dazzling flowers.
With its glory, the insect conquered a multitude --
Me, children, the violet sky and the flowers – its dear lovers.

Smiles were spread on infant faces
As the colours showcased their wizardry.
But who knew that grief would replace joy
And that the insect would meet its tragedy?

The tiny thing, when celebrating dance,
Fell directly into a spider’s food tray.
Not considering the helpless moans and cries,
The spider hurried towards its prey.

Shocking silence replaced the admiring silence.
Looks of horror replaced the looks of wonder.
But they knew it was helpless now,
For only God can stop Death – the hunter.

The crowd dispersed with heads bent
And the flowers were left desolate and bare.
Glory is surely short-lived and not immortal
And a fall is brought to many a great, with exceptions rare.

I have long been that puppet in society’s hand,
My every step timed to entertain an audience,
And my every word scripted, fit to their rules.
It’s been a life living on other’s terms --
My voice silenced, my opinions corrected,
My actions checked, my dreams restricted;
Except for that war waged underneath me,
Except for those thousand casualties inside me,
Except for their perpetual scream,
Except for the shatter of dreams,
Everything about me is inanimate, dead;
Just a doll moving to the strings of society.

When the blackness of night draws in,
I resort to my bedroom window-
My personal theatre.
I dim out the lights inside
To be affected by the light effects outside.

My eyes reflect the flashy hues
Of misty blue and pale crimson.
And here and there stretches of sketched gray:
And here and there a gleaming gold,
Or sadistic sepia,
Of the lamp-posts and headlights
That sweep on the dark road
Not minding the flow of mechanical life.
The edged silver is not to be forgotten;
It jumps in from here and there,
Steaming out of the replicas of the modern age
And also from the conquered Moon and soon to be conquered stars
Reflected off the more higher skyscrapers.
The silver of steel,
The silver of technology-
A mix of white and black,
A mix of light and dark,
A mix of good and bad.

Cars flash before me,
A blur mirroring the speeding age;
The skyscrapers mock the Moon.
Red, Blue, Green, Yellow etc.
The blackness of night
Masked under all the colours of white.
Lights and colours play their stage effects
The age is best to be defined
A flashy showpiece
That forgets the beauty of simplicity,
The beauty that is natural.

My mind wanders lost
On the notes of disturbed city life,
Wherein dims the music of the old good
Hope and memories
Glow like the Moon and stars in this darkness.

I stand stunned,
Just so helpless before
The sights of the modern age.

I am alone in my house
With only my pet mouse.

My parents went to a shop
To buy my sister a wardrobe.

I am getting bored
And I want to be freed.

I am alone in my house
With only my pet mouse.

I once stood as a young tender plant
By the wet banks of a tranquil brook.
I grew by hearing the song-bird’s chant
While lying by the great oak’s nook.

The sweet-smelling grass, soothing to the eye,
Held me and my friends and the locusts too.
For a little rest, the sun rays came to lie
By the tall trees where the squirrels did argue.

When everything seemed nice and neat,
Things started changing the way it had been.
Sorrow, in our happy hearts, took its seat
When Man entered the scene.

Driven by his selfish, greedy emotions,
Man charged forward with his axe.
The glaring destruction was brought by his actions;
It was all because of Man and his ***** pranks.

Man’s axe and thirst for fur, wood and timber
Did strike in me a severe cut, dark and deep,
Of grief awaken from a prolonged slumber
By wickedly lulling sweet joy to sleep.

My elders fell on and by the brook;
My furry friends had their homes stormed.
My elders fell on each and every nook;
My furry friends had their lives stormed.

Now the song-birds don’t sing anymore,
The grass doesn’t smell sweet anymore,
The squirrels don’t play anymore
And the brook doesn’t flow anymore.

I once stood as a young tender plant
By the wet banks of a tranquil brook.
I grew by hearing the song-bird’s chant
While lying by the great oak’s nook.

I now stand as an old dying tree,
Alone in a barren land wherein my life dims.
Fate left me alone as a witness to see
How it plays tricks on its poor victims.

Life’s nothing but a rough road
When you care to only see the hateful thorns,
Digging the grave for all joy and peace.
*****, you caress not the beauties the rose adorns,
The smoothened grass, the birds that sing on trees!

Life’s nothing but a weary voyage
When you care to only struggle in sorrow,
Sailing on your tears that seem to forever flow.
Fool, you fail to admire the streaming stars that follow,
The wandering wind, the ocean that with mysteries glow!

Life’s nothing but a blank black sky
When you care to only lose and mourn,
Being devoid of all stars, beauty and bliss.
Idiot, you care not to greet any ecstatic dawn,
The clouds that float, the rays the waves kiss!

Life’s nothing but nothing
When you care to only cry and cry and rot,
Bearing all pessimism and shunning all peace.
Fire your spirits with every smiling thought;
Feel free to flame on in all ecstasies!

Feel free for optimism's the true life!
Pessimist!
To go forth in life, go forth with life!

There are times, when despise and hatred
Are spit like venom from the snakes around,
Infecting every bit of my power and peace.

Accusing eyes and stabbing tongues
That break the patient spirit,
Leap like lions of wrath set unleashed,
And cut me down and bury their teeth in me.
They attack my spirit till it leaks out of my eyes,
And they strike on till even the heart can cry.
Then when blood sprouts and all is done,
I am killed – killed heavily.

When the claws and fangs withdraw,
All that’s left in the cold silence
Is a forgotten corpse.

The boy who had lost sleep
for years by staring
at the blurry horizon
found his dream
nestled in an oyster shell
near his feet on the seashore.
It took him a lifetime
to learn.
The dry petal
of his countenance
was granted rain.
All it required
was a meditation in struggle.

From the struggling fragments of the world,
Broke and cut by the swords of war,
Lets build on bricks of love,
Not any more walls and fences
Nor the ****** forts of hatred,
But a healed and better tomorrow,
When the truth and love would serve as a second sun
And when peace would be the motto of all nations.

Lets repent and make our Father proud
And act as worthy children of that Love.
Lets aim straight and dream great.
Lets rise the sun on every face;
Lets set the sun on every sorrow;
Lets light the moon on this darkness now.

Let the sun be ashamed to not shine like this new Earth;
Let the moon be ashamed to not glow like this new Earth.

Lets build again
On bricks of love
For a refreshed world.

Bleak shadows sweep on my soul
Weary eyes drip a dreary spirit
My breath too short to soothe the brimming fire
And hope -- far beyond my reaches.

It was when I counted my wallet
That a coin fell down.
It rolled down the granite to under a chair;
My eyes followed behind.

I, as any average man, bent down
And crept to my lost possession
Until a foot stepped on it.
‘Finders keepers!’—that was his philosophy.

It was a bar, and alcohol smoked in the air.
Red visionless eyes sang drunken songs
And drunken minds danced like clowns lost in the dark.
Glasses slipped and shattered - the scent of whiskey red.

I looked on my enemy, drunk than me.
I demanded my rights in the boldest tone.
He spoke a silent no.
I spoke next with fists--tables broke, chairs crashed.

He plunged forth -- we fought and wrestled;
We were drunk in beer, ego and money.
Clothes tore, blood spilled, bones nearly broke.
Giving up was not our ideal.

I hit that dog like I would have killed him.
I made way to my money, but before I could,
He kicked my fragile jaw--I was pinned.
The game ended – Mammon was pleased.

I collected my last inch of power, fired with fury;
I grasped the broken bottle, and dived
The blade to his chest.
The coin fell off his hand, his life off his body.

The crowd looked on in silent horror.
I gaped immobile. The blood accused me.
The coin shone silver in the blood stains.
One by one, I counted my tears fusing in the whiskey.

Sometimes I sit so blank as now,
Quietly--- no thoughts, no actions;
Devoid of pressure, of stress or tension.
I don’t know what can disturb this peace!


And sometimes, my mind is a battlefield;
I keep thinking and thinking—
Reflecting--- What’s right? What’s wrong?
And checking my actions, my behaviour –
What should I regret? What should I promise?
A quarrel with my beliefs, a war with all concepts.
Thoughts and emotions invade me like demons.
Each demon has a new story to tell.
They keep me working out, solving out
Everything that’s a part of this world.
They run wild, they toy with me.
Oh! I cant stop thinking!
Sometimes, they come united as an army;
They deprive me of sleep – my mind knows no calm rest.
I am thinking, I am thinking –
They force me to concentrate—Oh! I am tired.
There are solutions and there is me to derive it.
The sounding noise, the chaos, the confusion----
I don’t know what can give any peace!

A battle rages, and I am left defeated.
They strike on me wounds of experience, of knowledge.
They push me on, drag me on forcefully
Along the roads of learning, of growth.
They sharpen my mind, they force wisdom on me.
At the end of it all,
I am a hero—I have surpassed all tests.
I have travelled beyond boundaries, I have fought all limits.
I have known what war is—I have satisfied my demons!


The fight ensues----
Oh, I can’t stop thinking!
And sometimes like now,
There is that silence after the war—
The stains of battle remain;
But I have put down my sword--
The rest the hero deserves

We, poets, are dead and alive altogether;
Aren't we?
Dead to reality and alive in dreams.
We dream to resurrect a dead world;
Don't we?
To this world, lets then contribute a thought.



- Inspired after watching the movie 'Dead Poets Society'

Little eyes have told me wonders,
As sparkling innocent as sunrise;
Their sweet sunny laughter renders
Rainbows that console my rainy eyes.

I have sat by the silent fields at dusk;
And by those still leaves and cold air
And that sordid silence that grows on you,
I have felt and known them presence there.

Alone in those dim times after sunset,
I felt as numb as those fallen leaves.
When the wind blew those leaf-corpses away,
I could feel them dead people alive.

I have seen them black birds flying around;
Confused little wings circling the sky,
Away from the reach of the ghostly clouds
That fume forward like widening smoke.

There are them trees lined on the horizon;
Dark forests with a cold mystery.
I have seen them eyes looking me from there
And have heard the dead, wounded trees breathe.

I could feel them hands creeping up my neck.
I could see tortured souls and dark pasts
And the dead who lived their time on that mud,
Lying around like the cold night air .

One day, I too would die and join them
And be a dead piece of this cold night.
I knew I will be slowly joining
Those black ghosts that invaded the sky.

When watered by the richness of Nature's beauty,
My eyes bloom in admiration--
Here, alongside the lotus and the lily
And the flowering sun that smiles the dawn,
Blossoms new sensations-- ever so sweetly.

All dressed in yellow and green,
The grass bends forth in humility
To greet all marvels the meadow has seen;
While children play their glorious games,
The tender tree leaves play with the breeze--unseen.


Swans sweep over the soothing stream
While clouds float on the flowing breeze;
As if by some unearthly force, it does seem,
The wet cotton clouds are squeezed to pour forth
Its resurrecting rain to tickle the trickling stream.

Lulled by the nightingale song, I dream
To one day dive in and splash like the frog
And make his crazy funny flips into the stream,
And to one day renew my life to a level so ecstatic
As of a butterfly that kisses a breathing blossom--I dream.

With grateful eyes, I greet God's great blessing--
Nature, sweet healer who with dreams does soothe.
Now, with life and spirit renewed , I  pour my offering
To this Divine Beauty-- not mere words, but me myself.
'Maiden of dreams, let me die on your lap, dreaming.'

Blue wine in a glass chalice
for him to drink after *******.
He'd rather welter in earthly pleasures
than confront his disciples now.
The sheep has a lost shepherd.
And he'd like to take a boat
back to his earlier self
and find out what he could have
otherwise been,
where he could have
otherwise sailed.

I wish, among my thousand wishes,
To float among the mysteries of the night.
When the Moon beams its soulful smile,
When the darkness blankets the sleeping flowers
And when the frozen hour embraces my solitude,
I see my thousand wishes, my silent hopes
And my dreams etched in the ink of the night,
Sprinkled with the glitter of stars.
One day, I would soar like a bird
And touch those luminous skies
And with the cute grasp of my hand,
Bring them down and set my lamps alight.

I will chase the rainbow throughout my life
And search for Atlantis among brave waters.
I will remain a child all my life
And love the sunsets forevermore.
I will kiss my life that breathes in this night air
And never yield to the rules of reality and time.

Nevertheless, they will catch me and weigh me down
They will chain me and break my young wild legs.
They will make me a lifeless lump,
A robot that serves routine purposes,
That eats and sleeps and nothing more.

Like treasure wasted among the barren sands
Like kingdoms lost to wars and storms,
Like all precious things lost to fate and time
I fear I will waste myself
And will never awaken the Zeus in me.

I very humbly describe me
As one who rides on the wings of fantasy
In tender undisturbed tranquility.

I met your heroine today, on the roadside.
She's just as broken as you painted her.
The child still sells flowers for a living,
And still wears that soiled, tattered frock.
She skipped about those sour streets,
Begging every passerby to see her flowers.
Everyone felt sorry for her abused body.

I approached her and asked for a flower.
A smile spread across her dreary complexion.
'You're an artist, aren't you ?'
Her sad, weary eyes understood everything.
'I have met all sorts of artists.
They have been here to paint me, photograph me,
And some have even composed tragedies on me.'
I told her that they were all trying to help.
'It's not that. I just make a good subject.'
Her bruised hands lifted to me a rose,
'I prefer those who come for the flowers, instead of me'.

I took it, looked at her and asked hesitantly,
'May I write on you ?'.
She smiled yet again. That same haunting smile.
'For a change, will you write on the artists who sell me ?'

Amidst all God's creations,
Man is above them all;
But by the wars of all nations,
Peace among men had its fall.

Forgotten is the truth
That one God's children are we all;
And blood spilled did soothe
Hatred that from humans call.

Bombs explode and guns blast,
Hatred creeps in man's heart,
Hatred which can forever cast
Shadows of fear in others' heart.

The Earth, soaked in blood, cries:
"I have turned into a battlefield now
And as the cries of battle rise,
I see the dying peace and love."

Sands, water and air
As poor witnesses they gaze
At destruction's glare
And at man's last days.

She had enough.

They poured her a cup again.
They had given her all -
Advice, punishment and pain.
They still went for her soul.

They said it’s a scary world
And locked her up inside
With curtains in which to fold
And walls to chain her mind.

They said her dreams were futile
And scripted all her days.
They sneered when she was fragile
And ***** her in all ways.

I found her so moth-eaten
And from all fighting, tired.
She could not bear to listen.
She had enough, she said.

I don’t blame her for what she did later.
She had enough.

Walking through a dark and mystic night,
Like crawling through a deep blind tunnel,
And edging towards a distant glow of dawn.

Moving on through the endless road,
Blindfolded by the night yet unchained;
That desire to keep on with the floating stars,
The urge to walk on the blind man's walk.
Its a journey of unknown paths,
Believing the promise of the rising Sun,
And to reach a distant land that's paradise.

I walked through that silent garden;
In the past, it had many children.

I played with that abandoned swing;
Heard its loneliness sing.

Sat by those lost trees of yore ;
They were never just wood before.

Picked up a fallen petal;
Dead and dead, with a broken fettle.

Talked with the parched leaves in the grey;
They too had a thousand things to say,

Of broken glory and drying times,
Much like the decay of growing human lives.

I too will wither , I too will grow bleak,
From the song of the child to the silence of the weak.

‘It’s better when it’s quiet.’
Between a laptop, a cup of coffee
And a ton of indiscernible emotions,
He fumbled for lighter themes,
Quieter proceedings
And tastier imagery.
But it all felt wrong.
‘Also make it short. Make it sweet.’
No. It might end up schmaltzy.
‘Alright. What about making it rhyme?’
No. It will be more of a crime.
‘Meter? Syllable count?’
No. No. No
‘They say you should write like you talk.’
Yeah. But then it would be all whining and pessimism.
‘Who cares? It will still be you.’
Does it have to be me?
‘Isn't it more satisfying when it is you? ‘
Right. After all, it’s for me. Not for them.
But it should not be quiet. It should not be subtle.
It should not be short either. It should overflow.
It should be angry. It should be an explosion.
He cracked his knuckles, made up his mind.
He was always loud and open.

When I bring your broken song
back to your broken self,
when I follow your voice
and reach the ends of your shore,
let me into you.
Lead me to that little child
who tries to sing her way out
of her self-imposed walls.
Bring her to my consoling arms.
We will lie down in your depths
and watch you mend yourself
as you sing to the moon.
We will quietly fall asleep
to the rhythm of your words.
Words that echo
in the theater of a still night
and rhyme in accord with
the tides of a forlorn sea.
Words that soothe
our damaged souls.
All the songsters of the night
can never hope to recreate
the music of the world
I have found in you.

They never trusted him with their secrets
Though he was always known to be reliable.
They talked but shared nothing with him
Probably because he shared nothing either.
His life had never been eventful as theirs.

If he did talk, he would only come out awkward.
No one wanted his nerdy theories, nor his feelings.
They saved him a seat while they discussed.
His intellectual **** just drowned in their garbage.
They were all too polite that they ****** him off daily.

He had conservative parents, and self-doubt.
He was always shown the path to walk
And was taught that thinking is useless.
He watched Bill Hicks all day and wondered
How he escaped crucifixion.

He grew up so studious and religious
That it took him a while to figure out things.
The smart ones took him to be a bit slow.
The others were sure he was getting mad.
Soon enough, he was in love with rebellion.

He would come back to see old friends
And find that he was the only one who cared.
He would listen to Grace Slick yelling all day
And know that he must find somebody to love.
He became another tired, self-pitying *****.

He started accepting the world the way it is
Though it would never accept him.
He would want to explode once in a while
And tell them all what's wrong with them.
Instead, he kept writing his bad poems.

A soft sun faded,
calmly and unmindful of
the poet beside.

Mist fumed out from those
burnt remains of the sunset
and smoked them streets up.

I grew more distraught
and more desperate to write,
to compose my next.

I walked through that fog
in search of a new poem,
and came out crawling.

As I figured why,
and as I watched, midnight came
gracefully quiet.

The deserted road,
stretched under a silent moon,
then smelled more sullen.

And the broken moon,
that peeped in from its abyss,
just grew more morose.

And this bleak journey
in search for inspiration
proved overwhelming.

And I was so lost
in some lost place for lost souls.
So lost.

I hunt
the beasts inside me
and sell their skins
to you.