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Pradeep Sep 2019
Rivers speak in short bursts of water,
hustle preciousness, scurrying
it fast lest its stolen.

Rivers speak in falling, tumbling,
ferocious roars, the real kings of the
jungle that lions and wild elephants,
panthers and serpents
bow to, as they serve themselves
a moutha.

Rivers are open books,
they don't gossip in hushed voices.
You can hear from far the
husky voice and gruff tones
that inspired the Godfather
and Scarface baritones.
Dons of the jungle inspiring
dons off it.

Rivers 'gush and splash',
not aware they are a music bash,
they have been rock consorts from aeons,
they were the first concertos and conductors,
they are nature's maestros playing
an earthly orchestra performed
through mountains and valleys
sans speakers or amplifiers,
reverberating and blending
through miles of quiet.
Like CDs and trees,
we can't cut rivers, thankfully.

Rivers have pride.
They don't weep at all
but flow on even as they fall
down thousands of feet.

We marvel at the majesty
but do they roar because they hurt,
tears hidden in gazillions of water
we consume ultimately?
Ain't a flowing and moving
being not one living?
I have proof because they gently
caress and whisper when I dip
my hand as they drift along.

Thats not all.
Rivers moan when they lose their way
and enter towns against their will and say,
at the *** end of their patience,
the beginnings of destruction.

We cut nature to size, they cut
us open out of turn,
the bloodletting vanishing into
a life force otherwise
rasping and roaring,
splashing and rocking,
now moaning and drowning
people as a last resort
when all hope is lost.

Rivers speak.
If only we listened.
Pradeep Sep 2019
Sights slippery.
Mushy sorcery.
Foggy memory.
Jung's theory.
Freud's story.

Elusive butterfly.
Tease sly.
Early fizzle.
Night time sizzle.
Perhaps'es tussle.
Unformed puzzle.

Sleep till noon.
Land on the moon.
Charm to swoon.
Talk to the dead
you loved and bed.

In words simpler,
dreams are like a string
of reflections on a river,
hazy and flowing,
speaking coded language.

My latest dream
made an offer.
I could either
live in a world of dreams,
or continue in the other,
one of a thousand mazes.

What if I combine the good
in real and surreal,  
seen and 'could have been',
and sail over the line
of reality in between?

Some say that's 'crazy'.
Not sure what is,
my suggestion,
or the word's definition.
Pradeep Sep 2019
I lost the key to happiness
when my mind moved
to the house of darkness
that asks no deposit or rent
for any time spent,
except giving up the sane
and enjoying the mundane.

In the house of no lark
the concept of fun
is stumbling in the dark,
avoiding grips that make
me slide down the stairs
with silken hand rails,
easing me into a dark basement  
labelled 'dependent'.

Give me something to hold on,
shine some light upon,
not me or my stumbles,
not toward another room,
but upon the path
to the main door,
out to the garden,
where flowers sing
an encore to spring,
and expel sweet odor
contrasting the smell
of darkness prior.

Out and about, sweet scent
choking me happy,
cold wind slappy,
stinging me with glee,
I turn back to see  
what was vast
turn out smaller,
'cos much of it
was my imagination.

With nothing to hold on,
I reach into my pocket
and feel the warmth of something,
it's pits and fine lines,
roughs and ragged edges,
what I thought was lost,
happiness in various forms,
tucked in deep within,
pushed down for reasons
I don't see,
was it meant to be?
I paid a price costlier
than the rent.

It seems the brightness outside
is obvious and we just have to reach,
but not so.
The house is a comfort zone,
the outside world seems a war zone,
The choice is between the imagined two,
and the realisation is often late too.
Pradeep Aug 2019
Runaway kid, how come you
get SOS calls only you hear,
why do you let your tender being bear
burdens you don't share
with the ones who feel their
house is a place safe,
made of cotton and care?

Were you for some time
planning to roam
in places far away from home,
not knowing for sure
if you'll find a cure
to doubts that endure,
find a passage through
your brain's muddled quarries,
crack codes to self-created worries,
mind games which at each level
carry a bigger sensory load
than the one previous,
a tad too heavy in the head,
that you travel far to shovel
some outta your head,
with no caretaker in sight
to approve or slight?

Some say 'been there',
which is unfair,
doesn't help a bit,
expect make ya think
the one sayin it
is full of *******.

You think in French,
your family in Latin,
peers in words foreign
except the one you invite
who shares your language
but not your courage.

So on you go alone, miss mama
and papa, her emotions
and his rules took a toll,
but helps when you
respond to the SOS call,
as you set out to trip and fall.

Are you embarrassed you miss them
but not so bad that you return
the day you set out,
heck, the sun ain't dipped yet.

Oh, you also know you love   
the imp they call your 'sister'.

What you don't is that you
grow up a bit as you return home,
or what was a promise of it,
that you can run from
one and all, but not
from yourself and your lot.

Runaway kid, how come you
get SOS calls only you hear,
get brazenly drawn, without fear,
into a world we're yet to figure.
Pradeep Aug 2019
One gloomy silent evening,
to beat the dreary
I read poems many,
saw a pattern emerge,
like a pendulum sways,
words tilted two ways,
one to love a dirge,
the other from honey made.

One of paths thorny
due to soiled mirrors
and rushed dreams,
the other shone sunny
due to heart transplants
with incisions of emotion
and stictches of love,
and walks on the air,
gravity unaware.

Reading poems ten,
inspired to write one then,
blood spills prone
or kisses to angels blown.

They manifest (in) the extreme,
but what lies in between,
is it a killer story or news snippets-
rectangles of reality
dipped in spicy curry,
losing touch with itself?

Are we word-extremists
who find comfort on the
edges of the emotional spectrum
we comprehend?
We don't need to, at least,
from poems make ends meet.

Poems are cut to size,
fed words exotic,
struck on the head and middle,
praised for their beauty,
or ignored for the banality.

Abused more than you and I realise,
will they lead a normal life,
or are destined to run between
honey and thorns,
angels and love lorns?

Mine are born unplanned
but don't complain
if siblings they gain.

Are they nice to me,
or mean to future creations?
Does it matter, if I still
beat the gloom and dreary
one of three ways?
Pradeep Aug 2019
I dreamt of a carcass,
alive and kicking a ruckus,
laughing at logic,
which is demagogic.

I dreamt of quiet thunder
ready to surrender
to the quirks of sound waves
that like wild wind meander
in a town near yonder.

I peeked into a closed keyhole
of your opaque glass soul,
greedily content,
envious giver,
moronic icon,
brilliant nincompoop,
abstaining copulator,
bright *******,
detached from, yet stuck
to the world, that feels
confined to your aura.
Do you realise the world's
shrinking but not so much,
to fit only you?

I dreamt of the sun and moon
departing and arriving together,
dancing to static tunes
of neo-tradition.

I dreamt of well fed hunger
realistically orchestrated  
by naive politicians who
on noble paths tread.

I dreamt reality, that we are
in a dream, 'shining nightmare',
that creates drowsy insomnia,
memory enhancing amnesia,
makes you a belonging paraiah.

I dreamt of a world where
sober alcoholics
piously curse
and lovingly hate
insensitive poets,
flagging poems 'freshly stale',
gladdening them to depression,
gently inciting them to
a period of riotous calm
and profound shallowness.

Winsome losers,
I grudgingly welcome 'you all'
to dive out of a sepia-scented poem
I tried for the first time,
one more time.
Pradeep Jul 2019
The sky appears a little brighter
when I think about you.

Sickness is a little more tolerable
when I speak with you.

Life is a little less trickier
when you are around.

There is little more
melody in life when I
hear your voice.

Just being yourself, you shine.
The light travels
and heals my wounds.

Do you have a clue,
why he no more
makes the likes of you?

You bring more
me out of me
than I knew exists.
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