Category: Poetry

My Many Aborted Babies

Thoughts hit me in a blinding flash
Of sublime pleasure of knowing it all
In the store room measuring out flour
In the bus looking out of the window

Beautifully strung words strangle
Stunning, choking, numbing
Mind like a mirage beckons
To that elusive paradise

Paralysing in its intensity,
taunting lingers momentary.
Softening into oblivion like suds
Gifting a mélange of glee and gloom

A mesmerising drama of conception
and annihilation;
played out for me by me.
They are my many aborted babies.

I’ve never known bliss
I’ve never known that that was it
But in the numbered moments of reminiscence
I know that this had to be it.

The Hen Story

Not to worry dear
cheer is near.
Pick up a pen and
draw out a hen.

Colour her yellow to
make her mellow.
She is just a hen so
she couldn’t fight men

If she is red
she will cause dread.
Do as you are told or
you won’t live to turn old.

Sure they stared
Both pen and men paired.
Tell them Ben—
what colour is your hen?

Out she came,
glad and game,
purple and pink
no time to blink.

Think, think.

Queer was Ben’s hen
what say the men and the pen?

The Name Is Shadow

Seated in the mighty throne
This sun, singularly potent like the other
Giving and taking lives at His will
Fortune and Prosperity mere fair weather friends.

Brave were his choices;
He acknowledged loneliness
Accepted his part of
being understood a tyrant
And played it to perfection.

Alone the emperor performed
In that supreme stage of power
Lone in his decisions which lurked
Faceless and terrible, eluding spotlights.

When clouds of grey showed themselves
He rose-regal and elegant-off his throne
Among the silence that rained down like silk
With his only aide, the name was Shadow.

Limited Edition

It’s a limited edition new day—
Rare and Well-priced.
Buy it while the offer lasts.
Die you must and will;
So why not make the most
of this beautiful day at hand?
When possibilities outsmile
smirking cynicism for once.
It’s a limited edition new day
Back to regular fit from tomorrow.

Smiling Violets

Smoke deludes the terrace around me
Wish I could be simple again
Like Mario in Il Postino
Wish I could write like Neruda

Violets peep into my horizon
Smiling simply; peaceful
Beckoning the day
Wish I could smile back as simply
Happily

But work weighs me down
Insensitve music confuses me
White patches in my head
All the time, pointless

Smiling violets
How I wish I could smile back
Simply, happily at you
Like I could a while ago.

It’s a grown up feeling
I hate the nonchalance
Impassionate adulthood
Why blame a phase
This is who I have become.

Warlord Of My Freethinking Club

‘Warlord of my freethinking club’,
I dreamt of you again-
snuggled against the rain-
Of unkissed kisses, unbared bearings.

Possessive, Complication meows miffed;
denied entry into my dream,
but I’ve never cared for cats.

Here you become an easy lover
simple, smiling and spirited.
In comfortable company
our tact is quick to join the cat.
Perfect for kissed kisses, bared bearings.

Dreamer wakes myself up
longing for a lungful of reality.
You were a mean moody mess
and I’ve loved all versions of the
warlord of my freethinking club.

Unlike the sycophant version loyalists.

Freefalling

When I fell from the sky
Air took out Thought with a vengeance.

When she recovered
I was floating.
Ground, an unreal obstacle
Impossibly far like death seems to youth
Spread limbs scare my scream away
And weightless, stretch-
my moments of uncomplication,
As life unties its knots with adrenalin.

I live in that moment
As a heart that beats
An absolute, a perfection
Free of baggage I glide;
To the tune of the earth called Wind.

Humanity, Answer This Call!

Mother of six, she
outlived half a dozen lives,
delivering little handfuls of sunshine.

Suckled them into life,
cooing cries into silence,
steadying feet that wobbled,
fixing speech that slurred,
while nurturing inch after inch.

When they found their feet,
they walked away-leaving her
to feel their toothless mouths suckling
as she sat bare-breasted in bed;
The bed her children had made her;
Among stacks of hay and buzzing flies
In the cowshed.

A mother of six left to live out in muck
A life that reared six souls;
Or were they just human moulds?

Humanity, answer this call
Don’t be deaf to your mother of six.
Lend her a hand, clothe her;
NO, just hug her close
And whisper I love you!

Where Is My Angel?

As I lay, bound to my easy chair
by threads of rain, too blind;
unable to measure the fullness
of the melting personality glass

I look out of my glass jar
Seamless boundaries are what I see.
Maybe it’s a transparent illusion,
(metaphor: a mirage for the truly thirsty!)
willing to break at the pressure of will.

Continents, dreams, jobs, possibilities-
all hanging by invisible attachments.
Bearings or nooses?
I am too confused to decide.

Glass should be shattered, cataract treated-
Even if only to injure or see.
This life is but one and this time-
I’ll dress up as my own angel.

My Morning

You dawned on my horizon
following my darkest hour;
your simple smile lit up my face too
as you peacefully cleared up my sky

Swept away the darkness,
planted those happy clouds,
beckoned chirpy birds,
all with your wisened calm.

I would call you my sun
but where I come from,
the sun isn’t always kind;
too hot at times and unforgiving.

You are my morning
A pleasant time for fresh starts.