An Enigma

Lost and found
With seasons of life
Every turn…
Unfurl new dreams
As pages of a dairy
Flutter in the wind
With stories…
Told and untold.


With hope
Promises shadow…
Like a bark of a tree
The leaves fall
With the gush of breeze
The words on the dairy fade
Those letters look uneven
A voice echoes

And love becomes…
An enigma
The winter tear
Dries on my chin
With an ache in my heart.

The Right Side Of The Bed

Lying alone,
there is no more a fight to lose
for the right side of the bed
We always wanted to end up
after making love, on
the right side of the bed

Heard that it snowed
in the mountains last night
Snow draped images
watched alone on news tonight
The wet powdery feel
of fresh new snow
Still imagined in memory remains

The sand clock still sits
on my desk
Distilling memories
pouring sand in a thin line
Extracting every nuance of time
Extruding every moment fine

Every time clock turned around
I lose instants once every while
All moments lost, make a heap
Memories flown from my hoard deep

Inside the desk
are my favourite memories
all together in comfort, tied loose
amongst Escape mixed spring flower scent
stowed away in letters with your fragrance

Open the desk to let
memory vagrant fly at me
Memories that tumble, fall in a stumble
Watch them play their ruse with me
My fingers come away
with faint bouquet of perfume you used

The right side of the bed
The silence of falling sand
You, asking me to write in verse
Me, searching for unknown words
Times that I fought with you
You throw at me, a, I love you
Never did I know what to do
Now wonder, how did that you do?

I still search to hear
The texture of your voice when alone
Turn around to catch
Warm colored, sun-kissed love
in your eyes forlorn

As I lie on the right side of the bed
staring at the sand clock, lonely
They are silent
My distant thoughts
Lost in memories
of their own, I look on...

Before We Meet

Wen my heart feels better
And I am myself again
When the clouds shall part
And loving You shall be no pain

When the copper moon shall rise
I'll wake my sleeping heart
To let your stormy passion
inherit my lovelorn part

If You be the crackling fire
Then I be the moth to the flame
We shall drink passion's wine
And play cupid's lovely game

This is a prelude to enchantment
To give our Later life a velvet touch..
A pretence That You & Me are strangers
will help Us ride out of the stormy lurch

We are captives of fateful sensibility
And so we have to hide that forbidden fire..
Till our Souls are Liberated
& WE meet forever.................................

...

Thoughts of a Musician

With my Guitar, i gone to a world of unseen
Where mind stops wondering and soul
starts to speak its untold secrets.
Finger tips creating fusion by pulling strings,
creating tunes of dearth separations or pleasing
union jubilation which are never even experienced.

You wonder, how a musician creates its music?
imagining separation, he cries in vain of pain,
feeling dry buried ardent deperation in his heart
as a lover's grief poured in its tune telling his story.

Beaming in glitters of buoyant exuberant he dreams
of love making, and union of two hearts as they
experience sanguine gleeful of union and upbeat euphoric.

I pose a question, to meter limits of their sentiments
Even musing tears in separation,they create music of
illumination and while at apogee of ecstatic exquisite rhapsodic
their tunes embarks inconsolable woebegone of soul's grief.

Drowning in these thoughts, my tune is completed
To repose words, i tried to ponder on the opus étude
But the question still remain unanswered
how two extremes are gratified, while not even endured ?

Death of Thought Foretold

Muddled
in my mind
lie about
a perfect day’s ruin
Brilliant azure wall,
plagiarising the sky,
don’t hide blue pall

Outside
on the parapet
Alone,
a one legged pigeon
stands woefully
staring into my thoughts
Doleful eyes bind
at the deformity

Pile up feelings
of forgotten passion,
rediscovered,
embrace ennui
The tongue tastes fear
slime on the teeth
The breath sombre stinks
putrefying ideals

The pen abruptly jerks,
slides sideways
Collecting, connecting
disjointed words
Pauses, with the idea
a scrawl illegible
as wasted lament
descends

Words falter,
lead by emotions
in a halter
Hop on lame feet
amongst scraps
of scribbled sheets
Destitute remains
view deformed

Not volant on paper
unread,
it foretells
death of the thought..

You & Me

I am a word
A string of alphabets
Carelessly wooven
Loosely shaped
Without a reason
Without rhythm
I exist
As plainly
As woodenly
As one can
As many do
But when you add
That magical touch
That essence
That soul
You
I become me
The word with a meaning
With an origin
With a reason to exist,
To be
Me

Flowers

You give me the slip between garlic and lilies,
as if this is what comes of my unprotected
loves, of my hands in the sweet earth,
their willful miscegenation of the border bed
where you're tucked in deep with tulips, too,
like just one more of their heart-freaks:
a fluke diamondine flake, a thin vein gone gold.
Being mine, you'll grow up a girdled tree, girt
with a ringed-around root, nothing like
the fruitful vine of good wives—one of which
I'll never be so, my not-love-knot, you may
as well come up instead like a kiss:
the one wind gives to rouse the Japanese maple,
October's aerialist, its bright aureole
in the last late sun a red mouth, opening.