All Over Again?

Would you choose to live your life

All over again?

How far would you rewind it to?

At what point would you know

This is where I'd return to?

Like pressing backspace on a keyboard

Would you want to go back letter by letter

Or would you wipe the slate clean?

Start afresh on a new page

Does it sound too distressing

To wash out every memory?

To dismiss as a mistake

Every moment of your life?

Would you rather edit

The unsavoury bits instead?

A clip here, a cut there,

Dusting off the specks of time,

Picking at the imagined lint

Of that worn coat called life.

What parts would you rewrite?

What colours would you choose

Would you stop to ponder

The why, the how, the who,

The if and when-

Or would you rather

Stand up tall, dust your self,

Square your shoulders, 

And walk into the sunset

Never to look back again.

Some Days I Wish..

Some days I wish,

I wish I could run away.

Run away and breathe,

Breathe in the fresh air-

Air, cool and rejuvenating.

Away from all that's mundane,

Mundane, routine and prosaic.

Prosaic, yet drawing me in,

Into duties, into responsibilities,

Responsibilities, where I lose  myself.

There's no place I can escape to.

Escaping my fate is no easy task.

It's easier to dream, to disappear-

Disappear into another world,

A world that isn't, but could have been mine.

And so, I close my eyes and breathe,

Breathe in what little freedom I can find,

Find in the stillness that that comes from unrest,

Unrest, that tells me I must return,

Return to myself, one breath at a time.

Where longing dwells...

Crouching by the golden window,

I peeped in for a closer look,

A curd-churner firmly held in hand,

The dark-skinned one, quietly stood.

A girdle beset with gems,

Adorning his tiny waist.

A glowing emerald pendant

Resting softly on his chest.

Watched me with his Lotus Eyes,

As my own eyes filled with tears.

Is this the child with whom

The Gopikas fell in love?

Whose touch became the wandering breeze

That lingered on their skin?

Whose footsteps they saw

In every grain of sand,

In the gentle crunch of leaves,

Across hills, through meadows, beside the river?

Whose anklets tinkled in the distance

Each time they milked their cows?

Whose words they heard

In the humming of the bumble bees?

Who were never together,

Yet never were separate,

Not for the space of half a breath.

And yet, their yearning for a glimpse

Of the one who owned their soul

Could never be quenched –

How could it be?

For now I too stand at his window,

Asking for one more glimpse.

Blue 52

(image : free images @ pixabay.com)

What must it be like

For the poor blue fifty-two?

To never be heard,

Never be seen,

As others pass by without a clue.

Does its large heart

Constrict with words unspoken?

So much to express,

So much to share,

A weary soul left broken.

It might sadly watch as

Whale after whale passes by,

Without a glance,

Without a touch,

None ever hear it cry.

As it wanders all alone

In the ocean deep and vast,

A little wistful,

A little lonely,

In the darkness it is lost.

What happens when it can
No longer hold the winter of its grief?
Through endless dark waters,
Through unanswered songs,
Bereft of love, however brief.

Will its powerful, aching heart

Burst open, filled with dolour?

Painting the ocean,

Painting the fishes,

Pallid , devoid of colour.

The songs that it sings alone

At fifty-two hertz — can you hear

To call for a companion,

To call for love,

Yet failing in its endeavour?

So it drifts through empty waters

In the hope of a bright new dawn,

When it finds a friend

And finds a home,

Erasing the misery it has undergone.

*The Blue 52, is an individual whale of unidentified species that calls at the unusual frequency of 52 hertz.  The blue whale and the fin whale call at 10 to 39 Hz and 20 Hz respectively.

Since its frequency is too high, it cannot be heard by the others and thus described as the "world's loneliest whale".

**This poem is not about the whale though. It's about the loneliness a person encounters though surrounded by people. 

A Blank Page

A blank page
and I begin writing, with a quill. 

My fingers and nails stained in cobalt blue. 

A blue that has bled deep into my fingertips. 

My fingers move, forming shapes and curves, dots and dashes...

forming words, spoken by the heart.

 

Once in a while the quill stops. 

To dip in and write again. 

And then, there is a blotch of blue. 

A blotch that spreads into several pores of the paper, 

washing over a word or two on separate lines. 

The blotch makes a couple of lines seem meaningless. 

Or perhaps, they didn't have much meaning earlier either. 

But all I had done, was followed the dictates of my heart. 

My fingers dance across the page,

A tango, full of drama,

And on and on I write.

In my mind I had written reams, 

while, in reality, I had barely filled a solitary sheet. 

I dip the quill again. 

This time the pot of ink spills over. 

On all the words I had written. 

The paper is soaked. 

Little by little, I see my words and the intervals of ivory turning into a brilliant cobalt blue. 

I watch, 

while the ink carries my words along, dripping on to the hard ground below. 

A short journey that was, 

from paper to the floor. 

My words now rest in peace. 

So many of them. Or maybe, not so many. 

Completely contained in a few drops of cobalt blue, as they were before. 

More so now. 

And like a scar the stain will remain, 

containing and reminding me of words that once were, 

neatly arranged, 

on a piece of paper. 

Indianised!!

Would Shakespeare be turning and twisting in his grave

Upon learning that we've taken over the nuances of his trade?

Would he 'break his head' or 'crib' over his fate?

Perhaps, he would like to 'prepone' his date!

If we asked him his 'good name' would he, 

'Revert back to us' or say poor me?

I'm sure he does not know what 'ladies finger' is,

Not knowing 'loose motion' is certainly bliss!!

I'd tell him he took the 'long cut' home, 

And if he's too annoyed, 'Relax it's just timepass' bro!'

Past, Present, Future

Darkness envelops my past, 

And as much as I peep to see,

The fragments scattered, sans light,

Agonising over what could be,

Spiralling into an abyss,

On a self-deprecating spree,

I search and search again

For thoughts to set me free.

I look into the future, the light so blinding I'd flee, 

Thoughts churn again in my head,

Wondering what it holds for me.

Possibilities that span the earth and sky,

As massive as the mighty sea,

As far ahead as I try to look, 

There's not much that I can foresee.

I see my present, beckoning, 

Colourful and alive, all of me,

Specks of dirt, of doubts and grief,

Dot it to a tiny degree.

Yet this is the part that heals me most,

The time; that's a guarantee,

The best that I can do now,

Within my reach, my destiny.

The past; I cannot change, I know, 

The future; beyond my reach,

It's in my present that live I must,

To a happy life, the key!

Best Friends Forever!

 

Life’s memorable moments, 

happy and carefree too,

Those that I look back upon, 

those that I shared with you.

Friendship at its very best, 

friendship like no other,

Friendship that’s outlasted everything, 

a friendship of thirty summers.

Over the years we’ve shared, 

joys and sorrows aplenty,

Times when our vessels were full,

 times when they were empty.

A bond that became stronger, 

over books, shared lunches, and rides,

Getting into trouble, and sometimes,

guffaw, splitting our sides!

Finding common ground,

yet going our own separate ways,

No matter how far apart, 

cheering for each other always.

Words may not be enough 

to pen down every memory,

‘cause they fill up space spanning,

 more than half a ‘half century’.

I’m glad you are my best friend, 

we always had each other to confide in,

Whenever things hit rock bottom,

also when we celebrated our wins.

You'll always find me by your side,

whenever you feel down and out,

I’ll cheer and pray for you always, 

‘cause that’s what’s this friendship’s all about. 

A Paradox

Hues

Pic Courtesy: My little one!

 

I wonder what He was thinking,  
As he stood contemplating brush in hand, 
Wisteria, lavender or iris, 
What hue'll make my canvas grand?
A swish of crimson, a splatter of carnelian,  
And a swirl of coral will do, 
Perhaps a scumbling of fuschia, a smudge of rouge, 
And a stroke of fiery tangerine too!
Better still, let me create, 
A new masterpiece each day, 
For how else will man see beyond, 
The porpoise and graphite and gray?

 

Why do I run?

Why do I run?

The mile long track,

Seemingly smooth

And yet

Filled with hurdles

At every block

Why do I run?

For that ten second race,

I train

For years, for days,

Not counting the hours

That I spend

Pulling muscles till they are sore,

Breaking bones till they heal no more,

And yet I run.

That sweat, that blood

Those tears, those fears

That I chose to overcome 

Just so that I may run

Is that a mere illusion?

There's no medal at the end

No one to hold me if I fall

Must I run? 

Or should I just stop in my tracks?

Mid way, give up,

And choose not to run at all.

A prisoner

A prisoner of my past

I looked from behind the rusty bars

At the cell holding me captive

For years on end

Scared to look beyond

The dimly lit space

And the cobwebs at the corners of my mind

At what the world holds

The thoughts scamming me to believe

That my past was a life sentence

When in reality all it was

Was a life lesson.

Survivor

Buried under the rubble

In nature's worst fury unleashed

Rocks and metal, ash and dust,

Nothing from death to shield.

She lets out a cry, a feeble call,

Nothing except darkness around,

Lungs filled with dust, yet chords so sharp,

Death and destruction surrounds.

Barely is she a hundred days old,

But a hundred hours she's breathed,

Covered in debris, blood and pain,

In a thin baby wrap she's sheathed.

Big brown eyes, the slightest smile,

Her hands raised out to the world,

Despite the looming gloom outside,

'Fighting' say her fingers curled.

Strong hands save her tiny frame,

Rescue from where she was trapped. 

A survivor she is, she's beaten all odds,

Sans the ability to think or act.

Sweet child, where did you find?

That spirit to keep ticking still,

When time weighed upon your little bones,

How did your soul bear the chill?

Would I have that courage when,

I'm fighting against all odds,

At the dust and debris trapping me,

In a world that hurts, defrauds?

Or would I rather give up the fight,

And bid the world adieu?

Without the faith in those strong hands,

Which are waiting to reach me and rescue.

Searching for you.

Sitting on the seashore,

I looked at the fiery orange orb,

As it took it's plunge into the deep depths,

Of the ocean-

All, but gone.

And unknowingly my mind,

Dives into the deep recess of my heart,

Searching for you.

I grab a fistful of sand,

And hold it out

Watching it escape my fingers,

Just like your silky mane.

I can feel those lustrous tresses,

Assault my senses as I,

Try to entwine them between my fingers.

But just like the sand, 

that slips through,

Your silken locks are gone.

A little girl selling flowers,

Beckons me to buy some,

And I see your favorite white flower,

That so made you smile.

The mild fragrance of the fresh bloom, 

Invades my heart, driving it wild,

An epithet I'd since conferred on you,

Mild and yet so wild.

Then there's darkness, 

As I sit alone and ponder, 

Will the sun set on my feelings? 

Will the fragrance wither away? 

Will my desires fly away,

Like those sea gulls? 

Or will they find a new dawn, 

When the florets will bloom again,

And the orb will majestically rise,

Making me whole again.

Chaos

Black and White

Time...

You can never know when,

You've had the last conversation,

With people you love...

When those final words,

Are all you will have,

To cherish and behold,

For the rest of your lives.

Words that replay on loop,

Every time you think of them,

Making you realize, yet again, 

That this fleeting time,

Is all, but slipping away,

Like grains of sand,

From the palm of your hand.

Oblivious...

 He tugs at her sleeve, 

Excitement bubbling on his face, 

A sheet of priceless art,

Hidden behind his back, 

A smiling sun, rays flying about, 

In an azure sky, with v-shaped birds, 

Trees laden with apples,

Flowers strewn on the ground,

A meandering river, making its
way,

Through mountains with sharp peaks,

A misshapen hut, and at its door, 

Smiling parents, and a child.

He tugs at her sleeve again, 

She glances over her digital screen, 

He smiles, talking animatedly,

About the cow that had almost been. 

She listens, hardly hearing, 

She looks, hardly seeing, 

Engrossed in her world,

She misses the wistful look in his eyes, 

He retreats, head bowed, 

The sheet of art, crumpled in the crook of his arms, 

She taps on, oblivious to life,  

That has just passed by, 

Memories that could have been made, 

The artist who might have been born. 

All sacrificed, at the altar,

All in vain.

In search...

PC: Better Homes and Gardens

A quaint door painted blue,

Through which I'd quietly slip into...

 A silent world of magical words, 

Interspersed with flowers and birds.

Rocking on a wicker chair,

Warmth and serenity everywhere!

Bougainvillea, so exuberant and wild,

Demurely resting among thistles, leaving me beguiled! 

The tranquility soothing my soul, 

Mirroring my spirit, making me whole.

(This pretty picture inspired these lines...) 

Her Saviour

The water that was knee deep,
Had begun it’s ascent again,
The lifeless bodies floating outside,
Made her heart scream out in pain.

There was no one she could call out to,
She stood before her Lord,
Panduranga, hear me out she cried
Clutching the metal God.

She felt a kick within her womb,
A tear escaped her eye,
Would her unborn live to see the day,
She looked askance at the sky.

The lamp in the small temple,
Flickered and dwindled and died,
Her hopes refused to die out though,
Vittala, Vittala, she cried.

Eyes closed, and heart chanting,
Her ears strained to hear some sound,
In this watery, slushy graveyard,
Would she ever be found?

Then she felt strong arms,
Wrapped around the small of her back,
Famished, and tired and fraught ,
The world around her turned black.

It was bright when she opened her eyes,
The world nothing like she’d seen,
But Her Lord had saved her, he did indeed,
Her Vittala in military green..