But, in their splatter that night,
the insomniac, found a lullaby.
The lonely, a conversation.
And the poet, a poem..
The night sky is a lie
Suicidal stars, imploding under
duress for they have lived
way too long.
Distracted galaxies
swerving into one another with a
vengeance.
Columns of orphaned
stardust being spewed out in fury,
over dizzying distances.
The night sky is a violent expanse, and
it has you and I fooled.
For often on quiet nights,
we seek our peace in it..
Horizons
Night skies do not have horizons,
For darkness has no shades to it.
Yet, curious stars,
searching for a horizon on the far side,
tread several miles,
each night.
Only to perish into a sunrise..
Winter evenings
Lonesome wintery evenings, often,
echo through the fading impressions,
of hands,
that remain etched
across frozen, fogged up windows,
long after they have left the room..
Night skies
Tonight’s night sky is in fact
a twinkle from millions of years ago.
And isn’t it fascinating to know, that,
in a few eternities from now,
on a warm summer’s night,
some young boy may look at the night sky,
that I was meant to look at tonight..
Summer nights
These starry summer nights,
often, take me back to a boyhood,
when a handful of young dreams,
and the magic in your eyes,
marked the extent of my universe..
Dawn
On the far side, erupted,
the first streak of dawn.
And, in a few rushed moments,
the countless stars ended their vigil.
Extinguished, one at a time, and,
compelled to seek refuge until nightfall..
Of Nights
The night, too, had its acquaintances.
A few scheming crooks,
a handful of distracted wanderers, and,
some dreamy insomniacs.
Often, though, the night had,
overheard the days,
gossiping about a bustling planet,
rampant with noise, and life.
Yet, each time, the night
took over,
a drowsy earth, treated it to,
lonesome, half-lit streets,
silent dwellings, and
a snoring mankind..
Anchors
On a sunlit afternoon,
the boats decided to romance the wind.
As they gently swerved to the
flirtatious gusts, they tugged,
on the unsuspecting anchors holding them back.
Blinded by a love for the ocean,
those boats pulled, and nudged on those anchors,
hoping to break-free.
The scarred anchors though, did not
relent, as they held back the smitten boats.
For they knew, that the ones
they had let go in the past,
seldom returned,
from the folds of that treacherous ocean..
That Coffee shop
It was past midnight.
The world had fallen silent.
Yet, as I went past it,
I was drawn to it.
An exhausted coffee shop, in a deep dream.
Much like the brews it served all day,
that sleeping coffee shop’s loneliness, too,
had an aroma to it..
The birth of a poem
Suddenly, you feel a niggle inside you.
A caged sense of unease thumping
erratically behind the ribs.
You try and ignore it. It lingers on,
refusing to go away.
Plunging itself into the throbbing veins beneath the skin.
It swims upstream in furious protest.
Rattles the sturdy insides of your skull.
Gags you, tying up the tongue
in tiny knots.
Yet, seeks a voice.
An outlet.
Consumed by this rage, you scribble
some breathless words,
across blank pages.
And so, a poem is born..
That homeless person on the street
On a wintery evening,
I stood there,
watching destinies go past each other.
The ones draped in finest wool,
cheerfully, strolled the city streets.
Indulging in warm coffees, and,
love drenched chats.
Tucked away in a dark corner,
was another destiny too.
A homeless one.
Shredded and lonesome.
Trying to shiver itself to sleep.
Silences
Often, I try and puncture,
the silences, that befriend me.
For I know,
their poise and tranquility,
is a mere seduction.
Once, turned inside out,
these silences too, are ingloriously flawed,
like you and I.
Infested with demons,
and raging with anguish..
Trains
Often, as they rested on sunlit noons,
the curious platforms would ask,
the train carriages where they'd been.
Nomads, the carriages would seldom disappoint,
for they had tales to tell,
of places they had been to.
Spring splashed meadows,
rain drenched woods, frozen pastures,
and,
autumn clad wildernesses..
Of rainy days
There is a charm
about looking out through
rain-soaked windows.
Doing so, often, comforts
aching grown-ups,
bruised by destinies and toils.
If only they were brave enough,
to step out once in a while,
letting the rain-drops drench them,
the grown-ups
would've felt healed..
Raindrops
Disowned by the fleeting clouds,
discarded raindrops,
befriended the branches of a helpful tree.
Their refuge for the night.
Unaware, that a deceitful sun,
awaited on the other side,
eager, to consume them, and,
hand them back,
to yet another passing cloud..
Drizzles
As I walked through the soggy night,
raindrops, from the hushed drizzle,
splattered my face.
Some slipped down, instantly,
scooting across my cheeks.
Some, plunged into an abyss,
swallowed, by my shivering lips.
Some, entangled in my eyelashes,
exploded with a vengeance,
each time I blinked, as if,
to avenge their fallen mates
Summer rains
Sneaky clouds, no longer able to
conceal their stealth, spill
the loot.
And as the sun baked soil,
wraps itself in the summer rain,
water stolen from a sleeping ocean
is reclaimed.
One drop at a time...
The overzealous raindrop
I listened intently into the dark night.
Much like the words in a poem,
the raindrops too had a melody
; in their fall.
And then every so often, fell an
overzealous drop,
clueless,
not in sync with rest,
shattering the entire symphony..
Firefly
In that pinch of darkness, that,
he held between his folded hands,
hid a firefly as well.
Each time, it let out a flash,
he giggled, the little boy.
Unaware, that the world will soon,
want him to grow up..
Colours
From the haunting nights,
painted in deepest black.
Of, from the blood that was deep red,
when it was first shed, and,
then turned purple,
as it curdled.
Or, from the white shrouds of,
wailing widows.
Not all kids, learnt their colours,
from rainbows..
The orphan
Growing up in an orphanage
she missed out on a lot of things.
Throwing a tantrum,
was just one of them..
The masterpiece
He held a chalk and sketched away
all over the wooden deck,
the little boy.
Aimless lines, meandering and
looping over each other
was all that he drew.
And when he was done
he stood back,
looked at his work, and giggled.
Elated with his creation,
he moved on to his next adventure.
And here I was, fearful of appraisals,
crossing out misfit words,
desperate,
to write that 'perfect' poem..
Notepads
I like to write on notepads.
For they keep me grounded.
Devoid of a ‘backspace’, they
often keep a score
of the number of times it took me,
to get it right..
The blinking game
Long into the night, we kept
staring into each other’s eyes.
The night sky and I.
We both held a stubborn silence,
within us
that refused to
blink..
There are no answers
We seek comfort, not answers.
For there are no answers.
Wisdom is just make belief.
Educated guesses, derived with a bow
stretched a tad too long.
Fallacies, like beads, stitched up
in a thread of logic and reason.
All designed to explain the unventured
other side.
Countless explanations offered.
And you and I choose the one,
that comforts us the most....
Solitude
Often when the night turns
unkind
I turn to the trusted window in my room.
For each time I leave it ajar,
distracted strands of silvery moonshine
come rushing in, eager,
to converse with my
sleepless solitude..
Dreams
There's a fine line, that,
separates the dream, from the journey.
Dreams fetch thrills.
Journeys remain stale.
And if the two were to merge,
you will never again sense the thrill,
of turning the clouds inside out, and,
looking at a thunderstorm,
from the other side.
Yes,
if the two were to merge,
the journey will eat up the dream,
and, you will merely hop, between,
days, and places..
Perspectives
After a certain age,
destinations define us.
Yet, today as I travelled with my son,
I put my forehead
against the train window.
Just like my seven year old companion.
As we peeked through the glass,
another train went zipping past.
It caught us by surprise.
Startled, we looked at each other.
Then giggled, and went back to,
hearing the melody,
of the train wheels, scooting over
tightly stitched rail tracks.
Age never abandoned childhoods,
perspectives did..
Destinations
Moments, in a brisk sprint.
Lifespans, on a slow crawl.
Desires, on crossroads.
Journeys, beget journeys.
Destinations, mere arbitrary stopovers..
Goosebumps
Much like the stars in the night sky,
they erupt too,
out of the porous bones.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
One after the other, they take over
every inch of unclaimed flesh, and,
unleash a chill that runs,
all the way up the spine, then,
explodes in between the eyes, and perishes.
Like those shooting stars,
in the night sky.
Much like a shooting star too,
you try and hold on to them, and
to the thrill they inject into your skin.
But like it is with shooting stars,
all you manage to do,
is to make a wish,
before they extinguish..
Romance
Smitten by a romance,
shrewd, moonlit nights,
melted in dew drops at dawn,
and, clung on to unsuspecting rose petals
hopeful
of meeting,
the forbidden days..
Afterlife
In its afterlife,
the discarded quill
took flight, once again.
This time,
through the words of a poet..
The ocean shore
Then, as the fleeting waves recede,
the love drenched sand, too,
shrivels and shrinks.
Bleached by the sun,
the wet blots on the shore, too,
disappear.
Parched, barren grains remain, as,
sand becomes sand, again.
Just like you and I,
when we'll be gone..
Of storms
I swallowed a mouthful of the storm,
that raged outside.
It tasted like the eucalyptus leaves,
that it had ripped apart.
Then, as I chewed it a bit more,
it lost its rage.
Reduced to a mere breath within me.
A humble, tamed breath..
Of Forevers
We are all shackled in eternities.
You, and I.
One day, when we shall all perish,
along with the fanciful worlds we live in,
bits of us shall,
continue to live on.
Etched forever, on a pinch
of unclaimed stardust, you and I,
will forever exist,
somewhere in the silent recesses,
of this universe..
I shattered the darn’d sky
The sky managed to shake off
the clouds,
as it turned into the deepest shade
of blue, today.
Flawless and poised,
it stood above me,
as if to mock my burdened mind.
Sitting by the lakeside,
I picked up a pebble in disgust,
And hurled it at the still lake.
Shattering the arrogant sky,
Into trembling ripples..
The boy who once left home
One day,
Every dream that he had ever held,
Collapsed inwards.
As dusk loomed,
He found himself stranded,
Amongst a towering wilderness.
He pasued, for a moment,
Turned around to look back.
His footsteps had perished, so did
The dusty trail he thought he had etched.
The trees had a charm about them,
but, were unfamiliar.
Much like the winter’s night, that lurked.
Home, remained several sunsets away..
Nostalgia
Nostalgia has a fragrance to it.
If you were to hold it close enough,
it will smell of warm twilights, or,
snow drenched winter nights, or,
soothing summer rains.