In a story
of a yellow rufous summer
where zillions of tiny-little poems
gathered together
in coalesce
to emit a vibration
of light, the light so bright
that it drowned away
all the shadowlands,
all that was dark,
leaving only the
fleeting glimpses of memory
and deflating clouds
of monsoons long gone,
in that story of the yellow summer
I was a witness, a spectator.where zillions of stars
twinkle at the end of the day
where bumblebees wander
from flower to flower on their way
where a tranquil breeze flutters
in the golden-green fields
where trails of hilly pines
lead towards a waterfall perennial & chilled
where
fairies bungle on treetop swings
such is the
chronicle of the place
memories of childhood –
a vast meadow
filled with
infinite sunflowers
sequinned tawny & brown
faces towards the sun,
yellow crayon smiles
& blossoming mirrors,
the wellsprings
of pure gold!
Mighty is not the one
who never falls,
but the one
who falls a little
and rises a little
to fall again
to rise again
incessantly drifting
like a queer boat
through the erratic play
of flotillas of emotional waves
yet never forgetting
the flamebulb of resplendent spark
that flares, blazes, flickers
in the deepest recesses
within oneself.
for, butterflies
are compasses of eternity
floundering for ever inside
their gooey caterpillar cocoons
striving for polarity
to sprout their wings
their life’s boons
dusting the fragrance of floral honey
off their teeny-tiny feet
polarity, they teach us,
ain’t so sweetTripping at the edge of time
where space sings, and silence chimes
Falling into the abyss
An abyss – endless, dark & deep
Where frames of thoughts
seem to materialize in a slow sweep
Where, at times, there are
floods of emotions
Breaking some illusions
shattering some notions
Tripping at the edge of time
falling into the abyss
Transcending the perimeters
of that and this!
An enchanted forest
lilliputian fairies
Streams of wildflowers
oozing amid trees
Engulfed in this
phantasmogorical mishmash
there lay a fruit of gold
encapsulated in a stash
It must be a magic potion!
thought she,
‘cause as she stared into the canvas
that was stationary & still
she found herself drowning into it
losing charge of her will
Mesmerised by its magical spell
she stepped into the canvas
The painter took his paintbrush
& added a woman’s silhouette adjoining the magic potion’s flask.
Staring at his masterpiece
mused he
While the woman wondered, locked inside his painting,
where really was she!
This life is a dreamworld
for those with an eye of wonder
From an oasis of stillness
to a spectrum of mirages, varied & sunder
This life is a fairyland
for hearts brimming with love of dispassion and passion of thunder
A story of wilderness,
a tale of a zillion blunders
The one who seeks either the all or the none
the clink and clank of bangles,
some jingles some jangles…
The grainy vibration in the pineal antenna
the sandy quivering of a broomstick,
husky straw fibers swishing a leafy floor
The creaks and the croaks
of a wooden door…
The buzzing of wasps
on a quietly tranquil night
Or the touch of a soft breeze
humming through a cloudless sky’s sight
The rustling susurrations of leaves
stirring before a storm
A reptilian whisper that sounds somewhere
at the edge of time where breaks a norm…
Is silence full of quiet,
or is it a sound of mystery?
The sounds of silence, perhaps, lead the way
Once upon a time
a woman saw a dream
A dream in which
she saw a giant mannequin…
Sculpted intricately
in shade of taffy pink
Towering majestically
till the sky’s brink…
The woman saw
through the glass case of the dream
The sculpture shedding
tears of gold, downpouring in a stream…
The woman’s ears clinked,
her inner eye rolled,
as she saw herself watching in the dream
the sculpture’s tears of golden marigold!
Repositories
of memories,
euphonies
of inspired glee…
Reveries of
an eternal spring
& glitzy
glamours, oh so soul-stirring
Many an
often, erratic glooms
or piecemeals
of impending dooms
But
collect, if you may, these thrills-n-thunders,
and be, if
you may, a marvel of
kindness, a paragon of wonder
Like a
magical juju, some concoction
or a cryptic key
Life, and all
moments of it, shall
become, for you,
Dazzling fireballs
of exquisite beauty…
Life, shall
become for you,
a dazzling fireball
of beauty!
The nightsky,
she swallowed
rolled it
into a number,
awaking
from the trance
of a
lifelong slumber
From the
ewer of numerals,
some spells
of arithmetic she cast
curious to
discover the impermanence
of square
roots, of brackets, till when they’d last.
In the
mazes of trigonometry,
drifted,
she, like waves of sines & cosines…
searching for
a function of tan
for a way
to connect with the divine…
In a sea of
infinite variables,
looked she,
for a constant to stick
Unlocked
she, this is how, the attic of mathematics,
Hoorray! She
wondered. What intoxicating a magic trick!
Snaking my way
through a forest trail,
through groves of lush green trees
in a wooded terrain,
a quiet fragrant morning,
muffles of crunchy fallen leaves
crystalline pellets of dewdrops and hail
I traverse a solitary split-second
beholding a stream, a thought train…
Listening perhaps for the first time,
to the voice of an echoing whisper
reverberating somewhere in my
tranquil heart space,
jingling and jangling as the
twinkling of the stars,
reminding me of an invisible grace!
Tapping the
crazy rhythms
of their typewriters’
keys,
how these poets
mystically plant
their own typewriter
trees…
swinging
with breezes of emotion,
where the leafy
words rustle wild and free…
Slipstreaming
with florals of beauty,
these
merry-n-sweet gardens of poetry,
Poetry - isn’t
this what they call,
a
typewriter tree, a poet’s tree?!
Life is not a pleasant place. Far from being safe and cool as the castles of Disney princesses, life is harsh, and brutal. Especially for th...
