How many times has it happened that you find yourself humming the same song for a week or thinking about the play you saw last week ? There are times when I absent-mindedly pick up a book and while reading, it strikes a chord somewhere deep. Causes me to stop. To ponder.
All these small mental stimulations work so well in lifting the overbearing routine'ness from our lives. We need to pay more attention towards them & learn to appreciate them even more...
For me, the written word does it !
It is the spring in the step of my emancipated soul. There re times, when a written line or a quote stays with me for a number of days and there are also times when a friend mails me 3 lines of brilliance that she wrote the night ago in a tumultuous emotional frenzy.
Words more than speak to me. They make me feel as if I belong. Literature is my poison. Something I cant do without.

Rest, laters.
Aby

an ode to floyd..

sacred flags and the wing
bless the unprepared
division bells ringing
offset the trance
breathless guitar
nearing an orgasm
slowly the words
come pouring out
a dream on verge
of coming to life
lifts you up
and flies away
to the other side
a secret wish
emanates from
a mouth gone dry
and it gets louder
the crisp notes
of the music blessed
pour on the vodka
the illusion is alive and kicking....

undone stitches

An excruciating white winter morning

The had been wood in the fireplace

Sweeps a nostalgic aroma across the room

The china glass lies on top of another

Whisky stains on the percian rug

Paint a myriad picture

of a gone by stormy night

Its funny how the wrinkle

Impartially partitions the forehead

The forehead I used to kiss everyday

Before going off to work for the grey suits

You were so naïve then

Loved me without a grey shadow in your heart

Your eyes, how I remember them

Shining with puerile innocence

Asking a thousand myriad questions

Each time they saw me leaving for work

It was a cold evening when it happened

I was coming home, driving

The image blurred by too fast

But the blood stains on the tarmac

Tugged hard the corner of my eye

The severed limb seemed unusually small

It was covered with shards of glass

The sudden numbness I felt

Or maybe it was the overpowering urge

To see your soothing face, I drove on

The blood, the twisted metal behind me.

Frantic calling of your name

Brought me back only empty silence

Your room looked bare without you

The yellow on the wall looked pale

I should have stopped my car

But how could I have known

Forgive me, my son

How could I have known

Now I met you last night

After what have been

Many a countless full moons

You looked radiant as ever

Angels have been taking care of you

You talked your heart out

Last night, in your baby words

Before you flew away

To the bright full moon

Leaving me an old and lonely man

Forgive me my son

But how could I have known

gravedigger

burning lilies catch my attention
they have been resting neglected
since the week forgotten by.
they were soaked with tears
now they lie sorrowful themselves
the dust of neglectance screams out loud
with the goner, has gone the concern.

the soil is still impregnated
with the footprints of the loved.
the goner, had no footprints indeed
the ground is soggy and damp
the mastiff has been here since a week
clawing out the dirt, digging the mud
trying to find the inexistant.

it kills me with sorrow
seeing its dull, misty eyes
but provided me with a reaffirmance
that all is not lost in the end
when thread-bare relationships
feign a woeful ignorance to the snapping
of the already beaten-down threads
there are some, who choose to make a difference.


i am a grave-digger i dig the graves i make them shallow so they can feel the rain..............

can you see it ?

can you see it ?
the face
glowing over tired dreams
flowinf effortlessly
merging with the nerve stream
runnig through my body.
the face
howering beneath my brow
knocking day
knocking night
to see if i exist
beyond the living
a face
hollow but heavy
weighing in my eyelids
putting me to sleep
only to wake me up
in the middle of the night
screaming
letting me a piece
of her broken emotions
can you see the face ?
that of the lady
that died
only because
i could not rush through
to save her, from herself..

sepia dreams

sepia dream

recurring memories
of a sepia undertone
clutching that soul
refusing to let go
of the past
that no longer is.
she wakes up
sweating profusely
the memories are back
haunting her once again
again in sepia undertones
she gets up
face glistening with droplets
goes to the closet
it has to be there
the skeleton
that once was a body
her body.

jaypore

For j,

Black asphalt beckons
stirs u the wanderlust
you by my side
throttle caresses the floor
like a taut silken string
thats been plucked
our bodies are vibrating
to the din of the engine
to the guitar being seduced
your gaze poses questions
questions, whose answers
we both know
have known ever since
i lean into you
to steal a kiss
but how has ever
a thing been stolen
when its already yours
we say no more
the guitar exhales
a low note
a sigh goes unnoticed....

a winter night

seven matchsticks and the wind

a place under the sun

endangered by the other's existence

trying to stick close

to member's of one's kin

a matchstick sang out aloud

'' strike us and feel the power

its time you learn to play with fire''

the gust of the wind, looming large

laughed out a hollow one

'' i give birth to thee, letting you light

but today beware, for i want to fight''

with that off flew the feeble matchstick

wind blowing down upon its spine

emerald eyes scanning the dim light

spent the night engulfed in chill

for the wind stood true with all its might

with or without u

sitting behind your eyeballs

the humunculus looks out

passing judgment

the editor of reality

tailoring the present

to suit the storyline

not realizing a glitch



the story isn't yours

enter me


egotistical bundle

of complications and love

rejecting reality

in the arms of the present

born a persistent

soldier of fortune

pushing you to the extremes

comes easy to me

sparking two degrees

of affection and ego

the story moves on

along with two

insatiable souls.


amen

BOOTS - on the run

dust laden boots
speak the saga untold
boots on the run
they see the rising sun
everyday in lands unknown
crossing unkempt pathways
never meant for treading
boots on the run
trampling the dead man's land
and his garden of hope
passing by the caravans
stopping by the silent towns
boots on the run
lie lazy on the table
tapping to the cowboy's song
in the oak-wooded pub
bout the young gun in the town
boots on the run
always on the move
putting behind the miles
searching for the golden pot
of the exilir of freedom

cradle

three butterflies and the wind
a new day dawns
starving for the truth
i am one step closer
can hear the perfect song
playing in my head
the velvet clock screams goodbye
as i head out for the day
photograph memories
keep on reminding me
of the days we spent together
i rush through people
not wanting to get anywhere
i would be lying if i say
it means nothing to me
you are the thoughts
inside this maze of mind
plugging my emotions
playing your voice inside
i am just chasing time again
on an endless day
so rush to me baby
let me be your cradle for a while

Supernova

how many times do people change ?
strange little things with no name
together for life you were
all alone, the coming tide
like a fool you stood all along
only to sing a lonely song.

how many times do expressions change ?
the hugs and kisses look so lame
plastic smiles on porcelains
beat-less heart being entertained
to you it looked all firm and true
but the wave got it all unglued.

how many times do the calender burn ?
to again throw up the same days
nothing going right save the nightmares
you suddenly fill the chill
its the face in the photo frame
it soothes you like a good wine.

how many times do you dream about ?
lay awake hearing the voices
there is no cure for a heartburn
but for a longing heart
you know you are thinking right
so take my hand and come undone.

I am your Supernova
you got to look up into the sky

still waiting.....

the tide is turning
running over the beat less clock
across the barbed wire
lay a waiting pair of eyes
green emeralds. tired. dried.
eyes that lay open
in the darkness of day
and have never closed
in the hopeful nights
still waiting.....
the animosity is a bygone
claim the suited bureaucrats
the have signed the dotted
'peace treaty' they call the miracle
guns have fallen silent
deaf
thats what they are
they cant hear the cries
the howling of the mad
victims of a blast they are
more dead now, than they ever were
gunshots still match the heartbeat
'peace treaty' they call it
still waiting......
if words are to be believed
toy soldiers will go away
miracle will come true
vegetables will replace landmines
spouting a greener tommorow
not the bloody present
hatred will be given a burial
barbed wire 'll be booted down
distance will merge
she will get to see
whom the emerald eyes are straining for
the miracle will indeed come true
till then
still waiting......

blind diamond....

in responce to the amazing movie, which goes by the name, BLOOD DIAMOND...

A fragment of light
gives birth to a thousand daughters
caressing the diamond
as it lays still
basking in the glory
of a white flesh's touch
feeling proud of itself
for the emotions it can evoke
in that superficial layer
of a woman's heart.
With a heady feeling of dejavu
it looks back
at its incredible journey through time
conceived in the red soil
of the burning Sierra Leone
a soil red with human blood
a soil stamped upon by warlords' boots
it found solace in a black laborer's hand
before he died of a gunshot
a perfect shot by the child soldier
nerves feasting on LSD
his master calling him 'the soldier of death'
The diamond stood witness
to the burning barns, shattering windows
woman carcasses getting raped
eight year old hands
fumbling with Kalashnikovs
before it gets it eyes knocked out
by the experienced old hand
at the jeweler's fancy shop.
Now here it lies, the blind diamond
resting on an ignorant's neck
who keeps marveling at he pink color
but would never get to know
that it got its pink color
from the blood seeping through
the thirsty soil of Siera Leone

indifferent to sadness

its barely twilight
and she has to go to bed
she looks into her mama's eyes
blue crystals overshadowed
with fear and trepidition
eyes that have seen a lot
massacres and murders
eyes that will never ever be the same again
thunderstroms rain outside
the air is humid and stale
her father's absence looming large
the sheep are crying outside
she guesses 'its the rain'
but it may be gun shots
thats scaring them
she is sad
she has no friends
all are dead by now
the village is deserted
but for the smoked huts
lying there scattered
but for the bloodied limbs
no two of which is distinguishable
she is sad
Grandma keeps mumbling
talking about the past
about a village
that once resonated with laughter
where safron meant gold
people had food to eat
she is hungry
yes, she is sad too
but it doesnt bother her, i guess
for she is used to living dead...

it never rained...

seven dreams and a memory
countless winter nights
spent feeding the fire
still remember your face
emanating charm from across
secrets sewn in your heart
you held a lifeline in your hands
but you chose to throw it away
hollow promises, two summers later
a fateful night this.
you look weak. defeated.
still searching for your rainbow
but not willing to live with the rain
may be i should let you know
it never rained after that winter night...

sometimes
the fairy dances on the flame
as i stand mesmerised
while the planet goes out of orbit
as your memories whirl past my being
again am refusing to let go of you
the flickering flame
plays hookey with my senses
the flashback pulls me down to a corner
as you smile in the shadow on the wall
as i try to find the strings
with which you push and pull me
the shadows on the wall
keep crawling to the forefront
will to pounce on the soul unsated
as the candle burns itself down...

under the burning umbrellas...

the fish bowl is empty
paintings going black n white
rickety table
screams in the corner
my worlds been rocked
shaken and stirred
i wasn't the kind
but just couldnt know
when i grew addicted
you being my poison
a thresholds been crossed
the voilet blood stains
announce the verdict
as i twist and turn
in this cage of steel
deceiving myself
into believing
the penance is over
now
am crawling in the dark
for the lights to free me
the inferno chasing me down
with the virgin truth
to which you hold the key
i keep crawling on
as the moonlight fades
another night
gone to the butchers
now here i am
with a pounding heart
standing once again
under the burning umbrellas...

strange realities

here i am
on the roads
that time of the day
twilight
sky trying to bed the sun
farcical rain
working hard
trying to drench
a heart parched

shovel

strange people
keep walking by
the plethora of humanity
gets overwhelming
right up to the brim
just when a drop
makes up its mind
to get over the brim

shovel

among the nameless faces
one catches my eye
you look strangely serene
walking with elegant poise
the chains dragging behind
kohl lining up the cheeks
the dagger shines bright

shovel

my thoughts betray me
bring me to my knees
as i plead

shovel
shovel
shovel

i hear
people shoveling mud
as i rest in peace....

shovel shovel

innocence nullified

maroon ball
bouncing happy
goes past the unseen.
barbed wire.
bruised and battered
tiny feet
on its tail.
a gun gets thrust
full on the chest
dreams get shattered
future pilot, doctor or engineer
now labelled as an infiltrator
across the sight
flashes the sadistic heaven
a bricklayered jail.
a soul gets throttled
body black n blue
incubus jailor
on work at night
piercing the innocence
injecting venom
in a heart gone cold
time creepsby
the feet grow in size.
a hatred well-fed
sees the bright light.
out of the bricklayered jail
into the old world
but no longer the same
a world, now black n white.
the moment arrives
rough hands
feeling the cold RDX
wondering at the gelatine stick.
the hatred goes to work
newspaper headlines scream
a city gets bombed...