Rainy evenings

One rainy evening
sitting by the window
a mug of coffee in hand,
she looks down
at the busy street -
the world is in a hurry,
she is unaffected by it
she is far away
from the rush and madness.
Steam arising from the coffee
forms mist
and the present disappears from view
as memories play themselves out
in a stream, one by one,
before her eyes,
as she stares on
in calm oblivion
at the street...

Reminders to self

As the urge
for recognition
increases,
everything you do
begins to lose
meaning,
its sole purpose
being
to derive
gratification
from praise.
You no longer
write for yourself
but,
for the world,
like the courtesan
that dances
only to please
her patrons.
Pressure bears down
on you,
creativity
begins to pull away.
Benchmarks
and standards
restrict you.
You need
constant reminders
that there are
no rules,
that everything
can be challenged,
that it was
inquisition, which
wrought great changes
in the world,
that you are
the master
of yourself
and everyone else
can go
take a hike!

Disillusioned

A little, shiny something,
in the distance,
caught her sight,
on she looked at it
with wide
wonderstruck eyes.
"Must be a precious gem,",
she thought,
"For it shines so bright.",
and kept gazing at it
come day, come night.
Curiosity
overcame her,
and mustering
every ounce of courage
that could be managed,
with eager eyes,
out she ventured
of her cocoon
and made her way towards It.
But finding It nowhere,
she looked around
frantically,
and then saw...
...a bauble perched
in place of It -
her precious gem.

Hope for peace....

Looking across the border,
I see the glowing sky
embracing a new dawn,
a stream,
mirthful,
as it bends
along the meadows;
lush green fields,
blooming buds
gesturing the arrival
of spring.
And I see
a flock of birds,
homeless,
not belonging
to my skies or his,
I see bustling streets,
playgrounds full of
sportsmen and women
in all their passion.
I see him
who looks like me,
I hear his tongue
that sounds like mine,
I see the glorious sunset
as it envelopes him,
And the moon
adorning the sky.
It all looks
like a reflection...
....I hear echoes
of a gunshot.
Curtains fall
before my eyes, as
the scene disappears....

The Dead come Alive

An unfeeling
mass of flesh,
an empty heart,
dry, sightless eyes.

          ---  

A string breaks,
pandemonium hits.

          ---

Storms rage,
oceans ravage,
skies echo
wailing winds.

         ---

The throat chokes,
heart bleeds,
head screams,
eyes weep.

What do I write?

Lying on the bed 
I think of what to write...
....words don't flow out
of my pen
my mind is clogged
vaccum surrounds me
I've sucked all the noise
into my self.
It's waiting to explode.
I realise I am too conscious
of myself,
I realise I am trying to pretend.
My pen leaks out
a random flow of ink
shaped in words
I strike them out
they don't manifest my feelings.
I don't want farce to appeal
to the eye,
I want honesty to touch
the heart.
I am waiting
for my words
to strike a chord
with the strings of my heart.
I am longing
for clarity
that will give my writing
a sense of purpose
and shorn it
of its randomness.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is a clean slate
I want to colour it
with thoughts
and feelings,
I want for it to
lose its barrenness
and be fertile
with imagination.
I want for it to
be bereft of fear
for it is,
the place
where revolutions were conceived
and philosophies were born;
the sole reason
for Man's greatness.
It boasts of coveted freedom,
which,
feared tyrants failed to snatch,
it is a guiding light
to the often faltering humanity.
It has been
subject to manipulations,
deceiving history
into changing its course;
scripting moments
of momentous change,
all, of course,
owing their occurrences
to the enchanting influence
it wields over the body.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is deluged
with a rush of thoughts
flowing in and out,
a haze of colours
mesmerises me,
letters, words
dance before my eyes,
songs play out in a loop,
a multitude of
smudgy-outlined faces
gazes at me....
....And I realise
with an epiphany,
It is this very train of thoughts
I shall elaborate on!
Lying on the bed
I think I know what to write on.

Of Love

Of the racing heart,

quickening breath,
the gentle brush of lips.
Of sweet whispers,
blushing cheeks,
musical laughter.
Of cool breeze
flirting with one's hair,
soft music
ringing in one's ears.
Of quiet exchanges
of shy looks, stealthy glances,
soft embraces.
Of searching eyes,
hands that wipe away tears.
Of the beautiful paleness
of Life, like love,
subtle, yet so strong,
inconspicuous,
despite its lingering presence.
Of the Red hue
of sacrifice, of blood
and vermilion.
Of transcending boundaries.
Of dewy mornings,
glowing sunsets,
moonlit nights.
Of Love,
that walks you hand in hand
into the infinity of the Horizon
and the eternity of Time.