Some poems that I have written in the past.

of longing and belonging

Jul 2022

Another daylight is slowly fading away
An unfamiliar darkness
Engulfing these crimson clouds
Will the new day bring forth
A sense of belongingness?
Will the morning breeze
Carry your fragrance north
So the flowers here may bloom?
Of the beauty of this land
I have heard several tales
But I blame not those oblivious of you
For what here is more worthy of pilgrimage
Than a glimpse of your eyes?

the final autumn

May 2022

i see the last summer sun
fall into the depths of the murky sea
but when at these crimson stains
on my hands i look
there’s none murkier than my soul
in this sea, i can rinse my hands perhaps
but there’s none to cleanse my soul

the autumn has arrived now
and in a deep crimson hue
the leaves too have been stained
with a strong gust of wind
these leaves will fall
the spring will then bring new life
for these bare trees
but there’s no revival for my soul

the hour before nightfall

Sep 2015

When your hair have gray streaks
And your skin is wrinkled, withered.
When your bones become frail.
I’ll be there in all those ebbs
And when the water crosses the line.
I’ll be your stick so you do not fall
And when you do fall
My hand will be there
Ready to hold you before all
My hand, for you to hold
While we walk together
To see the last sunset along the shore
We’ll have our share of fights, no doubt
But you’ll find me closer, throughout

All strings are frail, They may not hold.
But I’ll always cherish these memoirs of old.
And I’ll wait for you somewhere, someday,
To spend—with you—the last hour before nightfall.

o slumber!

Aug 2015

O puissant! Intoxicating slumber,
Wherefore art thou lost?
Far and wide I dig thee,
Through all temper and frost.

Say, Beloved Sleep! Where art thou found?
Under these lids ye silently creep,
Fly me to a world with peace profound,
Walking through dreams and visions deep.

O Mighty Sleep! Sister of death,
Take me with you to heights new;
Weary I am of late with sorrows untold,
Colorful memoirs of past make me view.

Listen O Slumber! Mistress of night,
Come hither I invoke thee,
Bring me the skies tied to thy flight,
Come apace here lies an impatient me.

a memoir may remain

Aug 2015

Soon I’ll be gone with an expeditious stream,
On a swift time torrent as flick of a dream,
How much ever you may try you won’t hold,
An emotion seldom summons once sold.
All marks of my existence will flow in a drain,
In a nook of your heart a memoir may remain.

Each soul has a given date you were oft told,
But to my silent tears you were often cold.
My footprint on sands you may perchance find,
A sweet recollection may flicker through your mind.
Tears from your eyes will then roll out in vain,
In a nook of your heart a memoir may remain.

The echoes of that laughter will all die off,
A cold reminiscence will remain in mind’s trough,
To touch me then you will give out your heart,
“It’s too late my friend,” will be said by the dark.
In the monsoon cloud, you’ll miss me in rain,
In a nook of your heart a memoir may remain.

stopping by the woods … continued

Aug 2015

A tribute to Sir Robert Frost

Desire in my heart forms a heap,
Stunned by woods’ beauty, I weep.
But I won’t stop ‘cause there are,
Acres of corn field yet to reap.

Both the thoughts are still at par,
My heart with mind is caught in war,
Leaving the snowy woods I’ve to move,
Following that bright still north star.

In state of such dilemma you’ve,
To make one choice and prove,
That you can never have it all,
How much ever you desire the grove.

My wish is naive but promises are tall,
Now they give my weary spirit a call,
So let the white snow flakes fall.
So let the white snow flakes fall.

walking alone on an empty road

Aug 2015

I drift lifeless in this weary night,
Not cognizant of these dark ways.
A tear in my eye blurs my sight
Souvenir of bright, beautiful days.

I hear the sound of leaves, dry.
Crushed—like my life—torn apart.
A soft, muffled cry,
I hear their echo in my heart.

I turn around with a firm belief
Of someone in this way unknown.
But the sight multiplies my grief—
An empty road with shadow of my own.

I look up at the moon profound,
Prepared I was, to shout aloud.
At this happiness I just found
When she hid behind a chunk of cloud.

where’s the change?

Aug 2015

Where is the change? Sometimes I wonder.
All looks the same like the valiant sun yonder.
It still burns and gives its rays,
Softening our hearts and lighting our ways.
The moon still shines and follows its course.
It’s we who’ve put ourselves behind locked doors.
Upon these parts whenever I ponder,
Where’s the change? They make me wonder.
The colorful birds sitting on the trees above
Still sing the melodies of pain and love.
The rainbow still shines after the rain;
It’s we who’ve flushed the happiness into drains.
There’s still vigor in the flight of butterflies;
Alas! We’ve chosen to shut our eyes.
Beauty still lies in the blue bolts of thunder,
Where is the change? Sometimes, I wonder.

dark illumination

Aug 2015

I’ll see you, clearly, in the dark,
Where I won’t be misled,
And blinded by the illumination,
Where your face
Won’t be able to hide
Your face.
And I’ll see the demons
Residing within you.
And will show you
The ones I call mine.

solace for all

Aug 2015

When the night descends,
Descends over the luminous city.
The city plunges deep,
Deep into the dungeons of slumber.
Of slumber which hides,
Hides beneath the dismal eyes.
Eyes which have lost their luster, seeking,
Seeking that rebellious solace,
Solace which is not meant for them.

Of luster lost,
Lost to the yearning of the beloved.
Beloved who’ll never reciprocate.
Lost to the longing for a morsel.
Lost from the eyes of the urchin
Who lives on the corner of the street.
The night has engulfed every soul,
Every soul into its tender arms.
Arms which are neither biased nor weary.
Arms which will comfort both the lover
And the urchin lying near the street.

lights out!

Aug 2015

I have to ask the hawk
Who fell from its
Lofty flight.
If it was able
To fly, again.
If it was able
To flap its wings
In the very wind
Which reeked of—

I have to ask the curtain
Which bore the abuses
And slander.
If it was able
To open itself, again.

I have to ask men
If my verses
Were ever heard.
If they ever gave
That soul shattering impact.

I have questions umpteen
To which I know not
The answers.
But I’m exhausted.
And my lids laden
With slumber.
And my heart emanating
Muffled tones.
And there’s a cavity
In my breast, which
Only slumber can mend.
But I know not
Of this sleep.
And I think, at times,
It’s better, not knowing.
I’ll embrace it now,
So— “Lights Out!”

ode to mediocrity

May 2015

O mediocrity!
By that name you’re known.
But you have
Many titles, which you
Call your own.
And we, here,
Are mediocre men
Falling under the biggest chunk
Of human segregation.
The chunk of— average men.

Scholars, painters, writers,
You’ve devoured them all,
As you sit
Beside the artists
(Even the wise ones)
Hidden from the mortal eye,
And when they are oblivious,
You creep, swiftly,
Into their work,
Making it one of your own.

You, with your sister—cliché,
Have spread your clouds
Far and wide.
I apologize for cliché
On behalf of the humans.
‘Cause we pedestrians
Stumbled upon an idea— remarkable.
Used it; and used again,
Until she was born.

Sometimes, I think
The problem is within.
Perhaps I’m afraid.
Afraid to take the fall.
But I’ve been ordinary
For too long
Peradventure I’ll seek refuge
Under your nemesis— extremity.
And will confront you, someday,
And will slay you,
With a blade of unparalleled edge.

the fourth face

May 2015

There are layers,
Covering your soul.
Layers, meant to conceal;
To deceive.
Three masks, to be worn,
In this masquerade party.

The first—a facade,
A shimmering charade
To be exhibited,
Before the outside world.
A smiling portrait
Which hides, deep, dark
Secrets and griefs.
Beneath the curve
Of the lips.

The second, put up
Before family and friends
And the people you love.
The one full of
Pretentious admiration
And respect.

The third, worn before
Your own selves.
This one with smudges,
Of self-righteousness,
Of broken dreams,
Of things you wanted to be,
Things you could not be.
Worn to console yourself.

The fourth, your real face,
Lies, buried, deep inside
A grave.
A grave filled with sins.
Where your frail soul
Cries, lying naked,
Away from all phoniness,
Crumbling, under the burden
Of life.
Of all those masks.

i cried … and no one should know

Apr 2015

After years of aridity,
In these eyes of mine,
There has been a flood.
The gates holding
All the water back
Might have crumbled
And given up.
But no one should know
‘Cause I am too strong.

I’d convincingly enough
Hacked my emotions
Until they bled
And the streams exalted
With their red.
The heaven mourned
Its heart out.
But it didn’t stop me.
Then how can I
Succumb to this sudden tempest?
So, no one should know
‘Cause I am too strong.

I chose solitude
Over the throng.
Then why have I choked
On this pill of isolation?
And why do I feel
And why —
Every part of me
Seeks a soul
So that I can share,
And cry.
Because tears,
They won’t make me weak,
Will they?


Feb 2015

Life thriving in
rusting soul.
Flowing water
dilutes blood.
Bloodied hands,
appear—hands purged.
Gloomy looks
become—laughters wicked.
Conviction becomes innocence.
Such transforms
Transforms such—
Innocence becomes conviction
Wicked laughters become—
looks gloomy.
Purged hands, appear—
hands bloodied.
Blood dilutes
water, flowing.
Soul rusting
in thriving life.


Feb 2015

On the empty lane in this evening – dim.
A shadow – plain, hazy, and grim
trails ahead, encompassing all.
Born out of the weary,
rustic lamp beside the wall.
It might be a complex lumen theory
but it has washed down
all my intentions – sinful,
into this hue – dark and brown.
My face is a mirror, full
of cracks from broken dreams,
and desires unfulfilled.
But as I look at the shadow, it seems,
that it is devoid of the stains,
the darkness, and the fragility
of my soul; and the strains
of my attempts, and their futility.
My heart and mind still don’t agree
if this shadow represents a better ‘me’.

i am awake, i think

Feb 2015

I am awake I think,
from this human sleep of mine.
But the bed I slept on
was cozy and soft,
such that, I plunged deep, into
the dungeons of slumber.

And here I lie,
on this wooden plank.
And two others,
one on either side,
blocking my view.
Thusly, this might not be real.
No, it’s not.

My eyes see blood
like the sun’s against them.
And my lids laden
with an unseen force,
or perhaps,
I’m scared to open them
wide, into the sun.

Now, that I’ve opened them,
the world appears lucid.
I see my family, elegantly dressed.
And my beloved!
O what a treat to the eye she is
in that dark dress of her’s.
And the shimmer in her eyes!

Oh wait! Is that a tear drop
on her winsome cheeks?
And why’s my family glum?
Is this a sepulture I’m standing at?
But whose?
He might have been
someone close to us.

I’ve missed a grave news
due to this nap of mine.
I don’t yet know, if it’s good
to be ignorant of the tiding.
But it just might not be civil yet
to ask, “Who died?”.
The coffin’s being nailed.

I’ll ask her, aside,
when this tempest settles.

are we a bunch of strings?

Dec 2014

Some wise men have said,
That the universe
Is made of strings, tiny,
Which vibrate in dimensions ten.
Six extra dimensions than
The usual three of space
And the fourth, which is assessed
Using a pendulum
Oscillating in nothingness.

Strings, like the ones of a guitar,
Playing different notes
And different symphonies
Bosons, fermions, electrons
And gravitons to name a few.
This annuls racism among sub-atomics
Since ultimately they’re all threads.
Or do you think, a boson
Is superior to a fermion
‘cause it swings in a different plane
Or because one of them is called
‘The God Particle’?

Strings, oscillating like
The alternation of seasons
Strings, like the thread of relationship
Which stretches and swings
Between its highs and lows
Strings, oscillating like
The advancing and receding waves

All we could be is a painting,
A hologram, simple 3D information
On a two dimensional plane
Living our lives and executing functions
As the painter intended us to.
All we are, are threads
Arranged in a particular fashion
All we are is a bunch of strings!