reflections

your lens has perfectly captured the seagulls-
one that is feeding from my hands,
I want to fly away with him 
from this cruel world
I need a cloak to hide

excaping from that prison was a stroke of luck
but I have no cash by goods to survive
no longer can I skirt that-
one that has become an issue with the world
the clouds hide the sun

I wish for venus to rise from the ocean-
I promise I will hold her as my beloved

a letter for you

I can handle border issues
you think I depend on you
unknowingly you depend on me
my insight did not warn me of this plight
this fire within me forces me to confront you head on
but you are on the road again
what crisis drives you away trouncing everything in its wake

my wings will help me fly away
but what about my promises I made to you?
words may have died between us for now
but you know I will stick around as always
I sense that you are lost now
and you know I will find you
as I have always done and always will
thanks to the world beyond

"what I and you have does not have a name
it does not have to
who wants to learn a new spelling inventing a new word?"

let him grab the world

Autumn on the River, 1889, John Singer Sargent 

there is no blackboard
however he writes on the blackened wall
suffering is his undoing to open up
he wants to escape the cycle
he wishes to disappear from that gathering
it might lessen the gap between him 
and his choice to create nothing
the long habits of his brothers compels him to stay
but he wants to give up his own habit
it is not a virtue for him to enforce suffering on oneself

"what would regard do, if one has no desire to go on?
flights of fancy will only take as afar, not just ascetism
one might just choose to float away like her
with no destination in sight neither in mind nor heart"

bridging the past with the future

befuddled she lay there
pain was only a breath away
it was a race to live
his silky voice kept holding her
if not for him
she would have fallen into that marsh
her mouth all cottony
she felt him pour the whiskey on her broken leg
some part of her mind was razor sharp
his lanky form hovered near her
willing her to live
wiling her to live
before he slipped into murky water below
not to be found

ten years later she sits transfixed,
her glass dropping from her hand,
a small puddle forming on her side-
reminds her of her fuddled experience
she keeps staring at that letter remembering,
thinking, "no one can isolate me now.
he has found me again. saved my life yet again."

"et cetera is not life. it is what she is now."

hanging from the buckle to dance

Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas 

I have nailed a buckle or two on the wall
and hang my poems on those.
I have heard my poems humming songs,
with much dignity and grace.
I take the visions in my stride.
when my muse goes to sleep
I do not miss it.
I take down one of the poems,
rearrange the words to gain a new one
my buckle too gets heavy

"the years have helped me navigate
my dance moves with the poems
so that I do not lose the instant of black and white"

a tattoo can say a thousand words

on an impulse
I get myself tattooed
a precise creation of some symbols
the rhythm of the tattoo artist
can only be felt by me
whisperings in the region within my head
resonate with the needle
I desire invisible ink
at the back of my neck
he does his work
with infinite care
while I create a distance in my mind

out of the two fists
one emits designs,
before I can even say
"what hit me?"

erosion

in the inky depth of that pool
I feel safe from immeasurable flames
I yearn for your breath
that breath you stole from me
in the guise of sleep in the waking hours.
oh, it is just a dream-
why did I allow it to erode me?
I pull the sheet closer still,
forgetting myth from truth.
I put on a mask again
throw a clay pebble into that imaginary pool
no one will allow bend the rules-
except you. except you.

that breath I need to keep in hiding-
leave it on the doormat on your way out

"time just moves on with its own pace,
unwavering about the aftermath-
uncaring about what to come."

balance it out

scented tentacles of alluring spices,
do they make your mouth water?

I have built a fence with bricks,
now I hide in that tastefully decorated
tasteless kitchen so that I won't cheat.

nothing is left for me-
everything tastes like gravel-
I seem to wallow in trash.

I precisely measure out portions-
that balance that you gifted to me
occupies a place of pride.

my cooking is an amalgam-
created in a vacant space,
with no spark in sight.

"no one notices the efforts of my dieting
yet when I die, I will weigh much less"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterthought@10/21/13: This poem is NOT about me. I am definitely not into dieting.  I believe in keeping healthy by proper nutrition and exercising. I am posting couple of pictures of myself....

doggy tales

my world is inside the binds
it is expected when one has a drunkard owner
I was born outside
thunder brought me in
I want to know
what prophet said that I have to care for a sleepy person
but yes I hold all the trumps
when my owner moves in circles
he is on edge not I
life outside of that fence may be full of adventure
but within the walls I am the master

when he will finally be sober
and mends that fence
I will jump out and seen no more

"yes, you see, I can jump that fence
but I choose not to do it now
because the leaves and weeds keep me enthralled"

erase that wall

image by crilleb50

what secret do the clocks hide-
last I looked they blinked at me
such clever gesture on their part
I want to look at the stars 
but I look down hiding my face
where will I nest in my twilight years
time does not let me know
hour hand of one of the clocks has swept away the cobwebs

I am now a basket case
my flesh ripe for picking
think what you may
I cannot leave the cliches to chance
don't let it be said
I saw all and never conquered

"the weeds will die under my walking stick
I would be left here, my bio carved in stone"