zigzag thoughts

the lines turn to zigzag;
make a sad song
on my broken record
it plays on and on

if Adam had covered Eve
I wouldn't have existed
neither you, but we do

that leaf can vellicate our skins
but do we ever learn to save the bell?

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Vellicate: 

• tickle: touch (a body part) lightly so as to excite the surface nerves and cause uneasiness, laughter, or spasmodic movements
• pinch: irritate as if by a nip, pinch, or tear; "smooth surfaces can vellicate the teeth"; "the pain is as if sharp points pinch your back"
  wordnetweb.princeton.edu/perl/webwn

days and days..

I would rather celebrate old stuff day
rather than panic day
why don't you celebrate check your batteries day
while I bake a circular pie on pie day
on the international day of asking questions
you can ask my how I do everything right
that is my birthday,
so I got to do everything right!

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Check out Weird March Holidays for the above!

scattered with the wind

scattered in the landscape
the puzzles have been cut from the ground
these figures are symbolic
of the chaotic world in which whole become holes
the juicy bits of grass stick to the mud
stress queues up right in front
each puzzled hole gets a share

"rose tinted glasses can break, 
but not the whole holes"

captured memories

brother, I hold the empty bottle while you look afar
but I will look at you and the camera too
he needs to make memories, so do we.
you look not at him or me yet stand there for us
you might look forced but it isn't so
I engulf you, and that too you know
when we have found our chosen path
we will look back at this.
his proud face, he capturing us in the photo, this moment
for you and me to cherish, for him to hold.

"I will spin the bottle, make it timeless"

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

I dedicate this poem to all three who are alluded to.....here. Especially the one who captured the images....for us to see...

stepped up

I climb two steps on ladder
hang from there
sweet sorrow passes fleeting in my mind
slowly I gobble on food

you see, ruminating with a hungry belly is not done

a spinning tale, which makes no sense

I draw a line on the sand
and see a streak of light following it
an eerie light, that is so creepy
a premonition of something
I can't see the top,
the bottom is fathomless
yet I spin it
weaving a tale out of it
yes, I'd catch a grenade for you,
but I will not keep it.
I will throw it right back at you.

"after all , destruction is what you are best at"

the wind too is kind

in my pocket I want to carry your blink
just prior to your staring unblinking at me
I want to remember forever
those eyes smiling at me
that blink I would take it out on that occasion
when I am sitting with my solitude
when the wind too is kind enough to blow around me

thousand odd words

bloodied rays make it a red dawn

a lone hawk circles the fields

scoops low to catch that mole

in the coolness of the dawning day

I huddle near the window

a pen in my hand.

my journal has fallen on the ground

yet I am writing

my mind sees images 

and writes on the walls of thoughts

in that poetry book of mine

the blank pages speak thousand odd words
and create imaginary dragons

missing me

dust laden keyboard
will wait for my fingers
my laptop and my computer
won't blink again
journal of my life would be still
the streets won't see my feet again
banks will call and fall silent
in the closet
someone will find my hidden jewels
all my papers would be carefully scrutinized
but would I care,
would anyone care

hope someone misses my poetry,
and the reviews I write
but I know and you know,
nothing will change in this world
when I die 
that is what I wish-
no immortality after death.

demise

ball of yarn rolls into corner
tired and sad
it dislikes being drawn into patterns
against its will
in those it sees its demise
reflected in incandescent light