Tag Archives: poetry

The distance

The distance between

Honest and dishonest men

Is fast decreasing.

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Between Lines

Between Lines

Between two eyelids lies the intent of our life,
Between two receiving cheeks lies a kiss,
Between intent and kiss escapes the strife
Of breath; Beside are hands that bear the rose.
Fate must be in something else all miss,
Or if not, in our shadows.

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A Chair

A Chair

The chair where I wrote my poems is sold –
A machine and a table will fill that space,
We will admire the new chatter and the clatter,
And watch the other chairs circle around

I was too far to have known the details,
Perhaps it wasn’t necessary,
Since I wouldn’t write now anyway,
And the price of wood was in its prime.

However, instead of a chair, wished it was a pet –
They don’t size up a dead pet’s master,
And you can’t sell it’s bones to make one new,
Nor ask that price and regret having asked.

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Village fair

Village fair

A village fair has just begun my thoughts –
Colorful windmills purple as they dance,
Boundless fields eager for shine to dry
From morning’s mist to evening’s sweat

Trees stand tall, cattle too see end of day,
Children forget their homes, blindfolded
At stretching play, searching in the twilight
The day that had promised a winner

Thoughtful lamps glow in every home,
Their oil in clay, like diamond in the shore,
Is fortune only to the one who gets,
And each home’s contend with its light.

At night, ghosts sing into the winds,
Close the children to their lids,
Hide the moon from its tales,
And ask forgetful dogs, when is time to sleep?

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A Resolute Stand

A Resolute Stand

Who can control tides when moon’s near?
They keep heaving under that maiden’s gaze,
By scattering sunsets and breaking shores
They promise longer nights in many ways.

At such nights, the wind’s an adopted child,
No more homesick like the darkness,
Rather thoughtless like the intruder,
Or vagabond like the knight at chess

These fateful nights do not make promise
Of a golden dawn or a warm caressing rest,
And ‘cause they head straight from the moon,
You can’t shield yourself even at jest.

A lonely leaf began to flow in these winds,
But like curtains usually do, it kept revisiting.
Briefly to know what loss it’d incurred
Each time to the moon with it’s passing.

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At the break of the year

At the break of the year

In the depth of the night a whistle
Will be blown, and all again shall shoot,
I would not strain my sore muscles,
But escort who left their racing boots.

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On Crushing a Street Flower

On Crushing a Street Flower

For every humbled flower in the street
One chained tale lies, that will wet the eyes,
Of the self-consoling traveler, whose feet
Crush it’s petals on a misstep’s guise

It’s scent, now no more alive and clinging,
Was once a teaser on the hand-cart that bloomed
Past early village roads, making the singing
Girls, hastily clad, to pause and resume.

When dry summer winds a part of it’s nature
Consumed, it sweat it’s own branch
Wishing a pitying garden to nurture
It’s colors from a plastic stance.

But when the garden of God replied,
With streams from hopeless places,
The cart went mad, with gravity flied,
And placed the flower on it’s folded faces.

Travelers who care, travelers who stare,
All know this sadly tale, this desolate plate
Where both rain and pain, gather near,
Is to be overleaped if journey can’t wait.

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The Hour After Lunch

The Hour After LunchWhen the party had lapped their spoons to shine,
A new clatter of plates begins,
Uniformed but meek, soiled but careless not,
They arrange their well-known things,
Fill queues, like guests at their own houses dine,
Their eyes silencing a long waiting drought.

The hour after lunch appeals to the watchman,
Who runs closing behind the gate’s wing,
Like a duck to it’s duckling warns
Of caution before she’s away corn-hunting.
The lunch’s ending bell brings the librarian,
His fingers still cautious of the pages torn.

The kitchen vapors men, not steam,
As the hands that fed begin to feed
The valleys sated only in dreams,
Where the dam has just been freed.

Like ambitious captives escape tired voices,
As circular hands cleanse their own dishes.
The dense hour keeps our day’s abundance
From eloping with realism by selfish romance.

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Lie of a Genius

Lie of a Genius

He gingerly blends in the sad party’s mood,
Step by step with his nodding pose,
Waiters move like ants stuffed with food
Outside invaded burrows.

Gentlemen greet in happy circles,
In radius of their hands,
While children, carrying birthday bells,
Stick around their legs like sands.

Women with impatient eyes call,
Their daughters bathed with painted baits;
A rich trader’s displayed at the wall,
Unawares of his scapegoat fate

The Genius pauses in his drink’s journey,
Shakes a forward hand,
When asked, “Monseiur, hows the party?”
He lies, “The troupe is reverse of bland”

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When Young Boys Can’t Be Poets

When Young Boys Can’t Be Poets

A wavy caterpillar crawls on humble earth,
On leaves cosy with morning litter,
Content at outgrowing the egg at birth,
Sated with his semblance of green glitter.

A lustful butterfly makes him stare high,
As it playfully changes hue at it’s flight,
Rustling and bustling it winks from the sky,
It’s stranded friend queries from his plight.

“Can’t I escape the pupa and fly into the air?
Can’t I talk to the bees, up halt and stare?
The butterfly is just a merry state of thought,
For this, who’d have a ten-day war fought?”

And so are poets of this thick speckled age,
Barely twenty, they see the world as a cage,
Write on it’s beauteous walls and shade,
Wond’ring what’s on the other blade.

When freedom is not in the mind’s state,
Poesy is as transient as musing is on slate.

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