Retrospection

What was it?

What was that thing

that danced all over keyboards

leaving paw prints in rainbow colours,

what was it that spoke 

of a heretic being stoned

and roses so soft

they cut glass?

What did rasakinda extract

in an absurd wrapping of heart?

What was that time

which passed as fragrance and syllable

in a cosmic synethesia —

a strain unnamed 

on account of rarity

and dismissed

as the mere ramblings 

of a lunatic

miseducated and lost

in territories too barren to map?  

The tree and the vine

[a love story]

To the vine, the tree said thus:

Look at you, poor thing!

Can’t stand straight,

condemned to crawl!

Come, dear one,

use me, climb

and survey

the vastness of the earth

rise!

To the tree, the vine replied:

Look at you, poor thing!

Rooted and immobile

denied exploration

and so, so very naked!

But fear not, love

conquests shall I forego 

and encounters that delight,

I shall spin a yarn

clothe and decorate

and from embarrassment liberate!

Night Scoops

Silhouettes: 

sentinels 

stationed and alert

the decree of reflected light

penumbral tenderness 

I scoop from the edges of night

and like holy ash anoint --

fingertips 

on forehead

and whisper

a timeless mantra

"Go, go to heart edge

seek laceration,

heal!"


[Pic, courtesy www.videezy.com]

Amaradeva

Silence is a product 
of all the songs

the high notes and low

the impossible mix

of birth and death

the concert of pauper and king

blend of unvanquished yesterdays

and impossible tomorrows;

silence is voice

cutting across memory 

navigating disbelief 

the marriage of the inevitable

with the fervent belief of immortality;

he’s gone

and in going

turned a country into a song

lined with the most transparent

of tears

music that drips

from life-edge and heart

so delicate

it’s called ‘silence’

for lack of better word

to describe 

a voice that’s gone

but stays

and stays. 

[Pic, Sandra Mack]

Status Update

Icons that burst into a thousand hearts

a snap, a tear, a kiss

a comfort zone and a dead end

togetherness and fracture --

in preferred colours and frill 

the art direction of love

in cyberspace is short-handed

but on this side of your news feed

hidden from timeline 

oblivious to like, share and comment

true hearts beat and break 

at impossibility

that hard-drive collapse too soft to save

the irretrievable moments 

of love that was or will not be.

Talha

A flurry of photographs

On a long black roll

That’s presentation

On the hell-heaven highway

Where few know

The cities at the end

Of left and right;

They are placed

In the nonchalance of liquid love

Open to the leaf-turn of wind and laughter

Framed by words

And the random intoxication

Of metaphors

And separated by the giggles of the insane

The genius glue of twist and spurn

And the embrace of divinities –

You were born in an unknown continent

And fly to galaxies unnamed

Re-birthing at every turn of whim

Far more than the 41 mentioned

in certificate and data base –

Softer still

Freshly unfolded leaves

breeze touch at a desert sunset 

light drops at a high altitude sunrise 

a baby's cheek

after bath, after wipes

and talcum blush

all soft
as other things unnamed

and yet

softer still is 

moment-after gaze

birthed by love's timeless submissions

and yet again

the silence 

of departures

inevitable

[in the name of love]

is softer still

so much, 

so much

softer.