Talk and talking (Poem)

Image by 鹈鹂 夏 from Pixabay

The jammed traffic
in the cosmic
mind was terrific.

The crowd in the neurons
were radioing in little secrets
to fuel the talk.

Dental wisdom and itching
dances of tongue were mum…

the life we lived was fast movin’
breezes reminded the bad days…
the algal blooms weaved hidden pain
and untold shivers….

What can one talk when
he knows that the time’s romance
will soon end… Is there something
that one needs to be told?
does it matter any way…
At 80
to whom should one pray?

With only a spoonful of energy each moment…
how many goodbyes can one say?
At this age..
how can one know the difference between a dream and reality…
no matter how many times one pinches..
the answer is vague and one is a vagabond….


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Little problem (Poem)

Image by 鹈鹂 夏 from Pixabay

Marvellous madness
and a skater’s fastness
lifted me off with a gladness
after some progress.

I thought
I have overcome the sadness of
the baldness of the paper.

With few steps into the paper
I felt
I crossed thousand miles and tides.

The sounds of
the car washes
the temple masses
and the silent wishes
didn’t bother me.

the mesolithic and the
specific wisdom was just few Neurons away…
I was onto something…
…in this time frame without
any limits limiting me…
…like a Batman…

but then came an
uninvited knock to wake me up from the flow state…
….People don’t know that
sometimes thoughts do need a closure…

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Obedience

A single dictator deciding to go to war and millions of followers okaying it is the peak of stupidity. Every life lost is gone forever and cannot be brought back by ideologies and nationalism.
Look around. The universe we have thus far explored hasn’t got any real sign of life. Life is a rare probability event that somehow happened here on this tiny pale blue dot. And we are killing each other for petty reasons.

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End (Poem)

Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay

The finished page
has no awe.
the last smoke
too
has no life
to burn the lungs.

The Peak
ends the hike.
The wheel
ends the ride.
But then
we miss the life’s cruelty.

Truth closes off
the investigation.
the climax
reveals the baddie.
the act concludes
the thought.

the finale
is all we want
but the closure
is cold with
a decorated period.

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Is that so? (Poem)

Image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay

Someone said
your love is like unbought clothes.
tried, used, and left in the
hangers of the trial room by strangers.
But love is like a public bench in the park
tried and used
no doubt
but leaves memories, laughs and
few icy truths.
It won’t drop you off in
no-man’s-land
as told by bards
but completes your void voyage
in pitiless prisons
and motionless solitudes.

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Visitor-ing (Poem)

The Bukowski bee
came in
and sprinted away
like the Sunday joy.

Careful in
thought, action, deed
like the new immigrant.

it’s either drunk
or desperate
hard to tell
with the sinful antennas
and treacherous steps.

the railway movement
of the legs
and the weapon-ed wings
with party-bouncer eyes
are hard to miss.

but then
it teleported into
the wormholes
of the switchboard.

Probably to write
notes from underground
like Dostoevsky.

So
it won’t see me
becoming Nietzsche’s Ubermensch.

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In the Park (Poem)

A scourge of mosquitoes
formed a clean Bombay circus
above the head.

Lunar legs
teased the dew
of grasses.

The hands, as if they’re cursed
yet tranquil
were telescoping the currents of the earth.

The mind
which was in “Hmm” mood
briskly went to
“Emoji” way.

While the middle-class ants
were too cautious
in treading the pheromones filled paths.

— Drunken Bench.

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