Life

“You know how all those people use to say that Life is short. Well I know now that people need some personal experiences to realize it beside knowing its literal meaning.”

~ Abhishek (@gairo0)

I couldn’t find better words to introduce this poem. And what can be better other than the words of the poet himself to introduce this beautiful piece. Thank you Abhishek, for bestowing this privilege on me. For letting me put this amazing piece here. You are one amazing word wizard. I only wish the best for you in Life.


oh life… oh what a fragile sweet little thing you are,
like a toddler in a willow cradle.
so soft in the beginning than grows out into a strong stem.
concrete in the appearance but abstract,
full of possibilities and predictions.
simple looking yet complex…
individual yet entwined with a gazillion souls.
spiritual yet full of vanity and facade.
connected with the one yet bombastic.
reflection of the universe yet meaningless.
so weak that even its frailty effecting many.
oh life… what are you? are you for real? or just a muse?
oh life… who are your friends? you must be happy.
oh life… whatever you may be, you are beautiful, interesting oh life.


Dear life, 
the puzzle that you are, abysmal,
filled with unceasing amazement,
seeming frivolous, but oh so precious.
The one with the countenance of 
the bountiful Goddess, the unnerving God,
today I bow before thee, beseeching,
embrace my surrender.



Blank Divinity

Have you felt the nothingness?
Touched the vacant spaces?
Heard the hollowness?
Spoken to the emptiness?

Feel it then.
For they are softer
than the silken tufts.
They swing in the harsh
cold winds,
frost seeping deep within.

Touch them.
For they beseech the warmth
of your chapped heart
that traverses unto them
through the ridges
of your palm.

Hear out.
For they have stories to tell;
Stories of desolate hearts,
of silent valor
some of numbing beats.
Of vagrant eyes lost
in the dark.

And then you speak,
try if you can.
Put in words all that
you felt,
you touched,
and all that you heard.

Write,
if the quill moves,
stain the pages,
if the ink would.

In the end
when you fail,
wipe off your eye
that lone tear
twine your fingers
raise them high,
and cede for your
deliverance.

Neverland

I would,
run away to that horizon,
to the rainbow’s end
to those gushing
violet springs
of those far faraway
neverlands.

Leap over the winters,
over those crumbled
fallen golden lives,
that were once upon
many great legends,
pride of the tall and high,
ones higher than skies.

Tumble and roll endlessly
down the slopes
of those indigo velvets,
crackling ‘neath
the sparkly dewey blades.
Lids of the darkened sight
pierced by yellow beams.

Kiss those blatant blushes
tickling the corners
of the pink curve,
A vision filled enough
of them and of the gleam
of that honey drop
in the white vastness.

Hear a thousand violins
ringing at the drop of the cue
and then the vehement
lone cello piece.
Strum that harp,
those slivering strings
of silver and sparkle.

If only I could.

2013, With Love

I agree, its the time
when all is about
the new beginning,
but let me for now
hold on to that
which passed away,
not to the past,
to what ever it left me with.
The spirit inside of me,
the restitution of my being.
The shine in my eyes,
the rapture of my dreams.
The sheen of my skin,
the comfort of my stance.
The strength of my quill,
the words, music and dance.
New people to cherish,
Old ones to treasure.
Conversations of silences,
bellows of mirth.
Vigour of my own faith
blazing within unfettered.
It is all the same old, yet
its the new year and me.

Hauntings

The flow of the red
Through the blank metaphors,
The galloping words
Through the dark forests,
The heated ridges
Those vagrant thoughts,
I understand not.

Disillusioned I seek
I crawl, I scribble,
A train of frayed
Letters disarrayed,
Breathing in the
Venomous lethal snare
That suffocating heavy air.

Its hung on the hook,
An unending dreaded loop,
A dejection that scars,
A defection that bars,
The words succumb,
Wilting and crumbling ,
A death slow, silent and numb.

Longing

There is a desire

that resides in my eyes
to see you smile
with those stars in them.

There is a need
that flickers my fingers
to carve you through
words never read before.

A want to embrace
the wind that caresses
the lines of fate
in your palm
to write that destiny
with mine.

But i know you are
nothing but a mere dream,
a rainbow touching
the horizon that never meets.

An illusion of this mind
A mirage of this deserted life.
Solace of just my dreams.
Ripples on the water,
touched and yet untouched.

On Poets and Poetry – A Dedication

You dont write poetry
You weave them… 
and then, I wonder, 
you have a wand 
hidden somewhere “neath” 
which you bring out
and swish o’er the words
turning them into
a spectacle so rare,
You paint,
a picture so powerful,
but with strokes
Oh! so gentle,
a myriad of colors
plunging your brushes
in words so pure 
and bare…
I stand there revered,
hallowed, exalted…
gratified by this chance,
to set my eyes on,
and read 
the words that you
carve out of your heart.

Dare

Let me just live this once.
This dejection,
this rejection.
Let this seep into my core
bury deep and further below. 
So that when it rears 
its head next and roars,
I look in its eyes
and just smile. 

Last Thoughts

As I sit in the corner
of this bed, I try to sort
the clutter in my head.
I make no move,
just gulp that lump
in the throat,
the walls of which
still taste sweet
from the essence
of that vanilla cake.
The signs of light
no more here
and in some distance
a croaking motorcycle
rumbles.
Its 12.30.
A crow sits amidst
the white patched
leaves of the tree
the branches of which
run into my balcony.
It crows and stills
and does again.
I step out,
into the cold night.
A last rendezvous
with these steps,
In quest of a lost
slumber.
Me and the crow
that crows into
the night.
Both awake,
Both haunted.

Contagious

She tugs at me,
with her constant jests,
trying to upturn
this frown on my face.
I sit in gloom
and wonder again
of what fragments
has she been made.
She is like
the heat of the sun
that comforts
a dreary cold morn.
She is the warmth
replaced of the
coldness of my heart,
the one we all want.
I watch her keen
as she smiles at me,
her lashes fluttering by,
a mischief of a
in them mirrors
a past long gone
and I just sit
letting out a sigh.
She hops and
skips and hug me
tight, free of
all the cares,
then she dances
amidst the crowd
that stands astound
and stares.
A spirit so free,
she revels in what
she speaks of
her momentary glee.
She touches me,
my hand, my fingers
gently, cascading her
untainted bliss to me.