The ice sculpture..

I'm bleeding out my regrets today, no confessions to make
Nobody needs to absolve me, I've got my rain.
And no need to move, to cloud in my thoughts uninvited,
Its a watercolour out there, red seeping into green, while blue is all excited...

The skies have been rent by the shrill cries of rain,
The air perfumed by its joys and sorrows,
The potter's earth sighs again...
I'm left with an ice sculpture...
It has been chipped off its regrets, of emotion,
Of motion, of desires and failures, of expectation...

Its vision blurred by rain, its voice gurgling through the puddles in the lanes...
Its heartbeat thumps of music and rain, it has got coffee in its veins...
A house made of wet paper and ink walls...
The words smudged, smiling to the water's calls...
The sculpture is washed and rewashed...
Its soul and identity is purified...

New eyes, new sounds, time frozen like itself, the sculpture sings...
its wet song and again the rain sings along her fiery song...
The world wonders half asleep, whether its dreaming.
It hears her song, it knows the words,
It has hummed the tunes a few dreams before, a few rains before,
A few lives before... is it the same?

The sculpture is not dead from the wet, from the cold or the stillness...
It is soothed by a healing numb...
In a bubble of rainy beats, a silent witness to rainy changes...

on mornings such as today, when a weary someone, with an aching back, a sour mood and an acid tongue, lashes out with atmost certainty of their power, on a little someone who is in awe of a mightier someone with thunder voice and lightening grins and cloudy hair...

u can hear slight sighs through the boughs of the labernum.. as if chiding...

addressing the weary one to pause and recollect of how they made their own mistakes and scraped their own knees on mornings such as these when trying to collect raindrops in leaf cradles.... while the sun waiting to shine behind the clouds stopped for them indulgingly...

and the weary one pauses, perhaps their ears can still perceive subtle hints..

and sighs, shaking their head. indulgingly...

Sorting out....

Of what I write, of what i speak
Of what i Live and die...
is not something new or creative...
its been there for generations
gathering dust, dormant.
and each time we try to shake the dust off it rears its ugly hood to establish its permanence...
of what i speak is our opinion, our cooured view, of seeing only one sidedly,
of accepting the well chewed upon norms...
if we look at it in any other way than usual, then perhaps hope is alive...

do we question for our sakes,
just for the sake of truth,
rather than categorise and marginalise and in turn get categorised and marginalised...
Of what do we have this fear?
have we stopped being diplomatic and for a change taken a stand for something?
not because we are required to but because we see the truth being stamped upon everyday..
it brings tears to your eyes which are immediately smothered
any trace of empathy quickly dissolved into a mask of apathy...
why not remove the mask look at each other recognising the same expression in each face...

let us shed our dying skins and be born everyday looking at the world with new eyes...
not strive to be somebody but understand what we are...

Rythm of Soul

The constant drumming of rain today...
sounds liike an old friend's voice
We're singing our best song
And Someone is looking on...
Someone with a troubled mind...
Someone with a little love,
Someone with red eyes, a curious and avid starer...

As my rain sings about the skies,
As of old, holding hands with dear wind.
The mad, lightheaded creature speaking of the glorious heights...

Swinging into the fields of light,
where i see you walking away,
longing for company, longing for nature
To redeem itself in your eyes...

So, i visit those fields, the skies,
the swings, in my dreams...
And still someone is looking on
or is it just my reflection...

A Rescue Mission

Again I plead not to rescue me,
For much else needs your rescue...
The innocenceof word, passed on by masters,
The warmth and nurture of their abode.
The word, mark!, its is more a weapon now.
Destruction and chaos is sought out through it.
Everything is its subject but truth..
Alas! Only truth is not let through a word...

Truth resides in the unspoken, unformed,
In a sad smile, in the word unarmed.
Why do yiu seek other weapons, oh wretch!
When you have already, the world, wrecked.

If you seek solace in destruction, so shall it be.
For it is a vicious cycle you have sought out, you see.
How can you amock, blindfolded, in search of peace,
When you go asking for the very misery in lease...

Glimpse II

What I want to say is, Never give it away..
However deep the thorns prick,
Let not your vision stray.
Don't give your pain away, don't let yourself sway...

My words are nectar to some, poison to some.
So let your heart guide you with freedom.
Many have crossed your paths and you hear from them,
Not all speak why they stopped and what the journey demanded of them.

I gave blood, I gave tears and everything precious,
At the altar of my conscience I beheld,
the supreme goal that had me leave what was at stake,
only to cherish my path's twists, turns and give what it takes.

Though my destination is nowhere near,
Still intriguing and a bit unclear.
I look back to you , my fellow traveller,
To lend you what I couldn't gather,
The pearls of wisdom of my journey,
I now bestow with love to thee...

A DIALOGUE

PRELUDE:

I SAW A DREAM, EVRYONE DOES.
Amongst the realms of my mind’s fantastic creations, yesterday, a dream showed me a possibility, a beacon of innocence and novelty in the sea of gloom…
A dream of purity I saw, and it reflected the ideas I carried unspoken. I saw myself as a child, a traveler wonderstruck at the temple of human apathy…
I will tell you what I saw, but do not judge it with reason…
I seldom reveal my secrets but today I’m being pushed by conscience…


I saw a dome, not of art, not of glass, not of any specific beauty, but of steel…
Then I saw eagles in flight in an astonishing array of military precision.
Before I knew, they alighted on the dome, each in a solemn position as if in conference.
Then they struck the metal twice in unison with their razor- beaks staring unblinkingly with their cold steel eyes…
They soared to the heavens and chanted their consensus which reverberated in the clouds…

I found myself in the company of an apparition whom I addressed as mother.
I asked her, “What do the eagles say to you?”
She said, “Child, they just cast a vote. The dome you saw was their parliament.”
“What were they voting for?” I asked her.
“They want to abolish terrorism”, she said.

“Ma, but, they can only kill a terrorist, how can they remove the terror in people’s minds? It needs to be weeded out.”
Ma said, “oh, you stubborn child, do not claim to have the power to understand such things at your silly age. Terrorism is a reflection of injustice”
I sat pondering at her words and the eagles’ votes not disturbed by the anguished look in Ma’s eyes.

Then I said, “Ma, I want to be a terrorist”. Ma’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Why would you want that child?” Just think of what would happen if everyone was a terrorist” she said. I replied cheekily, “if everyone was a terrorist there wouldn’t be a target to terrorize. But don’t worry, I will be a terrorist with a change.”

“Thoughts are important to convince people of initiating change. I will not commit a deed of violence. The malady of injustice will be cured by the novel and powerful mind.”

“When justice prevails, revenge will fade. When pain is subdued, the ones who are hurt will see what a miraculous world they live in, a world that needs to be cherished by all.”

“The eagles have spoken to me; I am, but a mere messenger...”