keep coming back

How age steals passion from life?

And imbues with facets of love

and nothing is dreamier than

silence blasted on to the front page

I am happy that she is getting older

and more sagacious than when she

was young nubile in the garden of love

breaking with the minutes and seconds

on the floor with besotted ape of a man

in the hindsight who keeps correcting her

in this paradise of life. Keep coming back

she said and vanished without a trace

in a train of thoughts again to paradise.

Advertisements

The Old man’s cabin

The wind is tasted by drinking wine from the wayward shop,

gulped in the red cherry that seldom chirps between the teeth

there is a astray child on a visit to the old man’s cabin who

took a swig of red wine, plumed his shirt and traced the light

off the window with the child on a walk covering the view

he opened the drawer to pull out an old snap of three decades old

saw the red cherry bloom on the face of a young hipster as if

teasing the air in the room, all the dirty years have folded

in one blank ocean where the child reappears- his own self

having sunken underneath the haze of never ending dawn

 

 

Sky is the mistress of my existence

Sky is the mistress of my existence
loyal in the folds of yielding space upon space
but shows the dolls of stars in reticence glow
as beauty would be laid to sleep
chagrin as Socrates forsake the sky
and the will to become the wind that never dies
is cheated back by the sorties in the skies.
Still pilots fly forgetting the hemlock that Socrates
did drink and pass away in annoyance of skilful manoeuvre
that is done high and still
To spend the life in mortality of sin and without mast
show the sky nothing but their face as vagrant it would be
shunned and inheriting the earth vanish away far away
into oblivion!

Phebus

Phebus! called out the voices!

Heaps upon his hands raised the books

that silenced the soul more often than

the red wine he packed and kept in inn

and would drought only when needed

a toast to the cirque of twigs wound around

the head of gargoyle, a sepulchral  soul

he was!

 

And now needed a drum to voice the silence

as untold by his lithe limbs that moved according

to the text in the books- he was mastering the mime

and now drew a peg of enchantment with blue water

that though colorless is full of colors that he watched

in hallucination.

 

He was the third master of a kind

the other two were boys he kept

to clean the cabin as he would woo

the enchanting shadows of the lantern

hung only to keep the light gleaming

when the sun abandoned the sky only

to reappear when the dead waters

recoiled with life. He must now retire

as he lit the lantern and felt the torch

of the liberty being careened in the hands

of the raving voices!

 

 

A simmering volcano

What I write about love is the matter of the heart, having suffered in silence like a dormant volcano now simmering over as if challenging to burst out any moment. I didn’t burst out but rather became calmer as the days passed, eventually cooling down to what I am nowadays- feeble pulse looking for icer times ahead.

The turn of the millennia brought me good news and made me feel better as I do now listening to Dutch orchestra. The life boils down to competitiveness as we prepare ourselves forever job-hopping in search of fame and wealth.

I forsake love more than sleep, though I sleep with face buried into forgetfulness.

What I have received thus far in life, I have readily accepted not as my fate or Karma but the eventuality of eternal recurrence which means this is about to repeat eventually. The past doesn’t exist, yet it recurs eternaly. This seems a paradox but it is true. The past is but a memory, which repeats itself after a while.