Philosophy · Poetry

An evening pall of gloom

To cast away the lingering doubts

when you strolled away in thoughts

I bring the psalms to the doors

with worshipping men turbaned in hues of dots

When you swing on the swings and reach out for the skies

I silently mark my silence as the silent spectator’s guardian dove,

come sit under my canopy which shades from the day as my abode

And then my pestilence grows with the full moon

lurking in the eastern skies as an omen

of windward love-change that deepens

I come to see the moon as your aide by your side

with your arc and bow arrow bent

But your music is annoyance to the evening’s clime

as darling, it is dressed in the darkness of eastern rhymes

I press to walk harder than to amble the pavement

in hiding behind the hour’s veil and loitering,

as the hour is hung from the mid-air

And the dusk is behind our heels,

lapping to elope into night

I see maidens wearing sunglasses under the steady moonlight

They are again annoyance to the evening’s clime

but they fear more than they are loved, that anything said

would be taken as an argument against them as obscure as they are

and fame be ushered in is an annoyance to the moon

who yearns and yearns for thousand pretty girls.

In the end, it is an open evening sky

stretched as widespread as the balmy air

when one must try liberating the human soul from ghettos of love

But an evening pall of gloom has deepend by Jove.

art · Philosophy · Poetry

An arty soul

One rose was full of perfume that She fainted in her own arms

as if perfume had undone the airs of her form


She plucked the song from a twig of her perfumed memory

as if it was her sixteenth birthday stirring two decades


She hesitated with the thought inducing coffee

as if it was her two decades gone on cloud nine


She blew a whistle to dig out the unconscious mind

as if a thousand clouds like herself were hidden beneath the thought


She gave up the final chase of a pretty job

as if her hidden thoughts have found the little Buddha


She didn’t give up the Buddha then


art · Poetry · Psychology

Method Acting

Being a zombie is a byword for a shy actor who assumes method to pose an artiste’s makeover with voice on hold like restraining flippant phone number

He acts all the time with techniques of a mechanical response to an answering machine and induces visions  without having LSD , breaking free with James Dean or like Elvis Presley dance number.



I read adlib a silence written on your face,

you have washed your face thousand times,

silence won’t go away that way

I have deluge of flowers at the bay,

only to bind me to the charming coupe de etat,

of a citizen holding bunch of roses in her nubile hands,

to throw away the raincoat in the face of wind

And clamouring for more love from the seasonal rain,

as it would blast the streets and so do the flowers

In watery glimmer have all died because of silence on your face

And she was reactionary to emulate your love as her fate