Know Why The Caged Bird Sings!
A lot of Questions!
And I try walking backwards.
Fresh smile at the table,
Dressed for work,
Knots at the right place,
And you feel I slept sound.
And I try walking backwards.
No frown on my lips,
Greetings with a warm face,
Words sweet and tender,
And you feel I held up.
And I try walking backwards.
No tears from my eyes,
Nor twitching of the lashes,
Nor moistness at the corners,
And you feel I have not cried.
And I try walking backwards.
For you have not seen my wet eyes,
Nor faltering lips or spasmodic nights,
Caged am I still! You now know!
Know why the caged bird sings.
Let Me Rediscover You!
Veil not your frozen tears,
Behind the solemn eyes.
Veil not your lush beauty,
Behind the cheap mascara.
Veil not your rosy lips,
Behind the feigned smile.
Veil not your palping breath,
Behind the tutored stance.
Come, as you are, onto me,
For I judge not you.
Shred the mantle, blind
Let me rediscover you.
Ashes!
Like yesterday too!
By the misty pane, over the candle flick,
The moon, shy, glides into the clouds thick,
Red eyes bore down on the parchment wet,
Dried and cringed from tears and sweat.
Toppled, the pot of ink on the table lay
Have had silently bowed to the winds’ say,
The quilt scribbling away words unspoken
Wishing to mend the strings broken.
Pages after pages the quilt bleeds,
As unto sweet longings it recedes
Carving delicate reminiscence faint
Of chained reveries, a tad restraint.
The wobbling flame, signals the end
But, more! More has to be penned.
Signed reluctantly, sealed with a kiss
With the pledge of a tomorrow, bliss!
And like epistles written every night,
Held tonight’s too to the flare bright
Crumbling, vanished into the smoke, lorn,
Dreams wrecked like a baby stillborn.
To collect, unto the urn, ashes, dry,
Bottling nights and memories wry
For one day, will set the urn free
On its way to you, across the sea.
Have you ever had lots to tell,
Writhing to break loose the spell?
Have you kept the nights awake,
Of hearts, desire and longings ache?
Colours
Barren canvas hung on the easel
Craving a touch from the brush
Dipped in rugged tones and lush hues
Tainted by a dab of crimson red.
And a touch the brush awaits
The gentle stroke from the master
The sensuous dip in the bottle of hues
The carnal dance of ecstasy
Wrapped in his own thoughts
Chained to his dreams
The master ignorant
Throttled by racks of time.
And untouched the hues lie
As the master smears the brush
With a dint of black frantically etching
Shadows on the canvas free.
Can you look out of the window
Without your shadow getting in the way?
Can you look back into the blazing lights
Without burning your eyes blind?
Devil’s Casino
Devil's Casino
Remember the wish in The Angel Song
The gifted wish I haven’t used all along,
Shielded from the tempestuous calm,
For wounds aching, as magic balm.
But, words fly quick and high,
Reached the Satan in a sly,
He came down heavy on my door,
To snatch away the wish I bore.
Cornering me in my room alone,
He thundered for the wish I own.
Felt weak, but won’t bend my knees,
I, on empty roars such as these.
Meekness evident in His deadly vice,
He challenged me to a game of dice.
The aces, deuces and cinques clashed,
Blood and pride waiting to be smashed.
As the gruelling feud raged on forth,
I, tired, bloodied; but all that’s worth!
It’s pride in my wish – that’s to prove
I knocked Him down in the final move.
Drained, void, slumped on the floor thud,
I, passed out soaked in sweat and blood,
-But I won! Oh! Of that I am sure-
as I embraced the wish pure.
Quixotic
As I stood looking out into the stretch,
Beauty picturesque – a perfect sketch,
Warm winds brushing against my cheek,
Calmness and charm for themselves speak.
Peace spread over as far as my eyes can see
And the winds playful on a flirting spree,
The morning sun riding on the rising beam,
Seamlessly laid out on the soothing theme.
But, I tried decoding that mystic theme,
– The thumping sun and the fiery beam –
Chasing dreams, like bees on spree,
Behind veiled doors, none can see.
Oh! I sense tones hushed as these elements speak,
The rawness and ridicule evident on my cheek,
For it’s my mind fabricating the quixotic sketch,
It’s just the barren desert rearing in the stretch.
Rebirth of a Rebel
The rebel and his army
He looked down onto the wet earth,
The ashes still warm on the pyre,
A glance with neglect and dearth
At his rebel ideas razing in the fire.
As numbness bloated the hollow fog
And vapours condensed on glasses moist,
He’s proud for that mighty prologue
And of the fearless opinions he voiced.
– Each one of us has two lives – one where we live and the other where our ideas live. Most of us are not passionate enough to contribute significantly to the second part. The Rebel lives on, dormant in each one of us, without ever realizing its power to put forth new ideas and inspiration for the next generation.
– This poem is a toast to all those Bloggers and Activists who are voicing their opinions and trying to educate the masses.
He looked down onto the wet earth,
The ashes still warm on the pyre,
A glance with neglect and dearth
At his rebel ideas razing in the fire.
As numbness bloated the hollow fog
And vapours condensed on glasses moist,
He’s proud for that mighty prologue
And of the fearless opinions he voiced.
