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.