waiting for the sun to rise.....

the time that stood on the window sill mocking the dying light of the morning moon
watching through the hole in the mud wall he knew the sun would rise soon
the wind would blow again caressing the silver water on the backyard lake
he can find the dreams he had last night in the paper boats he'll make

....extract.....

"Not articulate. That takes effort. Spontaneous. Not like I would write a story. In that case I need to think. But I don't want to think. Just write." He felt his throat had gone dry. He took a large sip from his scotch gulped it down and shook his head as a shiver raw down his guts.
"And I want hope."
"Hope for what?"
"I don't know that either." He stopped and looked at the old man. His eyes were as intent and attentive as ever. And there was a hint of a gleam at the corners. Did he think Siddharth was a lunatic?
"You scare me." "What are you scared of? Life? This city? People?" the old man was talking again. He stared out of the window. The silhouette of a tree with fresh green leaves which looked hauntingly beautiful in the yellow light of the sodium vapour lamps. And through the leaves and a wide gap between two high rise buildings the moonlit night sky presented itself in a canvas. The old man stared at the sky for a few silent moments. Even the voices of the bar and the music of the band playing some strange melody at the far end had faded down into a quiet hum. And then he continued. "Look at the sky. The colour. It is blue. The clear milky blue of a spring night. Ain't it pretty?" "I don't know, I can't distinguish between good and bad. What's pretty and what's ugly." He took another sip from his whisky. His tone had suddenly become bitter. "They say the buildings are ugly. Look at them. Grey, stained and broken plaster. Pigeon shit and beehives. And the laundry on the railings. On sagging lines across those balconies. I don't know if that's ugly. Or if the spring sky is pretty. I never really look at the sky." Siddharth paused. And sighed. He wondered what he was saying. He had never talked so much for ages

elevation

dreams

Travelling through the wilderness

Through burning blooms and gurgling streams

The thickets I do dare transgress

Take me to my silver dreams...

thunderstorm

Sundown on Sunday and the storms brewing in the skies unleashed a rage that was unprecedented. The wind was strong – just to say the least. It was ravaging. Trees blew away from their roots. Boards flew and were thrown to get shattered. The howling was deafening, the lightning breathtaking. As if the sky was taking pictures of the earth below in a momentous mood. We earthlings could just sit back and cherish the rains that followed. I love the scent of wet earth that rise after the first rains. And of course the weather that followed. The plants were the happiest…..smiling and dancing in the refreshing rains. Wish it would rain more often….

sunset blues

Streaks of vermillion shine on the persistent waves that roll in and roll out off the rocky edges of the cliff. The sun savors the beauty of the last few moments before sinking into its night long slumber. The lonely lighthouse at the small islet comes alive slowly for its rendezvous with the night. In another hour a dark pall will descend over this little sea-side village as a melancholy song will rise out of the dimly lit corner of a shanty bar. Fisherwomen and men will converge at the bar after a long day’s work putting their children off to sleep, to drown their fatigue in mugs of country liquor. The bar girl will sing songs of yesteryears to the strumming of a worn out guitar. And the old grey haired man in a fancy hat at the counter will listen to his customers’ woes while serving them drinks. The village welcomes the night without complaints……yet again.

Subterranean Blues....Cryptic Clues

photo courtesy r m

ambigram for my name - my first

for more ambigrams visit the master http://www.johnlangdon.net

Tiger Tiger Burning Bright

War and Hope

Where is he, the wounded soldier that walked the streets of nowhere land
Where does lie the drop of tear that was never wiped by a single hand
Where has gone the cries of hope that echoed in the empty souls
Where can I find that mark of peace in the clutter of bullet holes
Time has stood still for those eons when no one heard the songbirds cry
No one saw the springtime blossoms slowly wither in pain and die
Clouds of black smoke filled the sky, gunshots choked the silent dreams
The wind blew far carrying sounds of vulture’s laugh and muffled screams.
The rivers dyed in crimson red carried the message to the seas
The streets echoed silent cries of misery, agony and disease
The rumbling roaring war machines were all that had a presence there
Rest was hung in desperation in the shadow of a pall of fear
Waiting for the clouds to clear, for the blossoms to bloom again
The sun to rise in an orange splendour and ease away the pain
And so the days of the solitary girl looking through the broken glass
Is spent in hope that one fine day this blinding darkness will just pass.