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.

home

time and money

there was a time when everything seemed very smooth...but those were the times when there was no tv, no mobile phones, no cars, yet things were nice. there was a certain importance to life away from work. people worked for the stipulated hours and then their time was meant for leisure. but today work seems to be everything. someone calls you at 10 in the night about something at work. you are trying to watch a nice movie in a theatre and some bloody client calls you ten times in the middle of the show. ofcourse you dont answer and then he will accuse you of not picking up his calls. you come back home and are trying to relax over a warm cup of tea and some stupid guy from the project managers office calls you and wants some detials right now for his boss who is having a meeting in bangalore. how do you care? and the details are anyway in the office and you cannot give them now. so you tell him 10 tomorrow morning. he will again call up at ten and ask you have you mailed the details? what do they think they are. a majority of the pwople in the professional world do not understand a very simple thing. if their time is money, then the other person's leisure time is also money for him in a different way and they should better learn to respect that. my leisure gives me better mental and physical health and keeps me away from doctors and medicines. i have heard stories that in some parts of the western world you call a person on a weekend and he promptly reminds you that its his holiday/leisure time and you better call when work hour starts again. when will we learn to behave like that? architects should start telling their clients no to meetings on weekends and late evenings. vendors should learn to tell their customers no to unreasonable demands about fast service. we should all learn to respect each other's leisure time and get the belief out of our minds that money is everything. their is no use of moeny without good health. dont we all agree to it?

Poetic Liscence

they all talk about poetry a lot... everybody seems to be writing some poetry.. but what exactly is poetry? is it just a random expression of thoughts rising in a person's mind in a few incomplete sentences which may or maynot rhyme and with unusual punctuations thrown arbitrarily? or is it something more serious, more complex, that requires a concentrated effort towards forming an entire new set of rules in a standard language.. an expression which is at the same time stylistic and profound.. just thoughts without styel doesnt make poetry.. they are just thoughts... i think... but i am not an expert... jus thinking aloud...

poetry should be something like ogden nash:

a little bit of talcum
is always walcum...

he had written for babies...

or

The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the other...

about cows

or

The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.

about the turtle

(note the play of language and the brevity of expression)

or like tagore.. but i cannot quote him here coz he wrote in bangla.....

or Dylan probably (both Bob Dylan and Dylan Thomas)

"The hunchback in the park
A solitary mister
Propped between trees and water
From the opening of the garden lock
That lets the trees and water enter
Until the Sunday sombre bell at dark."

-Dylan Thomas

Johnny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollar bills
You only got ten

-Bob Dylan

well i dont know... but these are poets whose poetry can never die....

so next time i think of writing poetry... i would think about learning to write poetry first