Circles

Dancing Couple

How educational to look through
The scab, a curtain, panes and dew
To see a magpie on the lawn,
Reminding us, that we are all contrasts
Of our own diabolical need to contradict.

Like how we go against the conscience
Time and again, like it was just a meaningless
Voice, perhaps a psychosis of our fears,
To take out mainstays like tradition
And that contradiction is why we are all paraded on a stage
In striped pajamas, that too a contrast
Like the jumping magpies, when we are
Only axiological trophies of love
That you parade inside your heart
And love is a prison sentence of how
Blood makes little lines connect,
And soul-mate makes magnetic poles meet,
And only when we crash out of those grips,
Those strangleholds, love has on us,
Are we are free to be anything we can be.
And still we move back, searching for love
To reembrace the creatures that make
You part of a flock, the three types
That define love in earnest

Those who stick together,
Those who are stuck together,
And those who are stocked together.

And what defines them are the invisible glues
That time applies to define three anatomies,
And their degrees of togetherness.

The soul, the heart and the mind;
Stick, stuck and stock.

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Nitwit

Pumpkin 2

Everyone says that a troubled personality
Is a fertile plot for garden weeds.
But I say, that it is a bed full of worms. 
Have you seen an idea
Come through from the top to the bottom,
Like a compost bin and your mouth
Utters it, to the extent to which
You understand. In romanticism
Its an epiphany and in a board room
It’s a brainwave, but in plain simple
English, it is a trivial outpouring,
Of what you throw out without a second glance,
Like when worms creep out
Of a canned mouth and you’re
Wondering at why everyone is looking
At you, the wisecracking owl
On a mirror, yet, an Appalachian hillbilly
That stammers out the honesty
Of how little we know and still
We utter no-brainers like nursery rhymes or fanfares.
We don’t nap on a Mensa IQ
Nor do we love with Romeo’s EQ
We are just fools sitting on a made-believe throne
Trying valiantly, to find a crown that fits,
The perimeter of a pumpkin head.

Two Poems

Holding Hands Sea Relationship People Happiness
Holding Hands Sea Relationship People Happiness

Transience

The moment
You find a little edition
Of fate or fateful
And all of a sudden, the moment
Is gone – in a wink, a beat
An inhale – when circumstance
Issues a consequence.
We can never really endure anything
And that by itself, sells
The human conflict
Of that moment lapsed
Knowing it went too soon
Like a firecracker,
A drop of rain,
A streak of lightning,
Or even for that matter
A lungful-entrapped mouthful
Of entangled lips.

Battling the Storm

It rains often for a man,
Who looks out of the window too often.
And when it rains cats and dogs
You only have your weather-beaten face
Like a gargoyle, presenting to the world
The courage it takes, to face-off the inevitable,
When that moment you were looking for,
For so long, comes true like an epiphany,
And you, all of a sudden feel,
The energy of fate behind you, catapulting you,
To where you want to be;
Surfing inside that mammoth wave,
While looking out through a water pane,
Of your green room.

Flaming Love

Love making

Can I know where to look inside of you,
To know that everything you stand for,
Prostrates me to your heart,
To know, what I don’t know,
To feel, what I haven’t felt,
To spawn, what two singularities can,
When they move towards
An interface, and letting your hair
Down and your eyes look up,
As you gaze at me, not knowing
That your eyes are imploring
And your cleavage invites
To move an inch towards contact,
When you unfurl like a leaflet
And I settle like a butterfly
And our world becomes transparent
Like we are inside a water bubble,
When our chemistries are covalent
And physics tells us we are North-to-South
Until there is only the residue,
Of looking outside at the full moon
And wondering how it all pales
To our flamed kerosene-afterglow.

Perception of Death

Fog

Do you remember, being in the backseat of the car
Barely a teenager and thinking what happens
After death. That singularity without tangibility. 
You look at all the evidences coughed
Out by pages, written in Sanskrit and Hebrew.
Samsara, the reincarnations of our
Own selves and eternal life, that speaks
Of heaven as a donor of an eternity.
Still you know science tells you otherwise.
We are only a strain of transience
A species trapped in impermanence
Looking out through a lens at providence
Unable to make sense of it all.
The road is long, longer than you and I
Can gather and yet shorter than we
Wish for. Death will always be that full stop
The syntax of a poetic verse that abridges
At the settlement of a dot. We are only
Logs of flesh that will feed saprophytes one day
And that leap of faith, that leap into a void,
Will only feed our system, when we
Encounter that finish line. How beautiful
Not knowing where the soul goes,
To where no one knows. We are all Abrahams
Making a sacrifice in faith, on an alter of
A wooden box, in that jump from
Consciousness to a riddle that knows
No answer, knows no alibi, just
A mammoth cloud eclipsing the moon
And your eyes that have spectacular vision
Become exiled in darkness, a perpetual blackout
When there are no tungsten filaments
Just a broken hull, exonerated in time
And fixed in space, not knowing the answer
To that question mark and yet, knowing that
The truth can be so spectacular, when the soul
Becomes free, to roam the endless plains,
The wilderness that lies beyond,
Leaving no trail or proof,
Like decimals of dust, blowing through,
To the great unknown.