Writers block!

Sitting here in this room, with no other sound than the momentary crackling of my knuckles, the chewing of food or a deep sigh to break the deafening silence, I sail in the tempestuous sea of thoughts. I know I should write, I feel the urgency too. I have to put my bare thoughts to words before they form an allegiance and conspire against my peace of mind. I sit down with an empty sheet and a pen, I try to write, I gather myself to start with a word, but in vain. My senses go numb, it seems I have lost access to the secret chambers of my mind where all the words are stocked.
My Muse has abandoned me, leaving me with a mind full of thoughts, heart full of aches, a melange of feelings and emotions running a marathon in my cluttered head but bereft me of words to express.

I read the pieces which I once wrote when I was blessed, an insatiable imagination always hungry for more, a rich play with words, but now a thick black curse mantles around me while I lie devoid of expression.
In this state of nauseating stupor, I stare at the vurgin sheet which mocks at my futile attempts of procreation.

The channel, through which, once, words sneaked in, in the dead of night has been blocked, the door shut and bolted from the other side. I try hard to gain access trying numerous ways to undo the curse but all I’m left with is a void. A void which sucks me into it and I watch myself by and by sinking with time.

I long for summer, the bounteous Sun spreading it’s golden hues in the naked sheet while I bathe in the spring of metaphors. Wasted by the smell of Hyacinths and Gardenias, scattered in the air, my somnambulance leads me to the world of poetry where the rhythmic chirruping of metrical wings lull my senses.
But now, the clouds of anxiety has replaced the Sun, the rain of grief and restlessness lashes my bare body and the morbid sound of unnerving humdrum palpitates my heart.

Will the sun ever shine on me again, will the tides of creativity wash my muddy mind or will I die here, one day at a time fading into oblivion?

Where does Love go once it’s gone?

Where does Love go once it’s gone?

Does it sit still in plaintive contemplation
between the neat folds of the window drape or does it peer from behind the blinds waiting to be taken in?

Does it tirelessly walk up and down the treacherous bent, abandoned , sulking at night or lie pressed like the thin veined petal between the pages I’ve marked, the verses I’ve read and re-read with you on my mind?

With nowhere to go , does love confine itself inside the bottle of my favourite mist, a gift on Christmas Eve and die silently with each spray?

Once love breathes it’s last , does it fasten itself with strong straps and properly habited in ‘pumpkin suit’, launch off to the distant moon?

Or, at the very moment retrace it’s path and fall back to the bootless pit of the malignant heart?

Does Love still live in the soft ripples of the forest pool created with each dying leaf?

Or poof!

Does it cease to exist?

Like the dense smoke that bellows out the chimney top , only to realise it’s transience under the boundless sky.

Where does Love go once it’s gone?

© Wordpolitics

Dusk pours her dregs of light on the weary bones draped in a corrugated yellow skin threading the silk suture
A melange of reverberations in the air-
a distinct chirp of hatchlings
calling it’s dame at prey,
the yellow tailed black cockatoo
spils it’s heart in gay.
while the nightingale sings it’s repertoire for the mind forsaken in love.
The bellowing of a rutting stag
triumphs the eve with pride.
And amidst this
the old man breathes
sewing plumes to the skin of a moose.
On the blood stained rug
rests the coffee mug, the black still as death- cold and glum.
Time is a lie, in this dingy labrynthine
since paralysis struck the clock in the spring of 1899.
The tale of the past speaks the cobwebs
aghast- making wings to soar up the sky
beyond the silver line.
A mind long sought,
to parley with Gods,
for foul conspiracy had coveted his sleeping child.
He limps through the woods at night
carrying a pole and a light.
Prowls around the roost and sets the straw ablaze,beats them to the ground and twists the birdies neck.
With a trail of blood
he retires forth,
a macabre hum echoing the tremulous night.
He dumps them in the tub then chants an unholy prayer,
picks them by the leg
and dips them in the pail.
Pluming each with care,
his eyes a distant stare.
When the moon is smeared in blood
and the night shakes with ague.
The flowers wilt in grief
fireflies weave a wreath.
The winged souls sing the dirge
the cluttered mind, finally purged.
He wears his wings, head upright
ready to take his flight.

Stretch marks!

Like the beautiful pattern woven by nature on the crevices of the wall.

White lines run against the background of wheatish skin adorning my breasts,

Step leader embossed by Zeus.

A tawny lotus blossoms

Just above my pubes

A memoir of the life, behind it witnessed grew.

To you it must be offing

To see them on my calves

For you fancy silky skin

Not a dappled one with scars.

I do not paint em with colours

To hide them under layers

But just let it be!

I am more than the body

More than what you see.

© Wordpolitics

Things to do before you sleep tonight

Cup your hands in an inverted heart around the resilience that flickers in the night breeze.
Let the heavy robe of conformity slip off your bare shoulders with an ease.
Scrape off the layers of paint
that make you beautiful
the pallor looks equally alive.
Draw a bath with few drops of lavender
and immerse all your limiting beliefs
in the hot tub,
deep cleansing your pores of all dirt.
Pour a glass of Red and swirl it around,
gulp down the days criticism
with each sip.
exhale the clutter that’s been clogging your vision.
Pat your skin dry,
let the towel soak in the dregs of exhaustion.
Take a book and bury yourself
under the foliage
seeking refuge in the world of metaphors.
As the words work their magic
seeping through the irises
lulling your senses,
watch your wakefulness
melt in the quicksand of time.
Till the lady of the dark
pulls you over to the otherside.

© Wordpolitics

An Atheist in Love

A committed atheist,
I prowl the realm of mortals
wearing a robe of snobbery
sceptre of rationale
held close to heart,
head unbowed to any form of divinity.
Brandishing words
peering through the faces of ignorant fools,
smirked at their lugubrity.
Until one day,
sauntering down the path
strewn with cherry blossoms
I came across an old novitiate.
The beauty of the flower
still floating in my eyes,
my thoughts distracted
by the fairest maiden
I ever beheld.
was the word that slipped my tongue.
Cursed be the lips that spake thus,
a fallen angel doesn’t speak of God.
A sudden force possessed me
clouding my reason
a discourse between my heart and mind.
Her eyes met mine,
which read of innocence
the sweetest rhyme.
She kissed the rosary,
and chanting her lords name
turned away.
Her black habit fading from my sight
helpless, I was left
in front of his might.

© Wordpolitics


Exotic flora
hidden in the deep wilderness
sheathed from the prying eyes.
Diffusest sweet hypnotic fumes
enticing the eyes that pass by.
Caress her with the sight
but taint her not
for she’s a child of the dusk
nurtured by sharp winds
and dense fog,
often fatal to a mortal touch.

© Wordpolitics

Stardust and magic

He sprinkled stardust, moonshine and magical things in the rustic decanter
and filled my cup.
I, like an ignorant child
lulled by the bling of the fairy lights
lost in his eyes
sipped the red.
As the wine played it’s magic
he appeared more enigmatic
as I lay there, eyes rolled
ready for the sweet surrender.
His fingers worked through my body
each stroke like soft breeze
carrying April showers.
He held me close
like a thing divine
searching for the rings of Saturn
within my eyes.
The dulcet flow of his voice
close to my ear, seeped through my skin
tingling my bones.
Love or lust?
Don’t wanna call it either and set parameters.
For this,
A cosmic union
When he enters my soul.

© Wordpolitics