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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
Her black habit fading from my sight
helpless, I was left
in front of his might.
The truest discourse of nature
Is in the breath of a dying man.
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.
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.
A cosmic union
When he enters my soul.
My nation sings a mellifluous song
reminiscing the years bygone
she unties her locks and swivels around
brimming with ecstasy and joy.
She bathes herself
in the heat of the South,
the sun bounteous on her tawny skin.
She treads the woods,the Sunderbans
her garrulous childlike laughs
echoing the serenity.
She sits by the Ganges
hands crossed into a knot
melancholia seeps in
bringing with it
a wave of ‘inqulabs’
unwavering and assertive
as the Himalayas standing tall.
The sky weeps tears of joy and grief
the undaunted souls who gave up their breath,
embracing the soil
painting it red.
She hums in reverie
a note of thanks,
the widow’s, the old and the dead.
She casts aside,the robe she wore
the tricolour cloth she drapes.
The saffron of valour
the chaste white
and the lushness of green she wears.
With head held high
an air of prowess
I am an Indian
Say I .