Pic of the day

Pic of the day
Somehow, she's always the one up here.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Midnight pass

There's a haze in the air. 
Gloria's in my hand; it's been a while. 
Floyd's pink guitar 
playing in his inimitable style.

The madness mellows
the world isn't shining in its morning glory.
Even the spin slows
as every teller slowly spins a story.

All the world's a-playin'
and every bit character's a stage
with lines to be sayin'.
Every lit window's another page.

A time when alcohol
has, every sin of nicotine, negated
and conversation is all
about pathology 'tween creator and created.

In the light
of screen-savoured glowing prisms
we delight
in spanish, french and euro rhythms.

Spanish strings
in the background; talk of twinkles from a window.
And of horns and wings
and traditions of people who up and go.

All kinds of carols roll
as they pass in the midnight's mass.
We awake and cajole
a sunny rock-n-roll Christmas.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

What I felt the world needs

When air about
is one of doubt,
anger, hate,
and hollow debate;
when all around
distaste is found
and dejection and disaster
make cynicism grow faster;
when a shadow, so dark, its head rears
and the soul does tremble as it fears
that the only message one wishes to send
is for this filthy world to end
let's give thanks.
Let's give thanks
for the fact that birds still fly;
that grass is green under a somewhat blue sky;
for the fact that music lives
still and our hearts, some hope, gives;
for the tender smile
that we see once in a while
in a passing stranger
without any danger;
for the life we gave a child
who's still so innocent and mild
she weeps as the last flower falls
and is overjoyed at the koel's calls;
for the fact that we still see beauty
in an actor's performance of his duty;
for the joy in that bounding greeting
the street dog shows in the everyday meeting;
for the wonderful part
played by wonderful art
in our lives
and in our hives;
for the invention of the pop-tart;
for the late morning's sleepy start;
for chocolate and coffee;
for wine and whiskey;
for an evening's gentle rain;
for good ol' mary-jane;
for trees of green, red roses too;
for every time someone said, "I love you.".

And last of all, but standing tall,
before this world of ours ends,
let's all shout and make it a call:
let's give thanks for all our friends.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

The morning after

The morning after
a regular night with a nip in the air
and dreams of the coming morrow's care.

The morning after
a sumptuous meal that followed a drink
and conversation and company's clink.

The morning after
the chilling of many street-dwellers' bones,
for which the warm morning sun atones.

The morning after
a whole day's choices and sub-conscious voices
that slowly became ignorable noises.

The morning after
a full day's toil of truth and lies
and helium plans that hope to rise.

The morning after
a silent night of truthful sleep
where falsehoods and illusions cannot creep.

The morning after
the passions of head-boards, sheets and pillows
as a healthy expression of screams and bellows.

The morning after
a story of conflicts and resolutions;
of wanton sins and their absolutions.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Tock, you lazy tick!

Written some time ago, for a different purpose. Wasn't used, and found it's place here.

I yearn in aching pain
yet know there's nought to gain.
Twisted in knots
the gut slowly rots.
Oh why do I yearn in vain?

I know the ticks of clocks
and their respective tocks.
Egyptian or Swiss,
not one they'll miss.
I'll knock off their socks!

Oh dreary second's hand:
each movement made so grand!
You think you're great
for all must wait
for you, your tick, to land!

You cannot move too fast!
I doubt that I will last!
This week must end!
If't does, I'll send
you gifts of glory, vast!

I know the clock must tick
but a week to be so sick
is rather cruel.
I'd fight a duel
to tock that lazy tick!

And I shall tell you why
and what doth lie so nigh,
that being so near
it's still not here:
the object of mine eye.

This week has truly been
among the worst I've seen:
and now in pain, obscene.

For I've been ill as hell
and long to be well.
You see, 'tis health - 
that precious wealth - 
for whom my heart doth swell.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Devil's bane

The devil came to me last night and said that he'd lost his insight. 
"I can't see into the soul", he said, "anymore, there's just a hole."

I asked the devil whose inners he'd viewed, being delicate so not to be rude. 
He said, "I've seen them all. And the sight can only appall."

"In the grand scheme, I play a role. It is my lot to consume the soul. 
Now and then, a calamity I carve. But now what do I do? Starve?"

Our chat had got quite hot, you see his flames were leaping a lot. 
My cat was scared with hair on end. I had to calm this new-found friend.

And then the thought, to me, occurred - all of this is rather absurd. 
It's 3 a.m. and the devil's decided it's time that he, in me, confided.

I don't mind lending an ear to an acquaintance or a dear. 
But apart from a cosmic being of yore, I had never met this fellow before!

So, my privacy invaded; all of hell my bedroom pervaded, 
I had to soothe the devil's agitation - The world needs this whiny apparition.

"Let's analyse the situation", I said calmly and with conviction. 
"The world's folks have lost their souls and in their place are only holes".

"Yes yes!", the devil paced. His flames followed. My mind raced - 
which wasn't very easy for me: you see the time was five past three.

"Are you sure?", to ask I dared. In return, he only glared. 
"All right.", with resignation, I said, rather than with fear or dread.

I remembered my high-school physics - one law of thermodynamics. 
Energy can't be destroyed or created; the universe, whole, must be equated.

And so I decided to state this law to one who once, the Big Bang, saw. 
He slapped his hand to his head. "Oh bloody hell", he sighed & said.

"I can't explain how the cosmos works. Your ignorance really irks. 
The only thing I want to know is where the souls are. Where did they go?"

His single breath grew to flame as his demand, he did proclaim. 
"This world was made to hold them dear. How could they just disappear?"

And from his fiery eye did fall, a single tear that changed it all. 
He wiped it away beneath his hood and that is when I understood.

If the world had no soul it meant the devil, then, had no role. 
As it dawned on me, his flames died and the devil sat down by me and cried.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Epic('s) secret

Through the torment of life and the fear of damnation
flows the invigorating blood of imagination.
The nectar of creativity, aliased inspiration,
flows down a thigh, to the mouth of a lover's perversion,
taking the form of a red burgundy wine
mirroring the fiery breath of lust, divine.

Life is in the senses - yet we meditate.
Death is inevitable - yet we procreate.
The senses entice, ensnare and enhance,
yet in introspection, we try to dance.

It is the quickening of the pulse of an ever-tiring heart
that sparks off the passion that rips decency apart.
To reach deep beyond its bosomed burial -
The passion to exhume is the epic trial.

The fire that lies buried beneath
is not an heirloom to bequeath.
It dies as quick as a whiff of breeze
and can be fanned with equal ease.

As the heaving of anticipating breath does rise,
and the depth and intensity of mascara-laced eyes
betray the desire, 
the lust and the fire,
comes a moment of clarity and realisation
that true vision lies in allowing intoxication.

To taste the sweetness of poetic form
is the purpose of lips - soft and warm.
For in that moment of diabolic contact
the universe ceases existential impact.

No burning stars or spinning moons;
no flooding waves or shifting dunes -
The moment of wanton elevation
is its own emancipation.

That sliver of clarity is what many a bard
have fought to seek so very hard.
Would it, so many past generations, soothe
to know that the answer is such a simple truth?

This isn't a tale for the faint; not a writ of morality;
not of love or life or death, but within each, the duality -
The blurred line that fails to divide the sensual from spirituality;
for in a moment of ecstatic joy lies the coveted immortality.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

If I die...

Maybe I'll see a bit of life,
if I die a little tonight.
Maybe there'll be a little less strife,
if I die a little tonight.
Perhaps the stars will conspire
if I die a little tonight
to give the blaze of a funeral pyre.
If I die a little tonight
it may be a loss for all of history.
If I die a little tonight
there may be ballads strung about me.

I wonder how many would take notice
if I die a little tonight.
They'd assign a detective, perhaps a novice
if I die a little tonight.
There'd be a fairly traditional mourn
if I die a little tonight.
A handful of people would be forlorn
if I die a little tonight.
There'd be sad things on facebook
if I die a little tonight.
But right now, no one would really look
if I die a little tonight.

If I die a little tonight
who would continue to write this blog?
If I die a little tonight
who would be the keystone cog?
If I die a little tonight
who would hold together this world?
If I die a little tonight
who would remember the meaning of "knurled"?

A candle would give itself to burn
if I die a little tonight.
This verse of mine, I would earn
if I die a little tonight.
They say an artist should be sacrificial.
If I die a little tonight
I think they'd think it artificial.
If I die a little tonight
perhaps it'll be a play one day.
If I die little tonight
(This line stays open for you to say).

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

If the past was penned with a blade of grass

Why couldn't the bible be written by John Lennon?
Why couldn't the quran be the work of Bob Dylan?
What if the scriptures were by the hand of Tagore -
forgetting rules and talking of ideas more?

Imagine if stories of the one
were written by ol' Jim Morrison.
If the rigour of rhythm and rhyme
were more important than sin or crime.

Words are at the root of our ideologies;
the very basis of our psychologies.
Why couldn't they be written
by someone who was smitten
by the love of life, instead of a cause? -
A writ of ideas, instead of laws?

Thursday, August 23, 2012

An ode to a-muse.

Come visit me;
stay a while.
Come dance with me;
make me smile.
Hold my hand
and help me write.
It'll be grand:
all happy and bright.
Or perhaps
we'll find some beauty
in the gaps
of smiles and gaiety.
The depth and weight
of darkness, deep;
the surreal state
of unknown sleep.
Come, let's talk;
drink a while.
We'll take a walk,
maybe a mile.
Grasp my hand
and guide my style.
Each grain of sand
makes the pile.
Of things, we'll write,
both dark and light;
of knots tied tight;
of left and right.
Come be with me
and you will see,
I cannot be.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Silver sickle

Sickle moon outside my window, 
you're a flashlight on another world.
Crossing the cosmos, your beam will go
brushing past the soft and curled 
forms of people fast asleep. 
You're a night watchman, always there.
Dim and bright your light does sweep
so many worlds: Who knows where?

Sickle moon outside my window,
ball of silver up in the air.
Waxing and waning, your face will show
a bit of tarnish, but never a care
for who shall make use of light
shining through the midnight dark.
The night-watcher's everone's right:
ever present, strong and stark.

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Words of a threader stuck together

Thoughts of packing a pair of socks and flying away in a little box!
I'll pack a pack of chips and dip, and a tiny flask for the hip.
No journey's safe without a drink, but it can be done with little think.
On sea of clouds, with a breeze of sun, I'll see the Wonders: every one.
I'll follow a sunbeam all the way and convince it, down here, to stay.
The beam will help me look around till what I seek, I have found.
(It's interesting to shunt between the posting face and tweeting scene.)
It is quite cool how a journey rocks with a pair of socks and a little box.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Ode to a small thing that grew in my bedroom through the volcanic process

A lim'rick's the latest thing
that I will write and sing.
Perhaps a grin
or a riotous din -
Who knows what it'll bring.

A one and two and three.
Another one-two-three.
A one and two
and one and two
and one, pause, two, pause, three.

An artist bunch were tense -
A dilemma, immense:
"We need to do
a piece, brand new.
Let's make it on nonsense!"

And so they sat to write,
a-callin' night as white.
From yawn to dusk;
from cake to rusk -
A nonsense writ, all right!

And things began to flow.
You should have seen them go.
Fact and fiction;
mixed into the dough.

The piece began to rise
like bread before their eyes.
A bit of salt,
some candied malt,
and liquor for surprise.

The other side of town
sat many with a frown.
They made a choice
that screamed a voice
that drove a cat to drown.

But that's another tale -
another glass of ale.
The artist crew
now slowly drew
to tap the final nail.

So what was the result?
We ponder with tumult.
What did they write?
It must to light,
before we can exult.

Ah, but there's the catch.
We cannot simply snatch
an artist's due
for pieces, new.
It slowly must unlatch.

So sit with bubbly beer
or wine in crystal, clear;
await the age
when it will stage
and all shall stand and cheer.

Monday, May 28, 2012


A thread is spun;
a broken one:
not the way it should have been.
Off-key song;
something's wrong:
not quite the way it had been seen.
Nothing's amiss,
yet something is:
what, exactly - can't put a finger.
Like a dish not ate
or a friend not met,
yet whose taste and thought still linger.
What was not
can't be forgot:
you just can't miss what never was.
An illusion,
or delusion:
how can effect be without cause?

Thursday, May 24, 2012


The crack of dawn and the sliver of light:
"Try me", says the sun to the dark, dark night.

Silence shattered by the koel's cry:
"Try me", says the bird to the empty sky.

Happiness breaking through the norms:
"Try me", says life to mundane forms.

A pace pushing through mild-heartedness:
"Try me", says the city of madness.

Nothing ventured means nothing to gain:
"Try me", says the gamble, "try me again."

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Change the world

Take a lot of paint to paint a brand new purple dawn.
The world around us needs some changing: like a yellow lawn.
Change the colours of the world, a rosy sea thereby;
throw some pigment up above to make an orange sky.
Fair, dark, yellow, brown: the colour, deep as skin -
Instead let's all be rainbow stripes with polka dots thrown in.
The birds have got the right idea with many a coloured feather.
Oh! Clouds should take on olive hues to make interesting weather.
Rocks, forever, have been known to be just dull and grey.
Let's paint them all like Easter eggs, they'd like that, wouldn't they?
The world is quite a massive place - so many things to change.
It wouldn't be an easy task to do the fullest range.
But here's a start: in daily life, all the things you find -
Look at them deeply and just change them in your mind.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Suicidal sparrow

Suicidal sparrow, please fly away.
There's a panther prowling, tail a-sway.
My garden's a jungle for your size and shape.
Please don't perch there and stupidly gape
at the approaching teeth and claws.
Please bugger off, quick, without pause.
I love and respect you. You are beautiful.
But I also love my cat, a full three hearts full.
I'd really rather that she not turn murderess.
Also cleaning blood and feathers is just a lot of stress.
So, suicidal, stupid sparrow, please fly away.
When my cat is asleep, come. Perhaps another day.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

How to travel light

Get a suitcase just to house
anger, frowns and wrinkled brows.
Carry it with the single aim
of losing it at baggage claim.

Security is on its toes
ready to check your bag of woes.
No one will care; they will neglect it
if you coolly forget to collect it.

Let all your worries and your stress
be in the jacket of your dress.
Hang it on the seat like a cute decoration.
The airport won't notice such a meagre donation.

The flight will depart now, without damage,
that it doesn't have to carry any excess baggage.
The same will be true for you, even more,
as you bid adieu to a familiar shore.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Wa tyool ook in gat

An oggleple I am
with large peepgogs, two.
I oggscope many a ham
and the things they do.

I sit and while
the time in oggscoping.
Each passing smile
can be heartwarping.

And while I sit, quietly,
sipping at my fresh coffee -
a truest oggleple I be -
I wonder who's oggscoping me.

An oggleple I am
with a vivid imagination.
I conjure glitz and glam -
Write lives in my vision.

I like to think of every face
as a secret window.
A story there to even the pace
with which they come and go.

And while I sit, quietly,
sipping at my fresh coffee -
a truest oggleple I be -
I wonder who's oggscoping me.

An oggleple I am,
with many a story told.
An oggleple I am;
sometimes not too bold.

As I sit and oggscope out
I sometimes come across a mirror.
I wonder oft - I have some doubt -
Why oggscoping myself, I dither.

And while I sit, quietly,
sipping at my fresh coffee -
a truest oggleple I be -
I wonder who's oggscoping me.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Thro o alu king lass

A search was out to seek.
A look was out to peek.
The know knew not
the what was sought
and when began to leak.

A leaky when did fear
as never's end drew near.
The soon was now
and that was how
but if was not a clear.

The clear was white as black.
The black was lying back.
Asleep was sleep
to lie so deep
that what became a lack.

And so the what was sought.
But know had still knew not
when the leak
at never's peak
would over-sleep the pot.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Jive a frown away

At breakfast you sit
feeling down.
Your brow knit
into a frown.

The days are large and often looming.
You miss the birds and flowers, blooming.
A suitcase of apprehension and full of doubt -
What luggage to pick up when stepping out!

At lunch you sit
feeling down.
Your brow knit
into a frown.

The path ahead's not always clear
but sound advice is usually near.
Perhaps it's just a phase of the moon.
Whatever it is, it will pass soon.

At tea you sit
feeling down.
Your brow knit
into a frown.

Look around and you will find
a gentle hand or word, kind.
A film, a person, or even a book -
It could be any, if you'll look.

At dinner you sit
feeling down.
Your brow knit
into a frown.

Before you sleep, you think a while -
Look back to find a cause to smile.
The night now seems crisp and bright.
Tomorrow, perhaps, will begin right.

In dream you dance
and feel alive.
You take a chance
at even a jive.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Written on the twentieth

It's one of those days when all around, good wishes and smiles will surround me. Friends from yesterday and those who've only recently come and chose to share a moment or a word or a glance, when they heard that today was today, came along, to say 'hey'. It was a lovely thing to do. And to each and every one of you, I extend my warmest and my best and I'd like to say a big THANK YOU.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

What rhymes with rhythm?

The piece begins with simple beat,
not even penta, just the four.
A message into this to pour
is not always a simple feat.

Does prose have rhythm?
Can prose have rhyme?
Am I looking through a prism
and will it be a crime?

Friday, January 6, 2012

Clash of the forms

Is it true that poetry is not just about the rhyme? Of course there is the one-two-three (while the fingers tap in time). It's so compelling and fulfilling, to culminate a sentence thus: with a dance of fingers, feet and mind. It's a super stimulus. It was good advice from a very sound source: respected, educated, well-read, of course. But another had shared yet another juicy view that when something burst forth, only then follow through.

Neither is law and neither misinformed. I will do both and both shall adorn this space of mine where rhythm meets rhyme – Time to grow and change, no? It will be written from within and every day the other will win and both shall be equally real and I'll try to stay true to what I feel.

Sunday, January 1, 2012


Late night's
bright lights
blaze with no warning:
memories in the morning.

Dance: drop the wine;
chance: "drop me a line";
tonight, the moment's
yours and mine;
said to be providence,
perhaps divine.

Hugs and wishes,
farewell kisses,
missed sunrises,
new-year promises:
the branded night and tag-line morning are come and gone and now are done;
the year ahead's the season's flavour: gladly, it was well-begun.