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?

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,

solitary

I cannot be.

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.

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.

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;

contradiction

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.

No?

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?

Try

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."

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.

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.

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.