Search

A Scintilla of Thoughts

the cat’s pajamas

Category

Poetry

Dig.

carved stones and stained scriptures,

perennial yet

perishable pieces of tarnished souls,

feeding and filling what might have been

a crack –

– in a lonely lifetime

fretting for acceptance by an unforeseeable future;

and so, I’ll dig.

A leader’s conceit, a beggars whimper,

A soldiers struggle, a traveler’s splinter

An expression of a lovers lust,

In a coffin, two bodies trying to adjust;

Rotting, rumbling earthy riddles

Screaming at outlying stars, a pitch harsh enough

To resonate stories – that have been,

And will be.

And will always be.

And so, I’ll dig.

Image : Persistence of Memory, Dali

Advertisements

And I fell.

You’d learn from me – to collect bricks and cement them around your heart. And I fell.

You’d learn from me – to let the mind work out every time a new guy walked in. It would struggle to keep him away from my ladder. And I fell.

You’d learn from me – to be an individual, with no thread left loose to find to tie yourself too. And I fell.

You’d learn from me – to make every thing but human beings a part of my to-do list. And I fell.

You’d learn from me – to view the world with a telescope – searching to reach the stars, far far away from Earth. And oh, I fell.

The cement, it drowned in the ocean that were your tears, which sat at the back of your lids – not knowing their power.

The mind, it lost it’s stamina. It forgot every witty line it could have conjured, every string of words it could have made – because what were alphabets anymore?

And my tongue, it was already tied on to the messed up jumble of threads you were trying to hide in a silly worn out basket.

I didn’t have a to-do list anymore.

And the stars, they had come down here, just for me to see, shining ever so brightly.

They were so far away when I had wished for them.

I just didn’t know that when they’d hold my hand,

It would scald me.

Sawed and shaped, gnawed and nailed,
The Broken Bench stands haughty and frail.
Without purpose ;
Which hikers back would it comfort?
Which mothers distress would it guide?

As a futile life – sinking in parched sand ;
It finally rests as it fools a sadistic sun ;
Underneath some soon to be demolished futile wooden planks.

Inked

Your short lived life, child, was already inked.
Long dried on to pages of history books,
where diplomats in neat cut suits –
took delirious decisions for land, for money, for you.

Your years on this much talked of planet
The only one with life they say –
were already penned when powerful men
chose brainless butchering again.
Laws and rules and faith and belief,
clouded their judgement of grief.

You had no say ;
You had no guns ;
no nuclear weapons, no shield against explosions.
Laws and rules and faith and belief,
just sounds trying to creep into
your vocabulary.

Burnt up forests, shattered walls,
Battered buildings and broken roads.
They wrote down every heartbeat of yours,
as they fought over these blooded bodes.

You were too naive, child,
a mere puppet whose strings lie
in hands of men with neatly cut suits
and camouflaged boots,
who’re simply trying to protect their
Laws and rules and faith and belief,
and lands more precious than you.

You had your time, child,
Your next will probably be better –
far, far away from where logic bows down to savages.

Beauty

The yearn for sunlight in a dull and dingy corner or the first drop of rain in vast seas of sand?

Is it really the fulfilment of your needs ; your greed ;
What you have – or have not?

Or is it when
On an empty stomach
You step back and gaze at
how perfectly,
lapped up in a dull and dingy corner
a dainty peacock sobs for a shower

Or is it when
On a ragged beach
You choose the most uncomfortable rock
but it is a perfect spot
to catch a crow spread it’s wings
a contrasting silhouette
on the cherries added in by spring

Pastels put forth by who knows who
interlocking perfectly
creating life
magically devastating even the smartest
of human minds –

– or is it a cold glass of water after a hard day of work?

Rumble

 

“If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken’d death!”

 

Churning, crisping, crushing, brushing
Scratching, scrunching – and then slightly blushing –

There was something slightly perfect ;
About the way, first, her eyes would begin to glaze –
Proficiently disguising the battle of chemicals
right behind, as she would raise
her head, and a tear-drop
finally took shape –
and then came the storm.
Slyly pacing,
condensing clouds,
which had taken days to muster up and form.

They poured and poured ; a misery ; a tragic song
Leaking all she held
For so long, so long.

And when it was empty – all over – all done –
the sea which
up till now was dotted
with tiny troughs made from droplets
desperately trying to make their mark
was sober, serene
washed out, clean.

I began to miss wondering about the trumpets of grief that would rumble inside her mind as she stepped on the doorstep to welcome Summer.

Rainbow.

I want to tell them what my flesh
dies to feel everyday
but they won’t understand.

I go every week, to their home
And the Queer there
Call me weird.
I try to talk to them
They’re comfortable with who they are
but I’m torn.
between who I am,
and who I want to be.

They hug and kiss on the roads
and shed off
what people may say,
but I can’t.
because what I’ve been taught since
I was 6 was
Loving some is good,
but loving others is not.

But I love him,
and my wife cries at home when
I can’t love her.
I can’t even cry.

Why can’t I drape myself
In pastels of yellow, blue, green?
And walk what they call a pride parade?

Why can they express, but
I have to sleep in a closet
Under my fathers stairs?

So I’ll walk into
their home
to see
whether
they bleed pink
or silver
or any colour they’ve painted on their faces.

Why isn’t anyone listening?
Am I alone here?

They bled the color red.

My heart goes out to the families of the victims of the Orlando shooting. In regards to the shooter, it kills me to know that people struggle with their identity every single day, in all corners of the world. We have a long way to go.

Tailoring

Twisted and shuffled
What I spoke
Built walls around me.

When my words had fought with angst
Along the neurons,
Desperate to find a suit.
And create a set to compose a
beautiful symphony,

Confident of their abilities to enchant,
The string of letters,
which had won the moot.
Trickled down my lips and fingers,
My heart trustworthy.

Twisted and shuffled
What I spoke
Fooled those around me,

Into believing
That I really meant what I said.

When it was just a battle of syllables.

Attention

Safe in your place, deep in the Earth,
That’s when they’ll know what you’re really worth.
    – Nick Drake

“Unique! Perfect!” they had exclaimed.
When they took a pause and noticed,
The pointless piece of expression.
In which I had tried to
Imprint the neurons in my head
Onto the realms of reality,
Trying to show the world
What it did not mean to me.

Thus it began,
The journey of a desperate genius.
To be noticed,
To be acclaimed as
The one who bled uplifting aesthetic.
And fill my pockets
With coins to feed my stomach.
But they couldn’t feed my soul.
And that’s when I became a success.
Where uninspired,
I made what they admired,
Attention galore,
And my pockets filled up some more.

Where I felt a multitude of superfluous emotions,
Guilt is now all I feel,
Towards the young man who had once
Seen the world differently.

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: