Precious

Stoic, straight, convenient, Uninspiring
Dispassionate, brooding and absolutely tiring.

Ugly doesn’t come in disfigured portions,
It comes with those mindless superficial notions

Monotony, complacency and the aimless strife
Ugly, ugly is such a spiteful life

War will give you bloody stories, not few
be ugly and yours will be one too

Come out, chase, ignite, spark
Switch your hearts on, turn off the dark

Passionate in your effort, will never be in vain
Ignited, the Ugly will turn beautiful again

Disfigured, oozing, crippled you might see
My precious, Ugly, you will never ever be.

-11.03.2012

INFATUATED

                                                   

Time gives us joy, the smiles and the moments of rue
and then asks me, what really, is happiness to you?

What an engaging question dear dimension,
I begin to ponder, now that you abruptly mention.

Not the Perfect life, for it is conspicuous by absence,
Or maybe it is right here, no, that would make no sense!

I leave behind the reason, the sense of right and wrong,
I have been bent and bogged down for far too long.

I long happiness, but despise its servitude
It makes you numb, bereft of all gratitude.

The anger, the chaos, the contempt and the bliss
What a shame it would be, for any of it to go amiss.

Charmed, All I want is to romance life,
blithely cavort through all my loss, all my strife.

I will trip, I will fail, but I won’t be hounded
what will be my worth, if I am wary of being confounded?

I want to be free of my sins, my successes, I will sell
for it is all right here, not in your heaven, not in your hell.

And Time, my only dear friend,
Been by my side from my beginning to my end.

Yet, I wonder, if your fidelity is still,
to what you give birth, you eventually kill.

Kill me, but then, slay me again, as I may never die
for I am too inspired, far too infatuated, to just wave goodbye...

 -14.12.2011

AND THEN, THEY ALL CAME...

With piping hot coffee on my table,
To see them march outside my window
huge posters, placards and louder slogans,
Yet to decipher them I was unable

It was a strong urge to join in,
As it wasn’t just the melting glaciers,
the dwindling ethics or corrupt leaders
which hurt the world we live in.

To toil, fight and give it my all,
to protest with displeasure
to invigorate the revolution
in every slogan and in every call.

Well, our pretty world did change,
 The demons had been exorcised,
the forests rejuvenated and people charmed pious
This was the revolt, this was the change.

The effort had been of the highest rung
but far too long, far too tiresome.
I come back and take the coffee mug
one little sip; the piping hot coffee burnt my tongue.

-22.09.2011

WINGS

Charmed by the rusting old thing

you went there, of wrought chains and a wooden plank
was an old, abandoned swing

Nostalgia caught up with you,
with your highened excitement,
conspicuously, in your heart, it did imbue.

The joy had made you impervious,
seeing this made me a tad bit jelous, but then,
I cursed myself for being so envious

It was delightful to watch you sway
the firm grip on the chains
made sure you would not stray

But you, well, you wanted to fly
And reach the sky? I chide,
The rusting swing can take you only as high.

It’s only the wings that can make one fly, I thought
for them, from time immemorial,
I had valiantly sought.

I see the gleaming intent in your eyes
to transgress, to break free
but I deem the idea to be utterly unwise

Well, you still seem to be impervious
slowly making me more curious, but then,
the idea, unmistakably overzelous

Your ideas are taking their toll,
Your gaze still transfixed upon the heights
the swing, now clearly out of control.

All I hope is for you, not to fall
Your psyche dented, greater would be the pall

My envy turns into pride, I see you go past
Fly my angel, you soar at last......

-sk
08 .03.2011

TELL ME...

TELL ME

I, am made up of stories,
Some narrated, a few fabled,
Others transpired and the rest untold.
I am made up of stories, so is she.
It is not curiosity that beckons her,
Rather the dire need which does.
For, She is freedom, she is the metaphor,
She is free-will,
She is....Hope.
If you’ve had her at the best of times,
Tell me how
If you’ve held her at the worst of times
Teach me how
For She, is Hope; The songs we sing
The tears of joy,
The smell of wet earth,
The stories of inspiration.....
Tell me more about them,
Tell me more such stories,
As I, am made up of stories, so is our world........

-sk
04.02.2011