Poems on Gyration

Lone Pine Tree & Her Dazzling Embroidery on Table Cloth

Lone pine tree noiselessly stands on awkward shoulder of uneven northern hill. Old eunuch sun puts on her cosmetics of curvy young clouds.

Last time when I saw you and talked with you (might be, without your willingness), what I found was a totally different you. I sincerely discovered that time; I was not the same person who used to be once before that. So, you are no more that simple girl. Even I am not that simple guy.

Reference frames have shifted for both of us now. And with no doubts, frames shall be continuously shifting and changing for all of us.

I thought for a while that we are now gentle puzzles. Who will solve us, I never know.

Blood rush inside curved veins. Attitudes, too. Reflection and refraction of motion search for equilibrium of something which ought to be always unstable.

I was talking to her in a rainy evening. I was just simply drawn mad seeing her dazzling embroidery done on her white table cloth. As if that whiteness of table cloth is aperture of faint hope as well as down memory lanes. So many easy straights mix up together to generate tough arcs of feelings and emotions. Stories. The show must go on - this unawkward and stereotype slogan seldom measures the radius of curvature of small things.

Straight droplets of water strike slant on the bare forehead only to remind your skew existence. Intercourse of straights produce locus for gyrations.

We are bound to admit- Nothing is straight in the world. Even straight lines aren’t straight.

Trees, roads, houses. Thoughts, feelings, words. They are gyrated. All are gyrated.

We are the lost wanderers of patterns of her embroidery. Technology has simplified our lifestyle. But not life. Economy kidnaps all and all are made prisoners of system. Poison may taste sweet. Alcohol of gossips liberate semiconscious minds. But what about reality of hyper impulses while in normalcy?

Lost Centre of Gravity

A curvy bird
Rests on a twisted trunk
And sings
An irregular song

Skew are the thoughts

Everything is tilted
Table, chair, bed, dishes, shoes, books, TV, PC

Ups and downs are there in every road
Of the world

Steep are the hills
Gyrated the experiences

Feelings are toppled
Nothing is unputdownable
Here

Topsy turvy words
Mischievous eyes

One leg hangs from the sky
Another sprout from soil

One-eyed dog is made to bark
To the microphone
In the recording studio of
An irritating band
For a song of rabies

One cannot stand alone
Falls down
If others don’t let their shoulders
To keep the hand there