Quarks-I
[I]
It has already started
To rain
When
I’ve just started
To learn
Alphabets of Rain
[II]
I keep on feeling
That I think
Something
Thought by all
My outcast thought
Joins
The caravan of thoughts
Caravan
Doesn’t know
Where to adjourn
[III]
Even time contracts
Sometimes
Honey
Aren’t the skew streets of life
Too stretched and too boring to walk?
[IV]
Can you join
The pieces
Of your emotion
It seems just like
A jigsaw puzzle
Have patience
O passionate man!
[V]
I just called
In your cell
To say
I hate you
[VI]
You may visit my blog
And send response
Sir!
I’ve posted
An appealing article
On something
Which may really
Irritate you
Irritate others
And let be irritated
Quarks-II
[I]
Ruined were the friendly oases
This time
Enemy Mirages
Treated us sincerely
Mirages simply told us that
Mirages should not be confused
With water
[II]
Solemn wishes
Were shot to dead
Curfew and blackout ruled
In the village of justice
Nobody knows now
How exactly should a rational behave?
[III]
Today that I walk straight
On circumference of a circle
Let time
Shrink on my still palms
[IV]
Order came
And they opened fire
Bloods drop on the soil
Like Dews
The last sigh
Became
Song of the road
[V]
Nasty efforts
Cannot compel
My story to be faded into oblivion
I could never forget myself
For
I’m not to be
Defeated again and again
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Existential Touch
Climbing
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing
I don’t and can’t see my own footprints
On the giddy white snow
Because I have already left them
Below me. Below my being
They may look like my epitaphs.
Hawks hover around me.
I’m about to hug zenith.
A sudden sound
The mountain explodes
I wake up from my dream
Now
It’s
Reality
Again-
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing…
Of Hypercracy
Hypersimplicity
Of hypercomplex lifestyle
Hypernormalcy
Of hyper abnormal mind
Hyperplane
Of hyper zigzag world
Kills you
Kills me
Kills us
Let’s search our life
Friends
We are lost
In something which is supposed to be
Our enemy’s life
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing
I don’t and can’t see my own footprints
On the giddy white snow
Because I have already left them
Below me. Below my being
They may look like my epitaphs.
Hawks hover around me.
I’m about to hug zenith.
A sudden sound
The mountain explodes
I wake up from my dream
Now
It’s
Reality
Again-
A big mountain
Mysterious blue sky
An awful infinite...
I start climbing…
Of Hypercracy
Hypersimplicity
Of hypercomplex lifestyle
Hypernormalcy
Of hyper abnormal mind
Hyperplane
Of hyper zigzag world
Kills you
Kills me
Kills us
Let’s search our life
Friends
We are lost
In something which is supposed to be
Our enemy’s life
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
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
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