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Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

The End


Whole night the candle burnt
Spreading evenly it's divine light
The wax melted
Like running water
But the wicker happily burnt
rejoicing the dance of life
Unmindful of its plight.

Suddenly there were crackling sound
The light burnt higher and higher
As it sensed the end was near
the candle was evermore sombre

"I lived my life to the fullest...
then why be sad "thought the candle.
So it burnt with all its might
Rejoicing as the end came near.
Then it flickered hardest one more time
In a bid to say goodbye
One last time to all its friends
Then snuffed out peacefully
With a serene smile
For it had fulfilled
the purpose of its life.

METAMORPHOSIS

The sun, a cauldron of fury shone mercilessly that summer,
Burning the porches and verandahs,
Curling the silent leaves within.

The reluctant children dragged in to take a nap
created more havoc within the burning bricks.

Her delicate, tiny fingers molded Ganapati idols
Out of the clay dug from the corner of children's park.

And all of a sudden the scorching universe
seemed to empty its full fury
over her little butterfly shoulders
heaving like a butterfly's wounded wings.
She seethed from within and ran away from the chattering friends
To her mother sleeping in the room.

Mummy I want to say something
She heard a slight murmur and gulped in hot air for courage
I know I will have to stay inside from now
- like didi
Please mummy, don't thrash me-
I didn't do anything wrong deliberately.

She heard a yell and pushed
herself further in the corner

Your sister will deal with it.
My blood pressure has surged suddenly.

She scurried away, careful
not to be too light on the slight feet.

The butterfly wings, soaked in blood,
Fluttered in anticipation of more fragrant meadows
And drooped, heavy with the weight of metamorphosis.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Mirror

Mirror mirror on the wall
be not proud,
You are but human,
reflecting what I permit you to

Switch off the lights above
My spots and moles are hidden
leaving me softly beautiful

Leave the window open
the sunlight forms a halo
Sainthood forced on me

Sometimes I appear garish
cruel and hypocritical
when lights are in overdrive

Darkness defeats you
my shadow is all you see
Unidentifiable

If only you could peep in
and see emotions raw
Heartbreak and jealousy
Anger , ire and sorrow
Dreams and hopes
Suppressed passions

But you are just a painted piece of glass
Reflecting only what I allow you to.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Beautiful Slave

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jYU9meVXKg

I don’t know where I am
They’ve taken all that I had
smuggled in for a lucrative trade
beaten, bartered
broken in, until I obey
I used to be childlike
innocent and safe
now I’m someone Else's treasure
a stranger's pleasure
smothered in shame
succumbed with drugs
but I’m not numb
all I feel is pain
is this all a dream
will I ever be the same?

can anyone hear me?
will anyone break these chains?
who will free me?
from this dark place?
does God see me?
what is His name?
will He help me?
I’m just a beautiful slave

my worst fear is my fate
I’m getting older each day
every girl too old in years
mysteriously just disappears
they never mention her name
they take away piece by piece
I don’t think I have any left
I’ve slowly given up all hope
given in to this sleepless bed
inside these bars
I feel so seared
by each new face
how could this ever be
every memory be erased?

He can hear you
He’s seeking you,
He wants to heal you
Jesus knows the real you

Jesus Loves The Little Children
All The Children Of World
Red and Yellow, Black and White
They’re Precious In His Sight
Jesus Loves The Little Children Of The World
He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands

27 MILLION PEOPLE ARE ENSLAVED TODAY
80% ARE WOMEN 50% ARE CHILDREN
EVERY MINUTE TWO CHILDREN ARE TRAFFICKED…
…FOR SEXUAL EXPLOITATION
TOGETHER WE CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE

“The Oppressed Will Be Set Free.” –Jesus Christ
Please share this music freely with others.
Use it as a tool to stop this injustice.

Friday, April 17, 2015

Mother

Something pulls at my sleeve--
 in the middle of the night--
 like a tide-- pulling me to shore--
 I rise out of bed and hug--
my mother's absence--
I place a record on her old victrola--
and watch my face spinning around--
 I am a happy child again--
on a merry go round--
The old needle catches--
a strand of her hair she left there--
dragging it around and around--
pretending to be a wounded bird--
 trying to rebuild a nest.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Poets

Poets are never yours. They just belong to their muses. And the problem is anybody and anything can become a muse .
Secondly- poets are insecure. they need constant reassurances that they are good. And you just are at loss on how to reassure them because it will never be enough
Third - Normal conversation is almost gone. You feel like you are dating an English grammar text book. Fourth - They only know to receive compliments , they don't know how to give one. And no writing a poem on how good the last night was doesn't count as a compliment.
Yes poets make you a poet too temporarily , but you lose out on your own identity and aspirations. Because I admit a poet can project his life as an inspiring one, but that is his life you are living, not yours and you don't even get acknowledged or appreciated for that. Yes poets make you aware of many things, but most of all your incompetence . Poets are not liable to make you jealous. They actually have to make you jealous otherwise their art fails and that is my personal take.

Friday, April 10, 2015

Annihilation

Since a while I have Restrained my heart
From listening to its heart
It felt like crying
A bit like dying
But I had been prying
And I didn't let it do
What it wanted to
So I told my heart
U have to be happy buddy
U'd been sad for long already
It didn't reply
Neither looked up to me
But obliged and succumbed
the call Of its heart
into oblivion
I did see my heart Killing its heart All this it did Just for me
And then I saw my shadow
Standing - Shivering- Cruelly..

The Summer Rain

Half the way through to my destination.
Having seen seasons, fifty of each-
Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter.
I feel burdened with memories of days
out of reach.
Why then does this Summer feel so barren,
so heavy with the vapors of memories
bitter and sweet !
Clouding my eyes so often,
this Summer rain washes away the worldly clutters,
making space for seasons new.
To gather more clutter
as I continue in life's journey.
Coaxing myself to live the remaining days few.

Poetry-The Ethics And Learnings

A nameless void sets in
To the poet's heart and to the vicinity
Of his existence from nowhere.

The birds stop singing,
The stream stops flowing,
The breeze stops blowing
And the stream of conscious of the poet
Meets a road-block,
As you depart the scene in a huff.

Now tell me...
How shall you assure the birds
That you have come back and
That you shall not leave them
So that they get their melodious voice back?

Now tell me...
How shall you convince the stream
That you have come back again
That you shall not leave it
So that it remembers the formula of its perennial flow?

Now tell me...
How shall you convince the breeze
That you have come back and
That it should come alive from its frozen state
For the sake of humanity?

Now also tell me...
How shall you
Console the poet
That you have come back for good to him
Who laments inconsolably over the
Death of his quill and spill of the ink. ?

The Summer Wind

In the woods I was lost, feeling like a dust mote in the sky.
In these woods, dark and dreary had I stumbled to die?
The olive groves and the silent trees
Were ruffled by the balmy breeze
The birds fluttered and then with a flap of wings, flew high.

The ghostly trees raised their branches up towards the skies
Through brier and bramble echoed hair raising moans and sighs
The air was thick with lamentation
Before me appeared an apparition
Into a frenzy of sudden activity were thrown the quiescent fireflies.

In his gloomy countenance, his eyes, like twin fireflies shone
At this uncanny sight, I quivered and tripped over a stone.
What was that sound insanely bizarre
Someone plucking at strings of guitar
With work calloused fingers letting out moan after sad moan?
.
Ears pricked to the music, I followed the pageant of the fireflies
Rich voices rose in a lilting song offering me a musical prize.
Ah heavy was not the cost
Of being, in the jungle lost
In the sparkle of the pageant, I forged some, new lasting ties.

Row your boat merrily along , the fireflies danced this message
Why be afraid of lurking demons , and flutter like a bird in a cage?
Why should any apparition
Be a cause for lamentation
Forge ahead,you talented actor, performing your role on life's stage!

No longer drifting like a dust mote I hummed a melodious tune
From behind the trees appeared the bright and proud moon
In the woods I was now on a ramble
Unafraid of brier or bramble
Life had once again become a sparkling and tempting boon.

Complete Autism

I could not explain to anyone else but could to him.
I could put him on my lap.
He would not be listening, seemingly.
That did not matter.
I would talk, do the talking, as he would not or could not anyway. Except in his own language that I and others could not follow.
You see, darling, I would tell him, there are these pieces of paper that matter a lot to people on earth.
Yes, I know you and I are not from this planet. But they are. And they value these pieces of paper highly and assign different values to them. I never understood any of it.
I have to make lots of them to give you and your chichis and mom a good life.
For that I have to stay away from you.
Cos in the place I go to leaving you behind though that makes you and me lose out they give me more pieces of paper for same amount of work I would do here or less and those pieces of paper that I cannot read are ones that can be multiplied into even more pieces of paper here where you are, which in turn supposedly gives you all a better life though i have no idea if it is better or worse.
Do you get me?
He would not reply, of course, Or even bother to look at me, but he would sometimes look at me out of the corner of his eyes and smile or laugh and that was God smiling or laughing, if God exists.
Both of us got nothing except that it was nice to sit there with him on my lap.
Whoever had laughed at me and him had been right.
Just like him I had never belonged
Just like him, almost, those pieces of paper meant nothing to me
We would never amount to anything much, him and me, or if we did it would be by some fluke that people called the grace of God.
But we both valued those times with him sitting on my lap.
Pity that chasing those pieces of paper gave me so little of it and him.
Pity that I was not as far gone as he was to tear them up or make paper boats out of them given the chance.





PS: All the posts in "Autism" and "Rejected Stuff" category are very close to my heart as they are conclusions of the various discussions I had with people of different ages on Facebook.

PPS: This stuff is written by a gentleman and a very good friend of mine.I just did the proof reading and SEO work. 

PPS:It is published here on my blog to spread love,happiness and awareness about Autism.The unique thing about written content is that it is applicable to people of all generations.