Faces

I look at the silent faces on the street
Some have expressions
exasperation, and others mild wait and tire

I look at my face
In the reflection of a parked car
Do I look serene or a star?

Who cares of the random muse I look
am bemused
tasselled and free

Or am I?

Its a winterless day
mid-February.
Amidst dust and sand
I think of you as I cross the road
knowing you are elsewhere
crossing your own sands of time
 

sages of rage

I travelled far...with the sage
Traversing waters calm and quiet...
Beneath the sea and above the soil
Above the cloud
Yet with turmoil..

I heard the beached whale croon..
and the burling brick swoon
I danced with the raging sand changing hues
I lapped in the sun bathed in angered gold

I laughed...I traversed..
yet I knew no bound
the sun blazed orange
raking the soil
the green mountains slaved smoke
billowing haze.
liquid orange bold

Yet when I dived to stamp
The beaching whales croon..
I saw myriad schools of fishes
dirt blood and stings..
small ones and frail..

last I reached the sand
It twirled.
And slaved..
changing to its light.
delight
and there I met her
dancing in her clinking mad
frenzy..
her jewels shone..
her black hair strewn
Her chilling laughter wafted...
as she brandished her sword
shining slick
dripping red and gold...

Endless Tirades

walking through the silvery streets
where the silhouette are common
and riles so deep
the trash and the thrashing of the random cat
a seldom bark and the beggars sniff
the dark alleys
and drunken whores
The stink of dried blood and
vestiges of puke

What am I doing?
Here
dressed in my satin and lace
These are people
real good and bad
where I : a mere caricature
can find no space

the muck and the ruckus
all in a spate
life is a brazen date
an endless tirade
 

To the good times

 

Drink away

To the merry times of the juvenile

Yore..

When the head was young

And heart not sore!

 

 

Man near say “fie”

Let demons die

And angels cry.

 

When the riley firebrand tames

Not a vestige

Not a garland to shame

To the loathing, of

The dioramic head!

Merry be ye;

Oh lonesome firebrand

A challis to your dreams

Cheers ! Me thinks...

Music For Me

I am a diffident fool
They say!
I cannot sing
For my voice is of a croaking mule.
I cannot in my memory rewind
The lyrics of the best sung songs

I care not..no more...
I want to remember lyrics no more..
for the wind that shakes the maize
is music in its ruffle,
for the sand that churns in the air..
And the ibis that flips...

to the screeching stillness of the
punctured tyres!
To the Cold wind that cuts across the ear
There is music..
which I hear...
too the lisping of the fishes in the sea

there is music in the harp..the lute and the cello
and also in the baritone mellow
that I see with the closing of my eyes
the silence and the stillness is music to me

The craving lullaby..or the blaring of the horns..
Are all the myriad music for thee..
Are music for Me.
 

random muses

If my words I could pen:

Cocooned in a Den,

Scribbled would I ...what?

for my mind he does thwart..

blessed is my wanton heart:

Tarries when I say Sart!!

wanton acts...do not sway...

Let me stray !!

His RED Pajamas

on a bright Tuesday morning
Sipping tea..
From my terrace i see
An octagenarian in his Red pajamas
bald spate!!

I smiled...
Red at Eighty

He brought his paper and bread!
crossed the road..and was dead..
a speeding truck did it!!

there he lay:
in his free-flowing Red
Him and his Red Pajamas

let us not

can we not cling:
to hope.
to light!
to addictions
to joy
a new light?

should we?
need we?
can we just be humans and not leeches

why cling:-
when u can
make:
a new day
a new life
a ray of hope
 yours!

and with every making
take sorrows,
joys anguish and love withal
a new story.
a new tale
all yours
for all!

THE MAN AND HIS MUSE

the poetry will remain incomplete without a Thank you, to a stranger I met at a bookshop... where we discussed: Neruda, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Cooleridge, Southey...Da Vinci, Michealangelo...and so many to name, each had a muse, and each man including some despots we can name had a muse too! this poem is dedicated to all muses and amused..!

The Deep Sunlight

Cascaded...

Slanted

As the cat basked

Slovely Gloriously

                                          He was busy with his Chisel
                                          Admiring His cat
                                          his Muse...
                                          the Amused Sculptor smiled:
                                          Shy, Lovely,
                                          She Could Purr...
                                          Indeed:-
                                          Mused the sculptor!

Bastard!
She smiled
How many had he lain'
Could he keep count?
Could he remember ?
She Knew;
He was the candle..
She lavished
to Dance like a moth.
Like a mad frenzy, she must
Dance to his Chisel..
Bid..bidding..

                                        His eyes roved over Her;
                                        Drawing in every Breath...
                                        Nape to Toes...
                                        Nude  
                                        As the looks locked.
                                        Flushed innocence of a Muse.


"My Demi God"
The mused Amused...!
He had stilled her every where...
In the Mermaids hair,
In the Angels lilt,
In the cupids lift
In the demur eyes,
In the queens brow!
In a mysterious smile..
In a flashing Cherub
Across the seas...across the works
In every works a little more!
she basked...
Smiled ..
Slanted!

                   TIRED  the sculptor abandoned...
                       took her by his coarse hands...
                           The muse was his..
                                His rote to rant!

But Bloods are Dye

its a follow up to :
http://anemboldenedmystique.blogspot.in/2012/11/hurling-cusses.html

Cussess
&@#..@

feels lighter
Better
Like a whiff of smoke
Takein in slow...
Let..out... in circles

Like a Show
Rough
Coarse
Abuses..
Harsh
Raw
Abuses
Flavoured..
Savoured
Abuses

Wounding Deep

Why should I hear?
and not vent at all?
Let me vent the cussess
Hurled and hurdled deep
By the one who hurts
By the one who runs deeper
In the veins like blood
Like a kin
of a second skin.
But kin are blood
thicker than water.
Wine?

I measure softly
tread gently
they are my blood-
I reason
My black soul laughs
Tells me:
they are'nt kins..
They clean not like water.
Cling hurt like dye.
Black-Red.
Cusses are Dye!

Hurling cusses

I am hurt,

and you people:
hurt me more
...



I am crying,
 deep inside
and you rake
you demand
your barbed words
wrench my heart.
I too retaliate!!

not thinking-
uncaring
for the
Consequences.



did you ever ask
why do I hurl
cussess,
use words to swear.



Behave : like a
rough-shod Pseudo man.


we be of one blood
ye and I: I am told
But bloods are dye...

Addiction

A whiff,




ooh Delight.



A Swig,



Tipsy Liberation!



An injected ministration-



A Raving hallucination



addiction



passion



totaling to:



A Six feet under:



a PALE halo of a body



Turned to a



Darkness,



Sheer Devils Delight...!!



.

Sleep

My restless livers...

Tired of measuring life?

You traveller

To sleep I lure you..

Come.

To comfort

To lull you

to rest,

Come.


(for some reason- I cannot give a physical description to the traveller, no matter how much I try)

Dream on

They say...


You are morose:

You put a wall around you.

You bolster when touched.

Deep within

Your clasped.

Your clasps:

you desire to break!

You cannot

You are trapped,

In your thoughts:

Deep raging desires!




To road You Stride

Road to dreams

Passions

Desires

To glory

set in Red.


Tarry:

The world may Shout

Stop, it may Beckon.

Rest it may Scream.



Tarry not!

Travel...Steady

Grim Ferocity

Bright Levity

Stop not till you Reach

And when You do

Smile:

For all the Rage

Shall be spent!

Dreams fulfilled.

Embrace loved!

Glorified Red.

Let me be instead

The Khamsin travels
far across
with the desert winds
swirling sand
swirling the gold...

The weary warrior travels...
Tired ...
Dying...
Fatigued....
No Mirage..
No green Love...
No Holy pastures lure....
No watery respite.
The Sun cruel like the sword
Strikes with its rays of light
Shades of gold-black,
scald the skin
Roughened weathered..
Beaten!

Relief:
She stands:-
Mocks
Lures,
Tempts.
Laughs in Derision!!

Death:
She smiles
Gentle as the lover's kiss

The traveller smiles:

The soul:
Stares..wanton...
dying to yearn
To the lover's arm.

Death beckons...
The lover smiles..
The traveller walks
Into the gentle arms...
Peace reigns
The khamsin rests

O! Traveller:
I envy Thee:
Take my life,
I give mine to Thee..


*Khamsin: Storm in the desert