FORTY FIVE : Memories

Years have walked by
dragging corpses of visions.
Entangled in knots of strings,
glistening in the bright lights
Like leftovers of some past,
clinging.

I saw you claw at them,
tearing skin in desperation,
to detatch,
Memories that have taken root.

White bone flashes
when all flesh withered
A torn tattered image floated in the air
listlessly

Dust swallowed you,
now your memories cling to my skin.

FORTY FOUR : The Song

There is this song in my head,
symphony of guitars,
and deep drums.
Stuck somewhere between yesterday,
and the early hours of today.

I cannot remember the tune
or the words.
Nor the place
where my senses picked up the smell
It is there like some old memory
permanently blurred,
faces that were fresh and tunes scrubbed.

I might dash into the song
while it whizzes past my ear.
And I hope it remembers me
and I recollect its face.

And both rejoice the wrinkles
grey hair and bald heads
and dance in circles
while the guitars and the drums,
sound familiar again.

There is this song in my head,
I hope I meet her again.

FORTY THREE : Sands of time

Have you ever really,

tried to hold smoke in your hands?

Or maybe sand?

Felt helpless,

as every grain,

slipped away,



And each wisp,

vanished without trace.



Some days, and milestones,

gone forever,

In years, months, weeks, days, hours?



While you sit,

and fathom,

some deep set recess,

from ages back.



Have you ever really,

tried holding your love in your mind?

Or maybe memories?

Felt helpless?



When you know.

That every grain will ultimately,

Slip away.

FORTY TWO : Dreams are glass

Dreams of sculpted glass,
and memories of mist,
Finger trails of forgotten words,
cracked open at dawn.

Moon slept his hours,
in the arms of a mountain,
while sun washed his seared face,
preparing for another day.

In the moments just before sunrise
when a thin blanket of sleep
tried desperately to cover
the last vestiges of the dreams

The universe stopped and cried.

for all the cobwebs of yesterday,
and the mists of this day break
and the passion and life
evaporated...

I opened my eyes and stepped into my world.

FORTY ONE : The poet

Great flourishes of pen,
Staining paper in black.
Words arranged to give,
Meanings to feelings
Touched inside the heart.

The poet
Paints verses no one understands,
Then stands back and looks on.
From a distance at the pictures.
Realizing with anger:
That what he wrote,
Is worthless in the world.

He vents his anger
Tears the pages
Sets them to flames.
Emotions turning to smoke,
And burning in the pyre

FORTY : Vignettes of the blue sky

Like flowers in a temple
scattered at the altar
rays of light
playing truant on the waters.

Do not wipe reflections
Away form your face
The lines of old emotions
Lighted in their emotions.

Someone had thrown
The sky, overwrought with storm clouds
in the lake.
But with luck
They turned around
And mingled with the waters,
Churning in turmoil
And what emerged is a color
That tinted you and me.

Someone must have seen
Your cry in anguish
And mixed the vast sky
Into the lake where your tears fell

Deep blue, azures like the seas
Your reflection
Unhindered and clear
In the water mixed with the sky.



Ghalib, The Indian beloved, Urdu Odes

THIRTY NINE : Harmony

Like the palanquin, bearing a new bride
Makes it way into a new dawn
So does my life wend its way
Into a new morn.
Yellow sunshine, gilt edged and glowing
Aura around every person
Flute notes floating and mingling with the mist.
New rhythms born out of the morning sounds
Splashed and flung on every branch
Riots of color invading the senses slowly,
Peace, silence and the total oneness
with my world around my aching head.
Slowly tensions flowing away
Harmony –
The return of color,
The end of winter,
The beginning of reunion.
Harmony: my colors from a single shade of black
Passion to live life.



Vignettes