Poem I

During the bitter sweet nights, of moon and mint,
Besides shapeshifting dunes of timeless sands,
baptized by careless flames of her silk and breath,
That night, on Altar, I was sacrificed.

As the last flutter, before the bird is seized,
feathers ceded to fuming agony of her crown;
with blood poured into golden caskets of fate mongers,
the body of the outcast dragged to the shores.

Beyond sullen mountains and grizzling clouds,
sight of the my Lord glide upon the carcass.
leaving it adrift, on the great pilgrimage,
dissolved in absolution, lost in ravages of time .

The Choice that ever was.....

Yesterday I missed. Better not make a habit out of it.

The day started as usually, albeit a little chore sprang up out of nowhere. It consumed nothing more than 20 minutes but landed me pre-maturely in front of my office in face of a locked door. I have seen this spectacle at least five times now, and I do not really look forward to it.

How much human soul is battleground for inner struggles. I have learned that most of our work area is constructed with in benign boundaries of society and civilization. To learn is not essentially to follow. The Colosseum of life, is it? Men fighting like gladiators while spectators hoot or clap waiting somewhere with a hidden inevitable perception that they have their own armours to follow. Few who would remain standing, few who be raised to dust. But is is not a time to wait and marvel. It is the time to move and follow. It has been taught the only way to exist.

But sometimes there is a greater battle going on inside the flesh and sweat. Unavoidable, sustained, relentless. Where every spectator is masked but hides the same face. There is only one gladiator. How man times we rise and fall in front of our own eyes. How many times the pain is same even when we are the sole witness of the victim, that is us. How important it is? Can its philosophical implication lifted above the great battle of existence? Or is it not the fundamental battle for existence?

A lonely man is a huge battlefield. Everyone is a hero in his own right. He may not have bled or sweat in the field but has fought even bigger battles to stay away from the fields. We are all eternal fighters. We need not be heroes for the others of our kind. We need to be heroes for ourselves. Staunch your knees and stand to face the gales.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There are many thoughts that go through my mind like an arrow slithers through linen. They are quick, they pass by. There are things to be done. More important than anything faced before. Then comes the harrowing thought that this may not pass. The past chases me. It will all come to a similar end. To have the choice on the way we could die, does not make things easier. But it may come as a boon to someone who is being slaughtered, and gets a choice of heart attack. It makes things easier to accept. Likewise, choices in life does not alter our fate, they just make things little more acceptable. It is how we choose to live life; live life we have to. It is to make us believe that it was us who chose that path so whatever befalls. While fate behaves like an overgrown lion, not letting us know that he had ways to make us tread the same path if ever we had chosen otherwise. We all will still thinking the same- our decision.

This is not discouraging. To face our fate should not be discouraging. Its like a man meets his Lord. Its a pilgrimage leading to the final showdown. And it about the flowers we plucked on the way together.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am standing before a giant abandoned mausoleum.Desecrated. We have condemned our masters. We have constructed our own edifices. We have made ourselves what we started out with. We ended up in this purgatory. We achieved.

It is time to stand front against our worst fears. Because it will come silently and swiftly. But it will come. We cannot cheat our destiny.

Terra Incognito

I face many choices. Many times, deciding to write is not an easy decision. In fact, it is not only my decision, but also of those who may read it. I may itself kick the idea of a reader and contain myself in the world of black and white. Then why would I be publishing it on the Internet? I may as well shoot myself throats up, who cares. But the fact is that if you are reading this then at last someone has reached my blog. I may better not serve candy bars in spaghetti!

The day has already wearied down. The sun had been eclipsed my stratus clouds for a better part of noon. I know it will not rain. We are again playing poker with the weather Gods. Not the best time to shake my head of apparent somnambulance, and sit down to update an infant blog, I created moments back. Would not it sound amazing for a man reduced one fourth of his length due to absolute absence of sleep, standing on a precipice with both hands dangling as if some creeper has suddenly lost its grip, and shouting "Its time to rock and roll!" It will certainly not boil a mosquito's borrowed blood.

Still, it is a moment of glory. If the whole purpose of a blog is reduced to mundane ramblings, I do not see how far I can go. If I do, I do not see how far WE can go. The word with capitals matter. I can say my life is thriller, a roller coaster of a life, a story no one should miss. But my Lord would not fail to lash after hanging me butts up on the gallows, come Armageddon. A lie should not so drastic. Then why are we here for?

I think for our instinct to share and communicate. Certainly some new things. And I have many of them hidden more in the gray dome, just beneath my skull, than in my closet. In a moment, the world appears to be full of unimaginable beauty, skillfully carved into tapestry of hues, smudged in purple and yellow with a fresh coat of mint. As if clear streams somewhere flow through myriad of thin tree stumps clearing a shelter for butterflies and toads, carrying with it strawberries and cherry colored petals wobbling down stream. I call this with smell of fresh apples over bed of yellow dandelions. The sky should be blue and cold. The sunlight should be yellow and warm. Bottom line is, I have yet to see such a place and most liberal stretch of imagination warns me that such places may be aeons away from me. So what, at least there is such a place that matters. It gives me hope, and it gives me reason to live. If I get it, it would completely spoil it, as Adam did to Eden.

Then with a slight shiver of terror I see how my worst fears of dystopia are slowly being realized. A stench filled
underground stream revealed through sparsely grilled gutter holes, hidden by absolute absence of sunlight, people scramming through pigeon holes into houses much like concentration camps. Voluminous clouds of smoke channel through concrete termitariums, low bass propaganda voices sliver through the smog filled air. The sky will be black and cold. There shall be no light. Eden is finally conquered.

This is not a convulsive harangue. If you look at both the scenarios, it is writer's paradise. As long as we do not live in it, every other world is a marketplace for sheer terror of sublime beauty. It is the feeling that there is something else beyond our comprehension, something on a large scale engulfing the whole concept of humanity in a single embodiment of imagination, like a giant silver sphere over an eternal ocean - it give our mind a little feel of fresh air, and our soul a little more space to dance.

It is also beginning of the story. Threads over which relations are formed and morals are born. Much of the essential intercourses of our species do not take place in the world we live in. Much of the feelings we unravel find their truest disposal within the universes captivated inside hollow tunnels of pulsating pink thing within your ears. It is far more brilliant and illuminated, full of sparks shooting and dying on a roller coaster ride. The primal Terra Incognito lays within. Welcome to the starboard.

Its Time to rock and roll!!

Finally I have a blog.........Ah!