Getting ready

I can't quite place it
But there is something in the air
May be the elusive optimism?
whatever it is, hiding from me is unfair.
Can't locate the place it happened
But it's happening where ever I go
I don't turn any head except mine
But there is some spotlight on the go.
Is age secretly catching up with me?
I put my foot down heavily these days
As if preparing for the rest of the journey
I am going the foolhardy ways.
The rest of the world
is appearing to be nonsense
Unless I am in love
this shouldn't make any sense.
I am telling you
There is something happening here
From being that droopy bozo
I am filled with more mojo.

The other end

He thinks about the past
pacing about in the winter clothing
walking from the farthest end of his life.
He goes back and forth
seeing himself in variety of clothes
Sweaters, mufflers and caps
hugging his cranium for life.
He was fond of the warmth in winter.
Not just with the attire.
People snuggled closer, offering
something or the other as talk.
He would take the mufflers
out of the almirah
wrap around in a snaky fashion.
He could do many designs
drawing smiles all across the room.
They were children then.
Jealousy grew faster and often erupted
into fights about the best sweater.
The blood red Christmas stars were hung
in the porches of the believers.
They waited eagerly for the New year
when the silent passage of time.
was drawn in colored lime.

All ye men!

Their fates are Siamese twins
They can't escape each other
Their breakup needs surgical precision
Some can afford the risk.
Others tend to believe in after life.
There is a gleaming white light
when one meets the other.
It blinds them into love.
Now that they have fallen there
they search around
for other blind spots.
You are going straight
to your hazy destination.
You make the right wrong turn and
what you see thumps your heart.
Once they are together they want to be alone
Till then they are the most social of the sty.
Now and only now, they need a spot
To kiss under the moon looking at the sky.
They draw the modern impressionist paintings
the next day in the class. What is with them?
All ye men, do you get these soul mates?
By the way, where do you get these sour grapes?

The tip of the iceberg

The tip of my mind--
A solid block floating aimlessly
has remained the same since my school.
I have accumulated all the ice
in some other direction.
I sat through many self-help sessions
without taking my mind out of cold storage
Mending me was in vain.
What would some one do to an iceberg?

Titans with their Titanic tricks
have crashed into me
only to wreck havoc.
The water level rose.
Rose with time like the city buildings
l am above all of it
floating in the sea of stupidity
Eternally, untiringly and
holding high all that is me.
A humble representation
of the frozen inside.

Taxiing

When there were no wings
I intended to fly.
That was an end of my childishness.
An early form of escapism.
Only stars filled my dreams then
there was place for myself
and my family, for the sake of completeness.
Like all sleepy children I dreamt
One day I would establish the contact
going really fast in a space plane
and may even have a chat with the master
about the goings on in his aquarium.

My dreams are only claustrophobic now
They seem to ground me right when I have
the strongest reasons to take off.
There is too much logic in me, in this world.
And I am eternally taxiing.

Only in writing

Happiness doesn't increase
nor the potency of sadness ebbs
by one writing away methodically
in an origami of expression.
Though written about
the flowers wilt.
Written otherwise
the situations tilt.
Memories, monuments protected
closer to your heart
slip away, as if shunning
this constant puncture of blankness.
You own them for a while
Soon they disown you.
Lose you in a busy market place
bade you good bye, in a variety of ways.
You catch some through writing
store them in a smoke jar for future.
They plead for an escape.
Their deliverance is never satisfactory.
Only in writing you promise them
anything and everything.

Chickening out

Nothing changes between them.
The man and God.
The Chicken and Egg story.
Sitting in circles
Going in circles
in an endless pursuit.
Too far into the creation now
neither can look back and say
they could have done it better.
Whatever was done, is done.
So be it. Both would storm out of
their rooms for fresh air
Tired of it all
Creating each other, finding fault
Perfecting, filling in the cracks
Going hay way into non-believing, and later
generations coming back, disbelieving.

Dinner plans

After gazing for hours at the stars
atop the terrace of a village home
I used to go back to sleep
To the narrowness of life.
Years later, I visit the sea
Excitedly pick up a handful of sand
and walk a while along the coastline.
Waiting for the Sun rise, I would spend
some anxious moments for a cosmic routine.
Children building castles
threw sand in the air.
Who didn't shed few tears then?
Naming the forts they built
under the rising sun, they were ever ready
for the breakfast call.
Easily, they wipe their hands off
this experience, never realising
how important it is.
Though I now know the importance
Nothing much I can do about it.
Other than walking briskly towards home
With only dinner plans in mind.