Triumphing alone

Truth must've been written down
in an unbreakable code.
Our methods of attack
stand impish before that elusion.
At times it sheds weight
Becomes more acceptable
to be a dinner conversation.
But normally it is a product
of hard bargain and weird stickling.
It could change people
spring them into action
with all the worldly things.
But alone, it hardly triumphs.
Is there a gravity-like urgency for it?
At least in our imagination it does.
Falling through all the clutter
Missing many of us
It dawns only on Mahatmas.
And we pick up our lives
as if nothing existed.
A sort of triumph.

What it does

Living will do to us, what
amnesia does to an anecdote.
It'll leave us in a limbo
We would be left ourselves
Fending off the world
in our daily drama of survival.
For years to come and go by
being vulnerable wouldn't change.
Silence will age with us
to acceptance and in the end
living would kill us.
But as we burn our bodies
as this candle
we'd have lit the dark corners
of our perspective, this world.
We would have known a little more
about our childhood dreams.
A little deeper we would've traveled
into someone's heart.
We'd have proven to ourselves
the defining theorems of our lives.
And finally a luxury
to leave without a mark.
Without spoiling
the dream of eternal peace.

A Reprimand

So, this is another poem about us?
Memories question me
with a toothless smile.
For so many times
What could you write about us?
They sneer.
Can't you just take a walk or something?
Instead of drawing up connections
between your past and our present?
You don't let us ferment to strength.
Always cautious, you have to step in
and sap the energy out of us.
Lay things straight and be a spoilsport.
The other day you pulled up a memory
of flying a kite for the first time?
Was that really necessary?
You tend to agree that nothing comes out
of such inane remembrances.
But still you bind yourself to them
like a ship to water.
And how foolish you are to poise
yesterday's joy against today's sadness.
Should you be informed again and again
that yesterday has only an antique value.
An invalid coin not fit for circulation.
The geometry and composition of today's things
are different and seems very clear
you are not ready yet.

Masks

I know I haven't changed.
Life turns up heat
and I still take flight
away from it.
Renegade like a lone survivor.
An under current of silliness
and amateur approach
is a well retained cave painting.
There is a mask I wear
along with my clothes.
Fashionable to the current times.
Survival still is my primary goal.
People around
seem to have grown up.
Almost everyone is ready
to take on the vicissitudes.
And their masks seem much better.

Completely blank

We are walking
and our shadows
seem to do the talking.
Those dark forms
pass over the uneven ground
like my thoughts over actions.
A slight drizzle paints a silvery glow
around our silhouettes.
We are spotted by Time
in this passing moment
and dissolved into mist.
Nothing of us survives now.
I could tell you
a thousand other things.
Unverifiable rites that happened.
Forsaken now, those past moments
slip away like the universe.
Distances, when they actually were
could still be a measure of nearness.
Now there is a complete blank.

To be or not to be

A refugee you could be
in the silence of anonymity.
There is nothing wrong
you could tell yourself.
Almost like a personal myth
Go on and opiate your way
and cover some ground.
But look back you should.
There are rivers of fault lines.
Dark forests growing on their banks
and you, wandering like fireflies.
Searching for adequate darkness
where that spark of light you hold
might suddenly be relevant.
The purposelessness of the quest
would swell the coffers of your doubting.
That search needs a name
you might regret.
A home it can go to
in the clamor of wilderness.

Our curious case

We grow backwards in time.
Dream up fantasies as children
about the different paths we could take.
A restlessness to grow up
To be something. To be someone.
Doctors, Lawyers, Engineers, Pilots
Astronauts, Biologists, Travelers
Treasure hunters, Teachers, Farmers
Drivers and Gas station owners.
A world of pretend play in there.
And yet, nothing changes in years.
About us. About the urge to dream.
We are all something in that list
but our eyes are set on the distance.
All the way into the past
To the elements of childhood.
With a mnemonic telescope
we reach farther to our origins.
Past offers us such a leisure
in a continuous chase by future.

Suddenly we burst into
a conversation with ourselves.
We giggle at some memory
lingering in a spot
untouched by time.
Many places from the past
which never closed down.
Like our eyes set on the distance.

Success in love

It is hard to remember
a successful love story.
It slips into a routine very quickly.
A failure: Yes, we could remember that.
Could go on and on
Recollecting, refurbishing the tales.
They would be kept fresh
like it happened yesterday.
There's a price we pay for immortality.

Poetic anger

When breaking away is impossible
When there is nothing plausible
What will come to your mind?
What thoughts would be on the grind?

There is anger, like a mad rage
Opinions shed their plumage.
Sugar coated facts dissolve
And there's nothing eligible to absolve.
What actions will you prescribe to?
Will you wander into knowing
what you cannot do?
Will there be a glimpse of the unknown?

A poetic anger might take shape
A rhyme or two you would ape.
It may soothe you into submission
But will it offer freedom as its mission?

What eludes you into sweaty palms
does the same to all, under its charms.
There is not a single being
which hasn't gone through this grappling.
And of course there is no closure
Just the idleness to saunter.

The seed for extinction

Is always with us
like a shadow
waiting for light
to illuminate it to clarity.
It sprouts like a thousand suns
and slips into our fears
hanging on there and clinging like death
to the coat tails of our existence.
We perform on a grand
Shakespearean stage, this world.
And there are doubts, reasonable doubts
about our abilities as good actors.
We are each others' audience
in a sound proofed island theater
driving itself to a monotone in the cosmos.
A hard bargain, we expect at most
when the crow bar knocks our doors.
Could we slam them on the face of it
by proving how essential we are ?
And how our vaporization
into less than fundamental particles
would have serious consequences.

Poet's feats

A poet multiplies his worries
and they crawl about
like severed heads
searching for their bodies.
In a quandary all the while
he carries with him
something closer to nonsense.
He mixes unholy thoughts
in holier than thou places.
Asks questions obliquely
and sighs are the most common replies.
Poetry for him is a side job.
Never has his work quenched
the pangs of hunger.
Almost a callous attitude he displays
about all the goings on.
And carries on the work
as if nobody is looking.
There are audience sometimes
in really uncomfortable seats
to watch all his horrible feats.

Love in hind sight

Yes, it must be love.
That uneasy proposition I felt
years ago in college.
Those moments of locking myself
away from others
and waiting for something
to take form and knock.
I drew myself into solitude.
and the distance, punishingly
brewed the feelings to utter strength.
That, all that was love,
whether true one or not
dawned an eon too late on me.
I am now up.
Up against the wall of life.
Surviving its travesties
and absolving myself
of the cowardice I once sported.
Not that I have grown
any farther away
towards courage and initiative.
But I now leave in me
a special place for love.
That void, which once seemed
uneasy without a supportive know-how.