No message

Only search engines know my ignorance
and for others I doodle a brave face.
My search lists must be endlessly repetitive.
I do not know. I have no memory now.
The whole world appears to have
an ear for my key strokes.
But I carry no message.
Sorry. Please log out.

At the periodic table

The moon, a cotton seed behind the clouds
Presides over the expanding night's stage.
Stars, the dim theatre lights decorate the ceiling.
But what is the play about?
It is about non-still life.
And the actors spring like deer in the woods.
It is life all the way.
Listen to the peal of a death squeal.
It only echoes life.
Half of the stage is in dark
while the other is all lit up.
Daydreams and nightmares
exchange their costumes near the dateline.
But what about the dead?
Everything finds its place
at the periodic table decorated with flowers.
Carbon to Carbon. Ashes to Ashes.

Gone for a toss

Whose happiness is greater than whose
And whose sadness will you choose
They are the two sides of the same coin
Heads of happiness have tails of sadness
While the hearts are stuck in the middle
With their vain attempts to sort the riddle
Judgments will be passed, poems written
But to the nightly warmth we all return.
The dawn is without answers in stone
And the struggle starts again alone.
Libraries of answers stacked in memory
Never become the sufficient armory
The shield is lowered, the protection ceased
Hunt is on with the booby traps greased
With all this we grow many layers of skin
And a widely misunderstood sheepish grin.

Our Thoreau

Thoreau of our troubled times
lives in a house with wind chimes.
He sends Email, tweets and blogs
Those are the woods for his jogs.
He holds a PhD in taxation
His life long fixation
He occupies a place in Occupy
Watches TV with a regular sigh
He hears things beyond the drone of Drones
Sees footage of the living and then their bones
Of the far-away land where bomb smoke rises
Where every corner suicidally uprises.
A whistle blower from within, he doesn't rest
Till all the governments are put to test
Post nine-eleven he is the same
Questions the torture methods of shame
He often goes in search of forest and light
Deeper and deeper into the human plight.

Sambar stain

I walk in the rain
Sing aloud in my brain
Sit on a chair with strain
And on my jeans a sambar stain

I am too furious to walk away
My coffee wants me to stay
There's loads of work to do
And the Windows of my mind turns blue

Horror, Horror Mr. Conrad
Everywhere things go bad
A hopeful end hangs by the rope
In the darkness where I grope

I raise my hands in this dance
My difficult partner is Chance
A tango of my travails and none others'
While every dream this world smothers

It rains deadlines. Pouring troop lines
Tonight all who are in this crib
Have nothing else but to crib
Are the stars out of their light?
We don't know and that's the delight 

Scary self

The homeless are scattered
all over the well lit station.
My journey and I
are glued to the seat.
But my eyes jump across
buzz around them like flies.
They become the lamps carried by
guards searching for any missing links.
They turn into gangmen of that moment.
Make sure I am not derailed.
Crumbs of my many thoughts
get entagled in the sweeping beards.
And the cold shadow of my hand
does for a moment care.

The journey resumes.

But I remember the scene.
I grow heavy taking a mental note of it.
I remember to write it down later.
Hand over the lamp to someone else.
A lamp to be held against the darkness
A lamp that shows our scary self.

Return

Birds returning to their nests
draw the boundaries for the night.
For a moment the network is busy
and the air rends with calls.
I give out a call too.
To all those lost and scattered.
In memory and now.
They all assemble.

Every body's home now.