The Materialist

To pay for the trouble he was
in his previous life
he emerges from the recycle bin of death.
He walks time and again
taking all possible forms.
At least once in the merry-go-round
he would have eaten his own kind.
Rebirth as un-evolved creatures
doesn't teach him to repent
for the wrongs he has done.
Like a tragedy, he fails everyone
and traverses wantonly in the survival chart.

Those others-yes,
there are always others-
who escaped the throw into the bin
lie low like un-picked litter.
No fun for them.
Never mind.
Their's is a skewed trajectory all their lives.

Another poem about life

Life is a perennial myth
that filters through time
and arrives at our doorstep
with an early morning thud
of a thick newspaper.
The scientific of the minds
would pause
might even take a long pause
and wonder about it.
It is a chain of random events
A stack of delicate dominoes.
Everyone agrees.
But what is close to you and
what has formed you
has already solidified.
Nothing random about it.
It has a name, a belonging now.
Pose a question: What is life?
And there will be answers flying
like frisbees in a mad playground.
The popular ones challenging
everything else and the stronger ones
trying to outdo at least once.
What is its purpose?
This question alone makes up
some of our best and worst moments.
It is told and retold
Assured and reassured
Planned water tight.
But after all this
we would ask ourselves what it is.
And there is silence
with a clock ticking away.
It does keep time
but evades our questions.

Fallen apart

With thick cement holding promise
stones were placed half a century ago
One over the other to make it a home.
Given in now to the onslaught of time
the wooden beams are bent without duress
and creak gently in the ensuing wind.
Don't stand there, I am warned.
They can just jump on to you for support.
As it seems, fate has played a clenched fist
destroying another childish construction on its shore.
One after another, the habitants have left home
preserving a continuity about what is human.
Head of the house, dead long ago.
Daughters, married off to the distance
Warring sons, separated.
Moving on and moving apart.
And the mother is left behind.
Living on little and living little
amidst a violent time
that is weeding out
the remnants of her home.

A regular person

Never been that regular a person.
All the things people say, they enjoy
are lost on me, day after day.
The morning freshness and the
dew drops under first sunlight
never catch up with my late rise.
In both rain and sun
I only run for the nearest shelter.
Not that I disallow little drops
and pencil rays directed at me.
I am largely private to this public display.
Admiration comes only later though.
Living for the moment scares me.
Every thought in me spirals across
to catch up with its ancestors.
I am mostly made of worries.
A modern man, you would agree.
My past and future are in a bitter battle.
And I seek refuge from time to time.
The words that I describe myself with
are so loosely arranged like empty vessels
with round bases in the kitchen racks.
A slight wind could rattle them into noise.

A trapped mouse

A mouse, like the muse
is trapped on stage.
Poetry is read to an audience
largely assembled for Nirvana.
The sweat and toil of the poet
go unnoticed in the evening banter.
The room is filled with
open minds and closed definitions.
No one is driving a point hard.
But even a slight pressure of doubt
could prick the balloons into a burst.
Questions raised, fall on deaf ears
and there is a point made
about the point of view.
The poet's eyes scurry
end to end, across the room.
The mouse moves from gap to gap
entertaining a discerning eye and the muse
sits like a bride, awaiting judgment.

The stranger in you

Whatever you do
There is a stranger in you
Surprise, always kept at bay
Blames you for all this delay.
Push a limit here
Draw your self a little near
There are looking glasses all over
Waiting for you to cross-over.
A form of you, not that truthful
is lurking in the sunny meadows.
A voice from the heart, all rueful
is hiding in a zebra of shadows.
Music from a blaring trumpet of winning
muffles the experience of losing.
All that was well
shoved under the carpet
has dark circles under its eyes
of sleepless inquiries.
To grab a piece of peace
Meet the stranger in you.

Silly machinations

You challenged the old hand of time
With silly machinations of eternity
An age, drunk on youth
on a night out of its mind.
All has come back.
Primmed up for the carnival.
The pain of upkeep of the promises made.
Scars of yesterday's crossing of hearts.
Have a look, will you?
What was loved and hated is on a rewind
In a soulful ripple on the gaping mind
A quiet Himalayan lake.
Never frozen.
Never at rest.