Where are leaders?
As in Chess, the pawn falls first,
in all games of sides;
and keep falling, paying with our lives,
for shadow-gods and play-heroes,
hiding behind,
an immaculate curtain,
of engineered words;
or capitalized antics.
Had their promises held,
any honest substance,
the pawns wouldn't fall as much,
and if they did, it would amount,
to what it actually is:
destruction of life, it's betrayal.
Where are our leaders?
Not the ones puffed,
with media gravitas, sitting snugly,
on a coveted chair,
but the ones that really cared,
enough to draw visions,
instead of mere images for display?
And if history is taught unaltered,
to a posterity we have already failed,
they would learn of five countries,
inherently great, but plundered,
by vicious "leaders", at the same time;
and a global body of lies,
stooging for one of these vicious men.
-
Social Experiment:
An arrogant man once called,
all of love a sham,
something utterly unneeded,
and proclaimed he would never love,
neither had he ever,
not even the blood that birthed him,
only to get locked up alone,
by the great prophets of feelings,
in a room with just a vase,
of tiny plastic flowers in purple,
on a shrub of fake green leaves.
The last laugh wasn't his,
when they caught him,
a week into the isolation,
watering the make-believe plant,
everyday as he woke,
blank eyed and lost.-
Corners:
There are things,
around all corners
and it might be time
we found peace with it;
Let's not jump out our skins,
the next time fate "boos" us,
and trips us off-guard,
or get carried away,
when we find the love of our lives,
around the brick wall at the junction.
Next time a ghost pops out,
ask for it's story,
ask a backstabber to leave,
before your back begins to bleed.
Take home the stray cat,
around the corner,
tip the old man vending fruits.
Watch for fires and raging cars.
Watch for misery.
Watch for the heavy clutches of death.
Watch for hovering pixies of joy.
Watch for bloody Covid.
Next time, watch out for the corner,
there's a universe around it's angle.-
Orange Juice:
Some silences,
are like ripe oranges;
the poet's mind,
like the hand that blankets them,
in a crushing twinge;
and his words,
the sticky,
sweet-sour nectar,
that oozes with a pricky aftertaste.-
Bird Bath.
Today, out my window,
I saw a rain-puddle,
laced with bathing Mynahs,
in all their glorious din,
and golden eye-caps,
fluttering in inflation,
deflation and croaks;
blissfully oblivious,
to a tiny young Thrush,
that landed into their midst,
for a drink and a bath himself;
The Mynahs even seemed,
to make space for the little stranger.
As if appeasing his fear,
of the bigger, more numerous birds.
At that point, I realized,
from the impressive catalogue,
of lessons,
nature had in offer for us,
we always chose,
the wrong ones to learn.-
The Revolutionary's Son.
*Poem in caption.
*Shoshin: Zen Buddhist term for "beginner's mind", an openness, eagerness, wonder and lack of preconceptions about learning something, even if the person is an expert.-
Noose Mark:
I know he will break your trust,
and hurt you, enough to kill you.
He means to repay,
the patience of your purity,
with a noose mark on your neck.
I won't let it be.
I have to hide in ambush now,
as your choice of trust,
found the wrong human.
But my plans were silent.
I won't let you stay afraid,
though you cannot escape,
the first fear that will mortify you,
as you've walked this far along,
a misled path.
I shall take over by then.
We will foil his plan.
We will put the noose on him instead.-
I split into two
in our last rain together;
the part that couldnt stand the pain,
ran away with my body,
wailing for help.
The rest of my ghost,
is stuck here,
melting in the winds,
twirling in a Moebius strip
of hope and abject desperation;
The winds that swim with me assauge,
saying we will get back,
what we have lost.
They swear on the day.
They swear on the night and the dying grass.
They swear on black and silence.
But what I want,
is a bigger promise,
in a language I don't understand;
So the hope is inviolable by the lack of it.
Something else has to tell me,
that all is not lost;
maybe the mare you rode away on,
will bring you back.-
What is it with perspectives?
A man once told me,
one was the most alive,
when the summit of all pleasures,
was reached;
and another man that one,
was the most alive,
when a heartfelt desire,
to die was reached.
Ominously, I could feel,
truth in the words,
of both the men alike.
*Dichotomy.
-
On Poetry:
Poetry begins with,
and is about emotion;
but is perfected,
only by the insights,
and ideas that branch from it.-