His way, her will

Will you bathe him and wash away his sins?
Will you touch his soul to see what happens? 
Will you turn your face aside if he leaves?
Will you scream out in delight?
Will you share that space between you and him?
Will you two survive?
Or will you raise a stink?
Will you blame him if your fate fails?
Will you let promises pale?
Will you be honest in your vengeance?
Will you be substantial, spirited and strange?
Will you remember not to remind him of his failures?
Will you succeed in keeping him alive?
Or will you watch him die? 
Will you trick him into the lost art of believing? 
Will you scratch his proverbial surface?
Will you sing songs from the past?
Will you dance even though he came last?
Will you do what has to be done?
Will you overlook his vain remarks?
Or will you pretend to listen? 
Will you abandon yourself?
Will you run against the odds?
Will you rein in for a bit?
Will you dream along?
Will you rhyme with his wrongs?
Will you understand why he's sitting on his hands?
Or will you stop existing for once?

OK

Calm down,
get up,
walk beside yourself,
look ahead but don't stare and hurt your eyes.
Not worth the unease, you see?
Don't talk if you don't wish to,
just make sure you aren't still
or dead
or consumed by memories.
Whatever happened shall make you strong
—if not stronger;
wait and vouch for the future.
In case possibility reckons, do destroy your own negative thoughts:
nothing more, nothing else. 
Trust me, it's alright.

Unfinished verses

Once upon a rhyme, there was a poem waiting to be written. So many things happened around it but nobody came close to finishing it. Perhaps the literature was conspiring against the poets. Whatever be the excuse, the poem never got penned in its entirety. Since it couldn't fully take place, it couldn't fully die either. Immortality stayed out of question. As an aftermath, it remained hanging somewhere in the middle. For what words are worth, it still is. The world seems to be falling apart and whatnot. But it is yet to fulfill its destiny. Something doesn't feel right but who's to blame? And everybody in the room is leaving happily ever after.

Hopeful and all

Someday, 
not very far away
from where we are today
A light shall burn our bones
and set us free
in order to guide us home
where we wanted to be.
The voice from within
will touch our ears
and make us hear
what can't possibly be seen.
Little needs to be changed
not now, for a while, never again,
a case of disgust and unease
an unrequited war for eternal peace.
If at all. Maybe.
Yesterday was an attempt at past
as expected, it couldn't last
— long enough to breathe
life into the soulless breeze
or make a dream turn true.
Someday, 
not very far away
from where we are today
A light shall burn our bones
and set us free
in order to guide us home
where we wanted to be.

If we could...

If we could smell poetry, 
If we could see music,
If we could touch others' pain,
If we could hear their eyes rain, 
If we could taste sunlight,
If we could run wild, 
If we could do what we really like, 
If we could believe in ourselves,
If we could depend on no one else,
If we could speak our mind,
If we could age like the wind,
If we could smile, 
If we could stand up for our rights,
If we could wait for sunrise,
If we could remember our past life,
If we could overcome desires,
If we could settle for less, 
If we could breathe a bit deeper,
If we could feel the dark sunset,
If we could hold hands,
If we could let our souls dance,
If we could share,
If we could cry without maudlin,
If we could laugh without malice,
If we could, we'd have done a lot more than this.

Poetically challenged poem

This may not look like a poem
But trust me, it is
Although too coarse and unrefined  
It has all the ingredients necessary.
Check.
These lines are speaking to your soul
Like no else ever did 
No, really
Your mind shall realize it a bit later
But trust me, it will
Being in a lecherous relationship with words 
For months and years and more
They've learned to listen to me
They'll listen to you too
All you've got to do is shut up and read
Anyway, what your eyes are going through is poetry
In its purest form
In fact, formless 
In this particular case—senseless
Whatever.
This poem could have been subtler but what's the point?
Who cares?
Other than you of course.
But then, you've got too much time on your wrist to waste
On my verses
Thanks indeed.
You're encouraging a groundbreaking phase in literature. 
Just so you know.
Never before has prose sashayed so bizarrely as now
This may not look like a poem
But you've accepted it
You just don't know it yet. 
Aren't you silently wondering?
Yes, you are.
What more proof do you need?

Birthday girl

The white flower placed over her ear

greets you even before her face does the same;

Some personalities are loud, some insane,

Many are considered few amongst the rest,

Some are overlooked nonetheless.

But she's neither of them: unique yet not subtle.

She talks with the command of an age she hasn't grown yet

— youth and life and pain and strife and truth;

In any case, you end up listening to what she has to say.

It's difficult not to pay attention when her questionnaire makes your day!

There's a mischievous laughter that echoes

despite her words not intending so.

Maybe that's the beauty of an innocent soul, 

coiled inside that cast of a tough modern girl.

The classic maternal touch is evident like a 24-hour sun

When she feeds you while you pretend to be famished,

or about to die

and even when you're not.

All you've got to do is ask and whine a bit,

her drawer never disappoints you.

Like her heart and eyes, it's always full...

Perhaps finding a friend with food is oasis personified.

Perhaps finding a good friend today is life personified.   

NB: This doggerel (if you don't wish to call it a poem) is dedicated to Avantika, a dear friend and a lovely colleague.

An incomplete poem

This is a poem. It might not appear so but it is. What you're currently suffering is an accumulation of several random thoughts that would have loved to be expressed in rhyme or a limerick but thanks to my limited skills, they seem content with being prosaic than poetic. Let's just say: This is how poetry in demotion looks like. Whenever my thoughts digress towards an incomplete poem, i somewhat try to stick to the plan of finishing it off in one stroke. In the meantime, my mind plays with the voices it never hears in the first place. However, that idea never materializes. Something has to happen in the middle of nothing and I'm left with everything but excuses. This is an excuse too.

Others

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They don’t know what your eyes have witnessed
They don’t know where your mind got lost
They don’t know how different things are
They don’t know who’s responsible
They don’t know whether you’re right or wrong
They don’t know what your skin has gone through
They don’t know in which direction your fate lies
They don’t know when you’ll find the light
They don’t know whom to pray to
They don’t know why your tomorrow shall end
They don’t know what you could have been
They don’t know you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

An untitled work of molested art

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Attention: Whoever penned the following magnum opus is definitely not a poet. Whoever thinks otherwise deserves to be my friend.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A poem badly written remains so
Whether the scribbler likes it or no
Words throw jibes at his perseverance
While verses struggle to make sense
Sometimes the ideas turn renegade too
As emotions are denied and stanzas rue
During such moments, life is like a simile
Cut loose from figure of speech with glee
Under the wall of ceaseless expectations
Over the bridge of limited conventions
Nowhere to go yet left all loose
Lacking humour it can so damn use
Meanwhile, an innocent page stays old-schooled
For rhyme’s sake, poetry gets fooled.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
P.S.: It feels so great to be friends with folks having such bad taste in literature!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Felt by me

If only words knew what i wanted to say now,
I must be lonely forever or I am in love....
missing all the moments, the sweet little time
with you and your smile that brightened my life!
It must have been a dream or some spell
that I saw your eyes and couldn't tell
whether it was a mirage or was it real
but whatever it was, it was deeply felt....
and i guess i must be in love with me
I must be a narc and I just can't see
the beautiful spark in your eyes,
your honest beauty and my wicked lies.

I care no more

No more nests to build, no more seeds to spill
I care no more
of love and pain and change and shame
I've walked too long with my head intact
and my draining brain and my stupid lines
can't stay the same with my face of ole
need to paint a life i never knew

No more woods to carve, no more water to draw
I care no more
of hatred and rain and sun and bane
I've touched that canvas of reasoning in past
and have seen with my eyes how wrong i am
won't give a minute to my sorry state
will move on and move long afar

No more repairs needed, no more words to preach
I care no more
of trust and fray and loss and game
I'd heard some tales of my gods up there
the mistakes they did and their lies
now i need no god, no words to chant
I'll create my image on the drooping sunlight.....

Life of his own

He knew not how to sin
or how to break hearts in twain
all he did was spoke his mind
and left the devil to win,

he went alone in and deep
he cried but laughing was his meat
enjoyed the voice of shreking smile
rather than stay calm as clam,

he rose with the sun
and slept with the moon,
toiled with the breeze
and sweat in the noon

he was not what folks made
he stood for right and plain
had no reason to do otherwise
he told no truth, he told no lies,

he was well aware of death
and all the reasons it takes
but still he wanted to do his best
to keep his chin up while he's dead.

Truth spoke last night

A wind of change whistled quietly
adjusting itself around the hurdles
nothing came in between
no one called to stop it
all went swept and strayed
it doesn't happen very often
but the way it did was strange
people shook themselves up
talked aloud and made a vow to change
it was then when we heard
something being said, something being done,
something for the good,
something for the love,
something for the kids
this wind changed to a storm very soon
and roared in its full rage
all were awakened, some from laze,
some from silence and some for grace,
it was a sight to behold,
it doesn't happen every day,
when people come out to see air
and find its voice in their ears,
while hope gives way to life,
and makes its presence felt,
that goodness prevails even today
and pain make hearts melt,
no one would forget such a sight
whne truth spoke last night.

Bests among the rest

The best of minds may not be slated on the first bench,
just like the best criminals are not found in a cornered prison,
the best of musicians might be busking under a dirty bridge,
the best of writers may have a weak pen,
the best director could be well walking around with a handycam,
the best of hope may fall in a beggar's bowl
the best of footballer may not have a boot to spare,
the best of sages may be in the deepest cave,
the best of all singers may be hiding in his bathroom,
the best of teacher could be the one using the least of rod and more of eyes,
the best of trancriber might be sleeping while the audio loads on,
the best of lawyer may not have swindled many,
the best of driver may not have driven downhill,
the best of GOD may not have seen Earth at all,
the best of artist may not even know his masterpiece,
the best of love may not have touched you yet,
the best of confusion may be created out of calm,
the best of friend may not be in the crowd,
the best of words may be waiting for silence to occur,
the best of food may not conquer your hunger,
the best of nectar might not have been in those bosom,
the best of engineers may not be a foreign stickler,
the best of Indians might have not taken birth in India,
the best of doctor might be drinking well water,
the best of snaps might have never seen the studio's darkness,
the best of questions may not require the best of answers,
the best of best may not be best anymore, any less!

A girl's tale

You must have seen a few roses bloom

With beauty insane, ending up in tomb

I aren't that thorn, mind you again,

Lying across the soil under cloudy rain

Life is tough and it can’t change

Much has been said, little for gain

Looking at me, you’ll see

A damsel in no need of a frog indeed

Nor a knight on horse to feed,

Nor any luck to smile on me,

Nor this to crave nor that to see,

I’ll fly as I am, as free as a bird

And do the things the way I need

I was free, I am free, I’ll free

Till the day my wings are clipped,

My hopes aged and death on street!

Birthday thanks

Some days are long, some go too short,

but in between, a few, keeps the rest apart

very unique, serene and subtle,

These days stands tall on our year' crown

when our friends are born

may be, this day took quite a long ago

lost in the mist of history, left nowhere to go

when the Great Hands thought for a change

this friend of mine happened on such a day

she might have been angelic then

but she hasn't been any less graceful hence

life has its corner, its no empty circle

things take place in a spate of chance

world and its rules leave no time to see,

the beauty behind our birth, its endless mysteries

we are dragged on and we move too fast

having no question to ponder or ask,

we earn a few friends that stand along

some due clouded in mundane stroll

This day is too short to celebrate this gift

every moment's in debt to that heavenly deal

when he thought it right to twist in trends

and let you end up as my lovely friend!