A muted whimper

I found him canned,
Ashes collected from a burning pan
Of once a bold body tanned
Memories hang by of his clan.

Spent years,
Wasted time,
In a wasting body,
End thus quietly.

Eyes dry,
With no more tears to cry.
Lingering moments,
With no more lovely presents.

~ Trilok ~

Fractured mind

A million dreams
In a zillion worlds
Fragmented
Demented
I am.

Give me a hand
Hold me back
For I am a fraction away
From the world of no return.

I can’t let go
My fears and the pain
Wounded
Wrecked
I am.

It’s but all deep in my mind.
~Trilok~

In my imagination

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I’ve been so lonely forever,
I feel this pain so deep, for how long, I am not so sure,
The winds rustle on the empty branches of autumn,
As I walk on the deserted road that leads me no where.

I remember you, driving into my heart
Guarded tight by a red light,
Love was just a sweet accident,
Victims, we were of that winter incident.

Months later, we were just recovering,
For those were welcome wounds,
We never wanted to heal from,
Pain for us was a blissful serum.

Seasons moved on before us without reasons,
Breaking the  trance we were in.
Moments clung on hopelessly like raindrops on windshield
Until a winter saw us drifting far apart.

Left are just fragments of memories
Suspended in a broken mind,
Replayed endlessly behind closed eyes;
A figment of my imagination, it was, maybe!

~Trilok~

Poetry – Are you mad?

Someone asked me – Why do people write poems? Why do we need poems? I do not read any? I read lots of novels. I listen to music, songs, hip hop, rock, even rap. But never a poem. The last time I read one was during my early school days when I was taught a few.

I told him – Sane enough. Poetry is never meant to be read in any case. It is written as a means of expressing one’s own deep feelings of love, of hatred, of victory, of failure, of elation, of depression, of betrayal, of fear. Ask me what not! Poetry is a private affair. It’s a love between the creator and the medium of recording. They make love and out of that wedlock emerges a creation. For some it is music, for some prose, for a few others poetry. They remain sometimes as timeless pebbles underneath the ocean, sometimes discovered and shone light, to bloom and on its flowers the bees sit, sing and get drunk, carry a few pollen along with them spreading the song, new plants are sown and new flowers are born, by when the one which bloomed first might have wilted and gone, the fragrance still lingers on the stone, only to be washed away by an angry river, later picked up again by a curious kid in another land, in another era, to be felt, smelt and reborn. Its …

I was interrupted – You are mad!

I said – I guess I am. Wait, I had not finished yet…

Wild Flowers

Your favourite flowers I planted,
From the lotus to blue lily; disenchanted.
A few bloomed – bright and fragrant,
But they all withered on your idol silent.

I know the flowers in nature they bloom,
Smell like an open bottle of perfume.
Worldly flowers those but later fade and drop down,
Like the mortal life we seem to own!

But now wild flowers in my garden,
Raise their heads all of a sudden,
Where they came from
Tell me Hey Lord of this asylum?

Where can I find
Eight blossoms of an unknown kind?
Its colour I have seen never,
Nor the odour smelt prior.

Those strange flowers of your creation never wither
When I gather them in my heart like peacock feather
From then on, in tranquil blue waters I float,
With my senses under control like a hermit’s boat.

My tolerant eyes now drink unceasing compassion
My hands fold in truthful confession.
My mind drifts in divine meditation,
When the soul melts in peaceful salvation!

~Trilok~

This poem talks about the eight flowers to be offered to God described in Bhagavatham. They are (1) Ahimsa (Non-violence), (2) Indhriya Nigraha (Control of senses), (3) Sarvabhootha Dhaya (Compassion towards all beings), (4) Sathyam (Truth), (5) Dhyaanam (Meditation), (6) Shanti (Peace), (7) Vinaya (Humility), (8) Bhakthi (Devotion) and we thought the flowers to be offered were the ones from your earthly garden.

The Knock on the Door

Knock knock knock
Someone’s knocking on the door with a rock.
1 A.M. chimed the grandfather clock,
Who’s opening the lock?

We are all drunk,
With a bottle of Old Monk.
In this sinister hour of midnight,
Our hands will fail us in a fight.

What if it is a robber outside our flat?
Bring the kitchen knife and the cricket bat.
Dial the Police fast,
Let’s fight till we last.

What if it is the stone throwing psychopath?
Five men already mauled sleeping on the footpath.
The bell that rings is his weakness, they tell,
Let’s ring the buzzer and yell!

What if it is the white lady with a lamp?
Remember the girl who jumped off our ramp?
Keep in hand the holy cross,
Before her spirits we run across.

What if it is the woman of the street?
Whose skin blends like wheat.
Shoo away the seductive vamp,
Before the siren drowns you in to a swamp.

What if it was another drunk man?
High in Spirits clutching the beer-can.
Drive him out of the house,
For he might think I am his waiting spouse.

What if it is the Patrol-Police?
Let’s all be nice.
Promise them never to booze again,
Alcohol we will forever refrain.

What if it is our angry neighbour?
Screaming “Who cried here in labour?”
Tell him – it’s the dumb Television,
Showing a surgical incision.

What if it is just a innocuous stranger lost?
Searching for an address in this sleepy coast.
Gift him the map of this down-town
Where guns do the count down!

What if it is the God on a walk?
Let’s impress him with our sweet-talk.
Pray him to unlock our chest of desire,
To fly in the world of dreams we aspire.

Let’s open the door with a fright,
Let the prayers cover us with light.
Slow and steady we swing open the door,
Empty night welcomes us with only a cat roar.

Not a single soul outside,
Where is the man who’d knocked like Jekyll and Hyde?
Winter winds colored our faces white
Now who let the door keys on the lock this twelfth night?

A blast of gale rushes past us,
Rocking the trees and the keys in distress.
“Knock Knock Knock” – once more that knock
A tap on the door – Oh! It’s the stupid key-chain with a heart-shaped-rock!!!

~Trilok~

A real life funny incident inspired me to write this one!!! A drunk n lost not so gentle man knocked at around 1 A.M. a wintery Friday night. Thanks to him I came up with this new piece. My first attempt @ writing a funny poem.

Monsoon Rain and Thirsty Earth

6 Drops of rain kissed the longing earth,
Sweet smells rose from the mate’s soft breath,
Fragrance it filled the air millions worth,
When frogs sang their anthem in mirth.

The bride draped in misty clouds,
Walked the aisle amidst the crowds.
Fireworks lit up the sky, bright and loud,
When knots were tied with her head bowed.

Horn-bills greeted the newly weds with hoots,
Bamboo shoots whistled like dreamy flutes.
Peacocks danced their thousand eyes en-route,
Under the arched rainbows to the green honeymoon suite.

Drip, Drip, Drip,
More rains seeped the soil strip.
The land can take no more a bit;
Her body drowned in a deep pit.

Torn is her role between the mother and mate,
Tied to a perplexed fate.
To break the knots of a nuptial conjugate
Or to put her children at stake?

The wandering wind ferried the rain away,
When peeped on the land a golden ray.
Once more a bride she became
When her hands held the golden bouquet!