April 22, 2010

Travels with Tasha

Not a soul in sight,
I walk on alone,
All my earthly belongings,
Packed in the suitcase
Trailing behind me.

I have eaten for today,
Food for free
From under the bridge,
Sandwiches and cookies,
A meal for a king,
Well, at least an dying old king.

It is getting colder, the night is here,
I am searching for warmth,
In a room or from people, I know not.

The police, they do not scare me,
Just be a toy soldier,
I have learnt,
"Yes Sir, No Sir, Sorry Sir",
Is all you have to say,
They are human after all,
They let you go in the end.

I wanted to travel,
See the world, with my pet, my dog,
My Tasha.
This shall one day be a book,
Not the full book, for Tasha is gone,
Just the first few chapters,
My travels with Tasha.

Who needs money, when you have a life,
Who needs a life, when you have no money?
A few hours here,
And a few there,
A social helper there,
A random kind stranger here.

Just for that one kind word,
I walk on alone
Not a soul in sight
And all my earthly belongings
Packing in the suitcase
Trailing behind me.


P.S. The words of the old woman outside the library tonight

March 25, 2010

Her tear

Clap, a streak,
Of white in complete black.
But for a second, she stays,
All illuminating streak
Purity, in all her energy,
Dissipated in a moment in
Her thousand arms,
She takes a path
From heaven above
To the earth below.

She seems to search
For something she lost
Each arm of hers
Searching in places unknown
For the love she lost.
“My love,
Banished from heaven,
For the sin of loving me.
Is he somewhere here,
Or is he there?
Oh, I have to go back
To my father in heaven,
Won’t you take me to him?”

Sooner than soon
She is gone,
Leaving her tears behind,
Her tears that will soothe
The very burns she caused
She burns the air
Around her, singeing
No mark left of her
To show that she was here.
Just the memory of her path
Of her pain
Infringed on his eye.
Just a memory of her tear
On the palm of his hand.

My lady with a saxophone

She stands there
A part of an ensemble,
A lot of four,
A violin and a keyboard
A drum set and a singer.
A saxophone,
Held up nervously,
Unsure fingers on unsure keys.
“My first concert,”
She thinks
With a wry smile
Lost to the audience.
The light does not dim,
For this is no theater,
There is no gentle applause
A prologue to the event.
Their stage is meager,
A roadside corner,
Their audience sparse,
Me and the walker-bys.
For a moment,
her worlds stops
As the sax moves to her lips,
In slow motion
Her movement
Like a guided waterfall. First a note – a drop
Followed by a trickle
Then a torrent,
I cannot see the notes,
Yet I am blinded by the music.
Soon she is done,
They pack and move.
I am left standing there
Still listening to
My lady with a sax.


March 1, 2010

The Snow and the Night

She calls out into the darkness,
There is no answer,
He remains silent.
She pleads with him,
Implores him to say a word,
He is still dark, still silent.
She covers everything in white,
To make him show himself,
A final bid in her efforts
For just a brief sighting of his face.
There is nothing to see,
No one is out there in the dark.
Her white turns to tears,
A stream that threaten
To overrun the world,

"Your silence melts me," she begs
"Show me yourself,
Just once, So I can go away,"
She pleads.

He then smiles,
A loud smile, so loud,
That it deafens her.
In that moment, her final moment
She hears him say
"I am everywhere,
You have come into me
And yet search for me?
You say you are lost,
But you are lost in me,
I am the night, the darkness,
I am everywhere."


Pic: courtesy http://www.gcclark.net/photoblog/

February 21, 2010

Silent Night

Standing on a barge,
The world dancing away to
Loud music below and
Louder people below.
Me, at the bow, alone
A beer in one hand,
A cigarette in the other.
We gently float down
The mighty Hoogly,
Creator, protector, destroyer.
Today she is meek,
As silent as the night I am in,
More silent than the moon above me.

The light from the Howrah
Plays gently on the waters,
As we move under the bridge,
Quiet she stands,
For the day is done
And all are home.
The barge turns
Towards Vidyasagar Setu
And she is quite too,
Silent witness to the deed.
I turn to the shore,
Once so closely tethered
By the might of a slight rope.
Now far away
From the barge, now ebbing along
With the ebbing waters.
The Hoogly is pure,
She is kind,
The barge is cruel, the beer warm.
A flick of my wrists,
The cigarette dies in the waters,
Followed by the empty beer bottle.
Kind as she is, Hoogly accepts all,
Everyone in her fold,
Everyone to the sea.
A moment's thought,
Fleeting, nevertheless,
Would she be kind,
To deliver me, to deliver to me
To accept me as she did my things?
Silent, she remains,
As silent as the night I am in,
More Silent than the moon above me.


P.S. I unearthed this piece from within my mailbox. Still in love with the river and the city.

February 6, 2010


I plan to start a series of poems, based on colors. This is the first of the lot.

Her touch, so cold,
Even at her warmest,
She freezes my depth.


Clad in pure white,
Even in the dark,
She makes you shiver,
From open head to covered toe.

Forever having her way,
Blanketing everything around
In her whiteness,
And her purity,
She makes my world stop.

Her touch cold,
She robs your warmth.
Even your slightest touch
She will melt away,
Leaving just her tears.

I now hold on to those tears,
For those are all I have
A memory of a beauty
In white, pure,

Dated: 6th February 2010
Location: Pittsburgh PA
Pictures: Self Shot


For some arcane reason, I see a reason to write again. I am coming back, and soon. If you are even reading this, thanks for coming here. I promise you, I shall try to make it worth the wait!