Monday, February 28, 2011

The Orange Ball

The streets were deserted.
Not a soul stood by,
Under the yellow sodium light,
Did the night come to life.
A little boy played along the way,
As his mother stood by, heard him say,
"Mother buy me an Orange Ball"
"For I want to play with other Boys"
"Who have the same"

The mother didn't reply, let the silence talk
For an orange ball, she couldn't afford
The child was quite, merging with his mother,
The silence talked loud, as they looked eye in eye

"But its just an orange ball I ask", said the boy
"Why won't you buy me one, mother won't you reply"
She stood there silent, no words ever came out.
The boy did nag, then something caught his eye,
A glitter of tear that swelled up in his mother's eye

"Why do you cry mother", he did ask
Silence again, she didn't reply,
For what her kid would know, what hardships were.
For all he asked was for the Orange Balls.

The Traveller - 3

One hundred stars and a million sands,
Underneath my foot did I trample.
In search of the perfect fear, I travelled,
Lands and sea, Hills and mountains.

Brave cried, but I never did,
Men Died, but I never blinked.

In the lust of fear, did I travel, night and day,
In the search of fear, ages I wandered.
Dungeons and pillars never frightened me,
Nor did the fight with the bravest of men.

But curse the day, I met this man,
Oh, was he the devil incarnated?

"Why do you seek fear?", He asked me,
"I have never known one", I replied.
"How can you seek the unknown?", he questioned me,
I pondered, never to find a reason, why.

He stretched his hand and touched my heart,
And made me drink of his wine.

"I will tell you a story, to ease your mind
For, in turmoil you are, and are like a child".

His wine did sooth my mind, and his touch did calm.
But a feeling of repose and despair rose in my heart.

He started the tale, seated by the fire,
I listened, as the owls hooted and night came by.

Was it the story, or the wine I had,
For in the fire I saw my past.
The fire crackled, and ashes did fly,
As in the fire I saw my burning life.

I was a child, as I lay in the cradle,
Crying I lay in the cradle.

Was it a wolf that lay by me, Or was I dreaming,
For there lay a wolf besides the cradle,
Eyes of fire, burning bright, did it look back at me,
Please someone save the child, for a wolf lay besides me.

I had grown up, A boy I was.
And hills became my mates as I played along.

Was it a snake that I saw, or rush of waters,
As it crawled besides the boy, lost in his own world.
It did coil around, like water drowning the boy,
Oh please save the boy, for he is scared of water.

The boy was no more, A man stood instead.
In search of fear did he wander along, lands and sea.

In The fire did I see my self seated, next to the man I had seen,
As he stretched his hand, and touched my heart.
A feeling of despair ran through me, as he released the touch.
Oh for The Devil himself was He.

Hours later, I came out of the stupor.
But nothing remained, Just emptiness and fear.

The Traveller-2

Tlot, tlot, the horse shoe hit the sun baked clay
On a winding path over creeks and brooks.
Tlot, tlot, did it echo into the fragile dying day,
As the sun slipped down, and up went the moon

Night did descend, and tired were we,
For an evening-primrose bed, did we find,
Snuggled between the flowing crystal stream,
A land lit by the moon and the silver night.

The camp was set and the food was served,
As beasts, drank off the sparkling creek,
Wine was served and songs were purred,
By shores of the river, restless and bleak.

At length, A shimmering flame, crossed our way,
A man dressed in white, fragile, aged and wise,
"I am a traveler", said he, "would ye let me stay,
For, the night is long and chill will rise"

We let him stay, and by the fire he settled,
"There's a better land, upstream beyond the mound",
said he, as he feasted on wine and rested by the fire.
Where wild lily blossoms And the brooks make no sound".

"So would you mind following me, oh men of time,
For its a beauty that lays, untouched by men"
So we saddled our horses and followed the wise,
To the land, upstream beyond the mound.

"When the hour strikes late, cherubs do sing", he continued,
"With flutes and harps, and a song that sooth the being,
The music does capture, the music does attract,
For those who have listened, were never to be seen"

"I was caught once, in this heart numbing song", said he.
"And I did cross the land upstream beyond the mound.
To dance to the music and sing with the cherubs,
I did cross the land upstream beyond the mound".

"Weren't you captured?" asked one of my mates,
As we got absorbed in the stupor and dream.
"If you were captured how do you sit with us",
Asked one of my mates, slumped in stupor and fear.

Wind did howl, and the trees did bow,
And moon light played with our minds,
The waters moved, and the camp fire crackled,
As the traveller cleared his throat to rhyme.

"I made a deal with the cherubs said he,
So they let me live, for I bring them life",

And slowly his voice started to fade, fade into the night
As The slow laughter of flutes and harps, filled us inside.

Friday, February 25, 2011

The Art of Anarchy

The slow dance, of fear,
racing through his veins
The slow heart beat,
Stopping with the time.

To the tunes of fire,
He dances, all night long,
To the furry of Ire,
He devours his long lost hope,

A Drop of tear,
Mangled in the dust,
A drop of blood,
He looses his trust.

Can he stand, can he stay
For the unending change
Can he lead, can he lay,
The anarchy of change.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

What I want.

It was a summer, when I practically managed to open up a candy shop behind the main market, collecting enough capital to start the business. The summers where hot, unbearable, but I could see why it was unbearable. It had to do something with the rains and all other buzz about the global warming going around in the village. It was a monster. No body had seen it, But Government had warned us about it. They said we had to use things with lesser smoke to help prevent the global warming. I started to daze down, thinking about the monster, nothing came up, but still I had to come up with something. I entered a semi-dreamy state. But still the brain had its control over what I had to say, I make up my mind and oh gosh I am bored already. I wait for the boredom to go, I can't help it, It stays there, eating me up little by little finally I slip into sleep. and Silence and sleep.

Friday, February 4, 2011


I sat on the chair bored playing the same chords over and over again on my guitar. My brain was working overtime, thinking what to do, concentrating on the playing part, and worried whether I would get sick sitting for this long on the chair. Thoughts are triggers, triggering the mind to do the unimaginable, and as I sat on my chair thinking I was triggering my mind into doing unimaginable things. Then I was fish, swimming through the vast openness of the sea, I wasn't a small fish, neither a really big one, just big enough to scare the bigger fishes. I was still wondering, how could I swim, I never knew how to swim, I was afraid of water. Then I was a bird. Soaring high up in the sky, flying in the clouds. I was a cheetah, running across the wide open tracts of savanna land. I see birds soaring up, trying to catch up with me. My mind is free. Now I am sitting in my class, listening to what my teacher has to say. She calls me up, asks me what is the amount of optimization provided by Huffman code. I am blank, I am scared, and I stand there facing her. The 12 year old in my brain wants to be free. I let him free. "Ma'am I want to pee", The class bursts into laughter. I am asleep now, sleeping in the comfort of my bed. I wish I had slept more, but the sleep is something I am missing. Dreams come and dreams go, but still I want to dream more. Thoughts are bad, they trigger an uneventful chain of memories and insignificant results. I am bored, I sit by the sea, listening to the waves crashing on the rocky shore. Waves sooth my ticked off nerves. I am child again, I am me again. I get up from my chair and put my guitar aside. The nature calls me, and I need to go to it, to be one with it. I pick up my jogging shoes, and walk out, leaving my chair and my guitar alone.

Thursday, February 3, 2011


World is so morose, lives in despair,
pointing fingers do they die,
Saying, Why? But Why me?
Do they ask, but still they die.

Rude are those who point fingers at others,
Rudeness does run through their veins,
I didn't point a finger yet, so I can say,
That I am not the herald of rudeness.

He cries, prejudiced is the world against me,
So do I die in despair, Or do I Live in peace,
But he chose to die in despair, and let the peace be
For the world was the only thing that he cared.

Puker Face.

Puker face, puker face, I so hate you puker face.
Why did you venture into the terrains of terror?
For the night is long, Days are gone.
And still the raven rants on the spoils of her day.

...Oh puker face, Oh puker face, you are so speechless.
But why did you open your mouth in the terrains of terror.
For the days are yours, but the night is mine.
And still you want to linger here for the stay.

Speechless does he stand, waiting for the gates to close,
He is lost and trapped in the terrains of terror
For when the night comes and day bids farewell,
Who will save you from the wrath of the Raven.


One night, out of my window did I glance,
To see the moon flooded night,
The nocturnal did stir up my mind,
To sit and watch the night,

Oh what a beauty!! what a delight!!.

On the oak did perch, a raven of the folk.
Her black feathers did reflect with silver sheen,
And into the night did she caw, melancholy
And so did I hear, I heard the raven sing,

She sang of torment,
and into the night did she sing.
and her songs did discomfort my heart,
For the truth did she sing,

"Oh, my heart be at peace,
for its just a raven who sings.
But, a human I am, and my heart does ache.
For its the truth that she sings".

The hour did strike night,the hour did strike late,
but the raven didn't cease her chants.
To misery did she lead my soul,
And in misery did she ruin my night.

Tormented by the unceasing caw,
did repose bolt from my being.
The night was long, and sleep was gone,
And at length did I loose my peace,

For with a bow did I shoot her down,
And the songs of torment ceased with her decline.
She could have flown, she could have Survived,
But she choose to stay and sing for the night,

But what could a dreary raven do ,
When even the feathers fail the flight.
For the one who made me, and the one who made her,
Gave the Bow in my hand in the night.