At mangoe lane,

At mangoe lane,
Spent a dreamy walk,
From kaka's tea,
To that big tower white like elephant,
Had a walk,
Smelling auto spare parts
At mangoe lane,
Had a friendship day like
A walk
With festive mood gripping us.

You are not Urania, you are not one of those nine,

You are possibly not
Urania,
You are not one of those nine,

I know,

Still
When through the dusty hazy late evening road
I run,
Whizzing past cabs, buses,mini vans,
I know that lighted maze
Of urban scape
Actually paints your face,
In my bedazzled eyes,

And i look at my self,
With wonder and sense of atonement,
On the side mirror glass,

How through the wintry mist I pass,
How in me a song raises,
How ignited sky illumines in phases,
How dust in me falls to kiss the dust,

And I think life's poetry just,
I sing poetry of life just.

that mandolin girl,

Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
Your hair flowing down
Like a cascade
And that red-brown mandolin in your hand,
And I , your notebook
From where you look
And find notes of your strings,
From where you find that music
Which to the whole world rhythm brings,
Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
And I , those notes that cause a mild soothing twirl
Into the stagnant afternoon air, sunlit and slight warm,
Perfect like a late autumn
And early stage of a winter,
Like a picture,
Like a setting.

that mandolin girl,

Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
Your hair flowing down
Like a cascade
And that red-brown mandolin in your hand,
And I , your notebook
From where you look
And find notes of your strings,
From where you find that music
Which to the whole world rhythm brings,
Wish you could be
That mandolin girl,
And I , those notes that cause a mild soothing twirl
Into the stagnant afternoon air, sunlit and slight warm,
Perfect like a late autumn
And early stage of a winter,
Like a picture,
Like a setting.

( Note: upon remembering a painting, by Michel Garnier)

Sometimes when You like a Goddess churn a music,

Sometimes
When You
Like a Goddess
Churn a music
Straight to my soul,
Reminding me of Your Unseen presence,
Like a flicker of love,
I hold mild glow in myself,

I become an evening of several tapers placed on the long verandah-
One after another,like a decor bright,
I become festivity myself,
I become soft luminance spread,
I become a song of light.

Love Is such a Paradise!

Love is such a wonderful thing,
The poets there for love always sing,
And those writers, on their desk, biting their pens,
They write love too,
And those singers
From early ages till date
They had been doing the same thing I guess,
They all strum and pluck,
Their strings of copper, so love struck...
And few good old men made movies on roses, marigolds, jasmines,
tuberoses, dalia dreams...
And those children when they smile,
They spray their lovely innocence, mile after mile,
And some philosophers pray and worship
Love in terms of several libraries gigantic,
With long book shelves, ladders fitted with clumps,
Love, it seems,all nourish,
in  their own happy triumphs;

Still by misfortune, this poor world cries,
And people without foods die,
And mendicants on pavements lie,
And still,
Quite fortunately,
Love
Arrives,
In its blessed ways,
Love still unfolds in its glorious lines,
For
Love is such a Paradise,
For love is such a Holy Shine.

Is it not a wonder, once I write you, the words air owns,

Is it not a wonder,
Once I write to you,
Words arranging by thoughts,
After a lot of burning of candle wicks,
They never stick?
They take wings
And fly,
First to you perhaps,
Then with time lapse,
They float further
By the air,
To unknown, untraveled worlds,
To chapters unwritten,
To horizons of unsavoured skies
Where their destiny lies...
Is it not a wonder
That every day we immortalise us?
You, me,
And our destiny,
In such a lovely way,
That no one can actually say,
Where exactly we hold us,
Is it not a wonder,
That we just celebrate us?
Our birth,
Our life,
Thus.

Come, dear, let me hold your hand, and sing a song,

Come
Dear,
This beautiful evening,
When the mild chill
Mixed with the cool air,
Is blowing through the lanes,
Let me hold your hands,
And sing a song,
A song of life,
A song as deep as your wonderous festive eyes,
Come dear,
This beautiful evening,
Lets just forget us,
Our all usual daily chores,
Our good for nothing time pass,

Lets just keep us
In our eyes,
And let me sing,
A song of love,
A song that those diyas can only possibly sing,
A song that no voice can to you bring,

Let me just
Hold your hands,
And sing
That song.

There is an evening, as good as a ballerina,

There is an evening
As good as a ballerina
Dancing on her nimble toes,
Lifting up to catch the flow
Of pre diwali lights and diyas
Lit up in hearts,
There is an evening,
Dancing in toes,
Nimble and soft.

When the sky is so blue, when the day is so green,

When the sky is so blue,
When the day is so green,
Dear,
Why are we so silent?
Why can't the wind us bear?
To faraway lands?
To the village fair?
Where afternoons come
Dressed as trees and ponds,
Where dreams fields sing
From sunlit scenes
Till the crimson evening,
Where laughters ripple
On the flowing stream,
Where white cloudlets arrive
Like paintings on our joyous minds.

When light fills the morning mist,

When light fills
The morn's mist,
One finds how dew drops
Sparkle awakening of diamonds on leaves,
When light fills
The foggy air,
One gets to dreams of drawing out
Pink pullovers
From almirahs,
And winter
There one thinks
And feels with a mild chill and shiver.

On Judith,

"My days burn with the Sun
My nights with moon and the star"
She wrote once, in her ways Australian
Soon after she held Meredith,
Her soil she probably had found in her ribs,
Her country she wrote in undying lyrics,
Claiming how she took in all living things
The flame-tree, the  motherly spirit,

Judith,
She held fruits of her toils,
And prayed her great grandma's voice,
Till she held it all.

( Note: tribute to Judith Wright, the poet)

And a sunlit afternoon, placed rose blossoms,

When I find blossoms red, left,

When I find
Blossoms red
On a blank page, left,
I feel like writing nothing,

For
Roses
Are forever,
They can never
Be embellished
By any banal writes,

For they are forever.

Lets walk down that bridge,

Lets walk down that bridge,
Like a painting underneath which
The river flows by,
Lets walk down that bridge,
Looking at our colored life...
And also at those water colored trees
Upon flooded streets as they cause
Ut musica poesis...
Lets walk down the bridge.

Love, I want to You to live, in my wandering soul deep,

Love,
I want You to live
In my wandering soul deep,
Where paintings stay,as immortal as art,
Where alphabets come together to join all who have fallen apart,
Where eyes become all hearts' sublime song,
Where poetry rises and dips in all, all day, all night long,
Where tears of all, You wash down through wonderment,
Where You fill all, with poems colored dense,

Where astounded all can only be, blessed by Your divinity,
Where inspired all can happen, enchanted by Your time~space frame,
Where devout all can become, blessed by Your wine awesome,

Love,
Give me that color,
So that I can color you,
With my wandering hues.

Walked on stones, walked on pebbles, upon which stream flew

'Walked on stones,
Walked on pebbles,
Upon which stream clear flew,'
Memories of those drew
Me to stand up
To the queue,

A morning
When stood up by me
By calls of friends,
A day when stood up
As a togetherness of family,
The kid's eyes with dreams of a picture,
Darling's eyes holding flowers,
And a mild shower
Continuous,

'Walked on pebbles,
Walked on stones,
Upon which stream clear flew'
That feeling came home
With mirthful existence,
And trees by moisture getting drenched,
And a meandering flow,
All participated
Into life,
A single day not turned a waste,

'Walked on pebbles
Walked on stones,'
Memories of youthful occasion
Sublimate into a lovely evening,
A feeling of being together,
A getting together.

A green heartland,

A green heartland,
Acres of grass
Where stand
Like a cool shadowy place,
There once I put to rest
All my urban hurriedness,
A green tree filled solace,
A deep breathing space,
There once I left all my poems...

And those trees,
Old and beautiful,
They bear witness
To my letters thrown,
They bear all wintry evening songs.

Love, how it blooms like soul's light,

Love,
Like a lotus,
Blooms fair
Filling the misty evening air,

Love,
Like the light of the soul
Blooms fair,
Filling heart's bowl,

Love,
How it blooms
Like a lotus
Holy.

Sometimes with his heavy eyes, he would sing 'I am just a singer...in a rock n roll band',

Sometimes
With heavy eyes
Drooping wordless,
He would light up a cigarette,
And taking two quick puffs,
Break out singing:
'I am just a singer
In a rock n roll band*...'
And he would sing stories
Of his travels to different lands,
His meeting with people,
People who came and went,
People camping at the fringes of the city,
Selling claywares, pure Rajasthani,
Nomadic clans,
Sometimes,
He would roll up his sleeves
Strum his guitar,
And with his drooping eyes
Start a song,
'I am just a singer
In a rock n roll band...'

(Note:* I am just a singer, by M.Blues)

'I have not kept address, o mind mine',

'I have not kept address,
O mind mine,'
And several numbers like that
He had left on air
To shine,
Forever,
Till we care to sing,
Till we care to listen,
Till we dare to tap on tables in classrooms,
Till we gather together our trodden bereaved souls,

'I haven't kept the address
O mind mine,'
And
Countless images He had left there
On air,
For us,
And those songs would glitter
They would surely glitter,
In our eyes,
In our sighs,
In our hopes,
In our coffee houses,
Till we care to sing,
Till we care to listen,
To rhythms
Of life.

[Note : a tribute to Manna Dey,(1st May,1919-24th Oct, 2013),the awesome singer of our times and beyond. ]

Had I been the pilgrim, and you the sky,

Had I been a pilgrim
And you the sky,
I would have taken a flight
To your morning light,
Had I been a pilgrim
And you the sky,
I would have left on you
Hymns spread far and wide,
Had I been a lyre
And you the minstrel,
Our songs would have turned
This morn a wonderous lyrical tale,
Had I been a pilgrim
And you the sky,
We would have been a myth
Forever tied.

Oft ,in between, twilight and evening,

Oft,
In between,
Twilight and evening,
When one gets to pause
For a while without any cause,
One sees how life flows beautifully,
How the road that runs through
The houses and the buildings
Get lighted by anthems,
How the cloudy sky sings the onset
Of a misty haze,
How children from school return in yellow blue buses,
How crowd throng an auditorium gate with entry passes,
How a musical soiree turns a street into a flash mob,
How a car stereo suddenly breaks into a song of youthful love,

Oft,
In between dusk and evening,
When one stops
For a while,
One sees how life beautifully flows by.

Hey morning light...

Hey Morning Light
Light me with the rays
The same with which you color all days,
Hey Morning Light
Light me with the beams
The same that carry only dreams,
Hey Morning Light
Light me with music
The same that on woken up eyes sticks,
Hey Morning Light
Make me feel the cool breeze
That flows unhindered, without cease,
Hey Morning light
Make me sing an aubade,
The same with which every day is laid.

A beautiful evening, like a dream

A beautiful evening,
Came when I sat
By myself
On a bench,
Resting legs
After doing a lot of running
With the kid,
'I am going to take a ride on that see-saw...'
The kid said and ran,
I got a chance
To sit on the bench,
By my self,
And a beauty came to me
As an evening,

The moist breeze
Drizzled into my ears
Carrying me to several light years far,
Like a dream
Almost,

The cries of the children
Came singing too
At that moment,
Their shouts,
Their laughter,
Their hurried steps,
-all converged to add to the blessedness
Of the evening,
A beauty.

I think I know...

I think I know
You have made it to the shore,
Yes,
I think I know
You have woven poetry sure,

I think I know...

For your eyes show
That you have made
The same journey to all that I wrote,
To all the songs that flew from my throat,
To all the pictures that drew pictures more,
To all those routes which lead me,

I think I know
That you have found the sea,

I think I know
That you have made it,
To the shore
Of being boundless,

I think I know
That you have become poetry
By yourself.

Sometimes I get myself lost in my own writes...

Sometimes I get my self lost
In my own writes,
Nay!
Not in self glory or pride!
Never!
But there alone in those pages
Written by me,
I find you,
There in those leaves
Strewn all over me,
I find you,
There in those never ending lines,
The morns,
The afternoons,
The evenings,
The nights,
The dawns,
I find you,
There in those streets, lanes, bylanes,
Temple yards,
Playgrounds,
Parks,
Skies,
Flowers,
Bed covers,
Ink pots,
Horse shoe trails,
Hill tops,
I find you,
As my garment
Of soul
And
Velocity catches me,
Then,
For
Leaves more I find get blown
By hurricane.

Wish i could be Alec Durwent *

Wish i could be
Alec Durwent Hope
And with you
Could i find the Gateway#,

Wish i could call myself a dream
And you a point of entry,
And standing there
At the gate,
Wish i could write,
Much i like him
Replies,

Wish i could
Be Alec Durwent
And declare
'I am not wild...'
Wish i could leave
All my scribbles,
Poems ,
Fables,
There
At the gateway,
With a defiance.

(Note: *Alec Durwent Hope: Australian poet of our times and beyond,
#Gateway: a poem by A D Hope)

A girl with a letter

With a letter in her hand,
She sat on a trunk
Of a tree,
Her eyes looking far off
To some distant land,
Perhaps there she might have woven
Her dreams,

With a letter in her hand,
She sat on a trunk
Of  a tree,
Her eyes way off
To some distant land,
Perhaps there she had gone away.

(Note: the painting attached is by T. Matteini,1797)

One evening, a Norah Jones number, and ...

'One evening,
A song on his lips
My rain man arrives',
She confessed,
Looking exotic
In her ball room dress,

As a Norah Jones number
Hovered in her lips,
Drowsy, listless,
Like a glimmer of will-o'-the-wisp,

One evening
Amidst
October rains
She sang,
And one
Seated cooled
Felt the drizzle,
Like a soft sizzle,
In her eyes-
A Norah Jones
Number.

Finding nirvana,

When by coincidence
One gets the chance
To stop for a while
To watch how at the fringes of the city
Lights of the evening
Shoot up forming a pattern,
When the long road pauses
Like a piece of desired solitude,
And a misty haze envelops the mind like a promise of a soothe,
When one just stops with nothing to do
But just to feel one's own beats of pulse,
When the skyline looks exact like a photograph
Taken at maximum aperture
Letting in all the fluid flowing photons,
A moment then surely emerges
To become a cherishable life,
And just then Nirvana arrives,
As a murmur,
Sweeping one
Without warning,
Just then
A song someone sings,
Just then
A birth begins.

Ideally, we should be running through

Ideally,
We should be running through
A greenish yellow orange plains
Like this
So bathed by light
and guarded by rows of happy trees,
Ideally,
We should run on this field,
Hand in hand
Just you and i,
Singing life,
When such a day arrives,
Ideally,
We should be running young,
Singing a song...

(note: the photograph attached is not mine to claim. )

Just a dream away,

Perhaps this sky
Bears You
Perhaps
There you have spread
Your magical device
The same magic
Which once enthralled One
So much
That he thought he had seen
All skies,
All plains,
All mountains,
Valleys,
Hillocks
And cliffs,

Perhaps,
This creamy softy light bears your face,
The same face
Which once left a silent trace
Of divine grace
On those distant trees,
Quivering still in the late autumn breeze,

Perhaps,
This place holds you,
Perhaps,
You are pretty close up,
And the only distance betwixt you
And me,
Is a dream.

Abundantia, by Rubens,

There She poured
Sitting on a throne
Grains and corns
To Her infants,

Her eyes only had kindness
Her hands only served with abundance,

Abundantia,#
There She sat pouring fruits
And corns and grains
For Her infants.

(Note: *Rubens: the painter, Peter Paul Rubens,
# Abundantia : Goddess of wealth and prosperity)

An ode to a dream city

You are
Like a city of dreams
To me,
A city
Standing quiet
Amidst colored lights,

Flashbulbs posting instagrams
And vendors calling trade cries
Noodles, hakka gravy,
High heels crossing pelican stripes savvy,
Cars standing bumper to bumper,
And a lucid smell of lavender,
All conjure up a flavour,
Of you being a city,

You are
Like a city of dreams,
To me how your din and bustle,
Your silky rustle,
Become imagery of life,

You are my city of throbbing heart,
Where an evening arrives with a rounded moon
Hanging smart,
Over a highrise
With square windows.

An ode to a dream city

You are
Like a city of dreams
To me,
A city
Standing quiet
Amidst colored lights,
Flashbulbs posting instagrams
And vendors calling trade cries
Noodles, hakka gravy,
High heels crossing pelican stripes savvy,
Cars standing bumper to bumper,
And a lucid smell of lavender,
All conjure up a flavour,
Of you being a city,

You are
Like a city of dreams,
To me how your maidan green
Become imagery of life,

You are my city of throbbing heart,
Where an evening arrives with a rounded moon
Hanging smart.

An ode to a dream city

You are
Like a city of dreams
To me,
A city
Standing quiet
Amidst colored lights,
Flashbulbs posting instagrams
And vendors calling trade cries
Noodles, hakka gravy,
High heels crossing pelican stripes savvy,
Cars standing bumper to bumper,
And a lucid smell of lavender,
All conjure up a flavour,
Of you being a city,

You are
Like a city of dreams,
To me how your maidan green
Become imagery of life,

You are my city of throbbing heart,
Where an evening arrives with a rounded moon
Hanging smart.

On paper,

On paper
How the painter
Paints
Angels
And butterflies,
On paper
How one escapes to childhood
To dreams,
To visions,
On paper
How life is transformed
To universality,
On paper
How everything transmutes
To forms
That hold colors,
On paper
How poetry rises,
Dances,
Sings,
On paper
How fingers draw heavenly scenes,
On paper
How one surrenders to finesse,
On paper
How life ends and begins...

(Note: the painting attached is by an acclaimed painter, K.Longhurst, courtesy, Sam Carlos)

Once a morn like this saw so many things,

Once a morn like this
Saw a group of cranes
Standing motionless
In a wasteland,
Bifurcating which the road
Ran meandering quite a few miles
Singing the onset of slight chill and mist,

Once a morn like this
Saw a birth
Of eyes and ears,
Which savoured life
To its every minute bit,

Once a morn like this
Saw so many things-
How the steps descending down
To the river had flowers spread wonderous,
How life blows as chapters of seasons,
How Your blessedness overwhelmingly declares
Only a life joyous,

Once a morn like this,
Had all the beauty of the earth.

A drive down the road, a chatim dream,

A drive down the road
Woke me up to dreams
Of chatim
Flowers blooming
Filling the nightly mist ,

A drive down the road
Me kissed
With fragrant air,
The moon over head
Added poems to the road fair,
With dreams overpowering,
For i smelt
Chatim flowers blooming,

At once
The faint glance
Of the moon
Heralding winter,
Fell on my face,
And also on the visor,
Passing vehicles where
Shot beams of luminance.

That evening, when you stood for me,

That evening,
When you stood
For me,
Smiling,
Beside the door,
The dying sun on you
Dressing you
Red,
I found love as my poem,
How danced in your eyes,

And at that moment,
I became
A shutterbug,
At that moment,
I became
A poem.

(Note: the photo attached is of my better half, taken by me, )

The morning comes in feathers,

The morning comes in feathers,
As arrives Emily Dickinson with dreamy layers,
The morning comes with the Sun
From behind the clouds sending warmth,
The morning comes with flags festive trembling quiet,
And wonderment sketching words drenched by light.

A picture caught, by an obscure camera.

The locomotive
Being stationary
At a deserted platform
Started moving on,
Sending smoke
Into the air,
And there
Like an adage
Spelled the knight
'Hang on...'

And his love,
Hung there
Stretching her arms,
For her knight,
Trying to get hold
Of dreams,
From falling off the locomotive,
Which just chugged on...

The picture was something like that,
Caught by a camera,
Obscured.

(Note: the photograph attached was taken by an anonymous photographer, titled December Sun)

If the sky becomes so white and grey handloom saree,

If the sky becomes
So white and grey
Handloom saree
And if i find a climb there to eternity
Will you call me a sky gazer?

Only?

If the sky reminds me
Of ageless seas
Where i have found my self sunk,
Will you call me a naive? A sailor drunk?

Only?

If the sky changes herself so often
If the sky paints me thus softened
To be nothing but just a few lines
Loosely joined by only clouds in eyes divine,

Will you call me wine?

Only?

It was a highway,

It was a highway,
Windows down
The air when zipped in
And lighted wind
When blew like songs
Songs we sang,
Songs like singing a festival,
Songs like singing a season,

It was a highway,
Full of whistling cars,
Full of railings glistening,
And life ballooned to catch the fading drumbeats,
Processions towards rivers-
For immersions,
For holy dips,

It was a highway...

It was a highway,

It was a highway,
Windows down
The air when zipped in
And lighted wind
When blew like songs
Songs we sang,
Songs like singing a festival,
Songs like singing a season,

It was a highway,
Full of whistling cars,
Full of railings glistening,
And life ballooned to catch the fading drumbeats,
Processions towards rivers-
For immersions,
For holy dips,

It was a highway...

This way, reddened, as You, prepare for a sail, a long voyage,

This way,
Under the sky
Overcast,
As
You prepare for a sail,
A long voyage,
This way,
As you reddened
Leave footprints on soft mud,
Your heavenly face
Looking so lit
By candles,
Your hair untied...
Cascading down,

This way...
Once a poet saw you
And called you by so many names...
So many...

An old house...and...ancient me.

A red oxide floor,
A long corridor,
And a 'thakur dalan'
-
Primarily these sections
Of the house
Stayed like photographs
In me,

Everytime i go through
Those snapshots
i am brought
To an era,

The corridor was long
Till it bent to catch the stairs,
And just beside
That specific corner
i had met books
Neatly stacked
In an old almirah
With glass full of ancient dust,

Oft i sat on the mat
And read varied things,
Touching ornate carvings
On blackened aged doors,
i had several times reached shores
Of times not witnessed by my eyes-
But i felt how an old man there delved
Into scriptures, doctrines and medicine,

And breaking bookish pursuit
Sometimes would an owl hoot
Speaking words not fully understood,
But the red oxide floor had maps of childhood
Written all over like thin hairlines,
Reminding me house another
Where i once learned to walk
Holding onto walls lime washed,

And then the 'thakur dalan'# like a dream,
Would come in shape of a smell perennial-
Of camphor and incense sticks,
Of old algae ridden bricks,
Of flowers, copper plates full of sweets,

And i become ancient.

(Note:
#thakur dalan: a courtyard where commonly the deity of Durga is kept and worshipped)

Wonders how You return

Through those wonderous eyes,
Wonders how You return,
Just like this Mahanavami Morn,
A ceaseless
Sea breeze
Sweeping the streets of hearts,
A tea vendor
Buying up stock
From the bakers',
Cycle borne love
Carrying red red petals
To the florists,
A bunch of youths returning home
After revelry night long,
And a beautiful park
With swinging kash flowers
Conjuring up blissful picturepostcards.

Thinking a fiction, an account.

'Anything can happen',
They say,
Those ad gurus
With perfect copy editing stuff on their notebooks,
Full of novelties,
'Over a cup of coffee...'

I tend to agree
To their views,
As through the window glass
An afternoon makes a passover,

And I keep on sewing
A story
A dreamy one
Befitting this drenched festive light
Extending wonderous moisture on road...
Outside, peopled,
Vehicled,

'Anything can happen
Over a cup of coffee,'
They say,

I tend to agree
With the view,
For an afternoon like this
Leaves on me stitches-
Of finding the last few left
In the city...
The last few
Mothballs
And Matzah bread,

Of traveling to certain dates
From history books
Written in Hebraic terms,
Iike a cookbook,
A letter of Scott,
A certain street,
Where time had held captive
Buildings as old as relics;

'Anything can happen
Over a cup of coffee...'
They say,
And I
Find history,
And the city.

(Note: as the title suggests, it is all about a fiction,
The picture attached is a wall graphiti, a part of decor, of a coffee shop, )

How You keep me, Amazed...

How You keep me,
Amazed,
How You keep before eyes spread
Days,
How You add music
To lyrics,
Till together they become a script,
How in strings of wonderful songs
You add dreams prolific,long,
How by Your splendour
Evenings become eternal,
And in every sphere how You cause
A serene poise,
How You make a painting
By the dyes of the softest Sun.

If pop goes my heart, by eternal sunshine,

If pop goes my heart
By eternal sunshine,
I can't let You go,
If cool breeze from the East
Flows straight to my pages
As flows happiness for ages,
I can't let You go...
If I lose counts of time
Of feeling morning's sublime,
How can I let life go?
If poetry sows glorious shine
How can I not see my mind
Reflecting auspicious lines?

This flowing passage, this moment,

This flowing passage,
This moment,
Is so evocative,
That one feels muted,
We two
Like two books
Of two different generations
Sit across a table,

And
On the street,
Life flew by...

Like an eagle,

Like an Eagle,
Drenched by the golden rays
Of the Sun,
Festive and Holy,
Let me
Fly,
Fly unfurling wings of my mind
To the sky...
Carrying the sea
In my eyes...

Every breath i take in...

Every breath
I take in,
I take within,
I take you,
Life,
And every breath i exhale
I try not to fail
To be fragrant,
To be your State
Your
Purest,

For that way
I be
Aromatic.

Today is...everyday,

Today Is
Everyday,
If only i can feel it within,
Say?
Today Is,
Every Day
If i can sing it,
Say?
Today Is
Part of me,
Today Is
Reaching the sea
Of mind,
Your Wind
When blowing cool
When You me finds...
Today Is
A Be,
If you can only see...

This mist, this smell of incense sticks,

This mist,
This smell of incense sticks,
On the city streets,
Serve me with a belief,
As if,
Festivity
Holy
Hath transformed
Me
And you
Too
To extend palms
To receive
The falling mist,
The drops of dew
On our morns...
Our breaking dawns
Draped by the golden ways
Of winds blowing...
To make us all swayed...

Like these leaves mine,
Like leaves glistening fine,
Like the autumnal grape vine
Getting flowing as Holy Wine...

This morn, like a dream You inspire,

This morn,
By singing journeys,
How You inspire,
By Your songs of past
Of 1781,
To this pleasant morn,
How You leave a long prose
Into me like a festive flowing cause,
And i see how the streets sing eternity,
Where past and present beautifully gets merged,
Where art of poesy finds an upsurge...

And on leaves i just keep tabs of dreams,
By art i keep all beauteous scenes-
Of evolution,
Of journeys...

And 2 bighas, 13 cottahs,
And 7 chittacks-
Story of Melvyn Douglas,
All become a part of me.

Catching up after a long time...

So...
We talked...
As we talked life,
Our childhood,
Our ways,
Our seperated existence...
How we drifted apart,
By spaces and times,
Some of us took to the city,
Its undying urbanity...
How me remained just a scribbler,
Crowded,
Yet
Persistently
Mind filled,
Mind sketched minds,
We shook hands,
We jabbered,
We  recast,
Momentarily,
We happened,
Before leaving filled
Ashtrays...
Before being filled by smoky nostalgia
Of our bygone days...

Our timegaps,
Our spacegaps,
Painted us lovely red.

Just think, we are celestial beings...

Just think,
I have by some providence,
Become a season,
Without any reason,
Calculation,
Just imagine,
I have become a rhyme of a season,
A whiff of soft cool air,
A flavour,
A coffee stream,
Your waking up, this morn,
Drunk, sipping a dream,

Just think,
I am you,
Your invisible Self,
Where you keep your best poems,
Hidden,
From your mortal eyes even,
Just imagine,
I am your festive a season,

Just be a bird,
Just be a winged creature,
Or a motorcyclist,
A being running through the sweetest savoury mist,
Just open
Your ears,
Which hath just by some dreamy paint,
Got the tune perfect
Of the softest
The Heavenly Lyre,
Just think
Heavens hath come down on you,
And on me too,
And there is no cares,
No worries to share,
Just imagine,
We are celestial beings...
Leading just
A mortal life,
Yet so immortalised
By poems,
By dreams,
By journeys,
By writes
~

When You pour, there is my thirst more,

When You
The sky,
Pour
My thirst serves me, more,
When like woken up a soul,
I look up,
You becomes True,
Like this living dyed,
This colored eye,
This long journey
To reach You,
Like Eternality...

And soul ful ride i see
How get pasted on walls,
Like orange toycars,
Like fantastical adverts,
Like my writes perceived and transferred,
Full, like festivity on bloom,

And i move,
I glide,
My motorcycle i just ride,
Feeling nothing,
But Life.

Placed a vase of flowers...at the opened window,

Placed my vase
Of flowers
At the opened window,
Through which the colors enter me,
From the sky, the city, those trees,

Placed my vase
Full of my hues
To catch morning dews,
At the opened window,
Through which coolness enters me,

Placed my poems
At the window opened,
Full of my essence,
To catch the moist mist as a sense,
As my heart's paint...
As colors the season festive lends...
For eyes yours,
For minds yours,
For souls...
Sure.

(Note: painting courtesy: S.Carlos)

Sailed a paper boat...

Sailed a paper boat,
On the flowing river,
Hope by now she had reached your door...
Carrying a throatful song,
Sailed her,
The paper boat mine,
With Origami designs
Absolute,
Hope she had reached
Through these flooded streets
Bypassing clogged gates,
Gliding happily like my fate,
To your doors,
Where you might have woven your folklore.

How to decipher the sense of such a day?

When the mellowed light sets such a tune,
When Your Holiness within i feel like nom de plume,
Whence a song of Khalid* rolls me over,
Whence divine benediction perennially from sky thus shower,
Like an occasion of life to be celebrated,
i stay quiet by poetic a bless,
And keep on scribbling on pages dreamy dazed,

And then possibly only to hold on Sublimity spread,
i leave on leaves singing Your trembling beatified lay...

(Note: *A.Khalid, a singer)

What a sunshine, what a sky,

What a Sunshine
You bestow
On the plains of the city,
Still moving slow,
What a Sky
You like a cover spread
On my heart by hours of life so laid,
What a season festive
You hath painted
On roads by a forthcoming cause scented,
What a life
You so hath planted
In me like rays golden falling through , slanted...

And how my self i evoke
By Your musical sunny dope,
As Keatsean Autumn in my heart i feel as a sense
With drops of a rise to a morning of pure balmy dewy dense,
As like a season of a painting like one Juan Fortuny,
A billboard holds a cane basket of flowers, fruits shiny,
Sparkling cars and buses i watch how ply by gold washed,
How with woken up eyes i see the world with curiousity unabashed,
Feeling how like wonder, Life
In vaulted times sweetly elapse...

This Morn is a poem...

This morn
Is a poem by Self,
Cool and softly lighted,
As light glimmers through the clouds on float,
As on water flows a small boat,
As silence soothes a  life,
As poem emerges out of a bird's free flight...

This morn
Is a waking up again,
Waking up to feel how life flows by breezy lane,
How eyes hold light of the morning sky,
How flowers wake up to get the dewy dye,
How one goes out of one's own,
How one gets submerged with the glorious Autumn,

This morn
Is like seeing feeling life,
This morn
Is taking a smooth ride,
Down the streets, through the moist air,
Taking in the coolness running through one's hair,
As runs a music perhaps in one's joyous ears,
As one wakes up to the gaiety land spread up like a misty layer.

When the stars twinkle, when the lights welcome a life, a season,

When the stars there twinkle,
When bells within jingle,
When lights welcome a season,
Why we die searching reasons?
Why not we be just be,
Why not we take a plunge into the state of piety,
And be blessed
By the moment?

Why not we lose our selves
Into the deepest mirth?
A journey to our own pure hearts?
Why not we all live for life?
Why not we love our birth?
Why not we all be by happy selves merged?
Why not we own us?
Why not we let not
A moment ,
Without creating us?

This drenched morn, this wet street, ain't it sweet?

This drenched festive Holy morn,
This wet street,
This sky dripping bless,
This occasion,
This mixed up a season,
An Autumn with rains,
Ain't it good?
Ain't it sweet too?
Like a painting?
Like following a painted canvas?
Water colored?
Like making a journey
By eyes,
Of the mind?
Eyes of the soul?
Like sketching art forms?
Like living blessed in fluid rivery a flow?
Eternalised?

(Note: the painting attached is done by Joseph Zbukvic, an awesome painter, )

This Mahalaya, this place,

This Mahalaya,
This flowing river,
This dip,
I think
I have been all through
For ages...
Counts of which i never keep,

Since
I woke up perhaps,
Since i got the smell
Since i could tell
Words
In wordless forms...

This coolness in the wet air,
This recall of ancestral hymns,
This irreligious Holiness,
This birth to trace
How poesy forms in every flowing moment,
How life in water rises
And mixes,

Reminds me again
Of my childishness...
My runs to the neighbourhood park,
Running red bicycle mine,
Savouring the radio spreading chants into the air,
And smelling so much of sheuli blossoms...

This Mahalaya,
Is definitely
Infinite...
This Mahalaya
Is just like
A journey back,
To dreams.

Let me weave Paradiso

Let me be a different Salvatore,
A man reaching out for alphabets where stream like pour,
As destiny,
Let me find guineas
Falling incessant like drops of rain sparkling,
Let me there sit quiet,
Only to sing-
Heartful a song,
Let me live all days and nights long-
Which hold life so tiny,
Let me be decked by Your Sublime shiny,
Let me hold out my palm,
Let me catch the awesome,
The benign lighted sight,
The kindred winged soulful a flight,

Let me,
Rewrite
All spaces left,
With colors that only a festive season can drape,
Colors as good as glassy bangles,
Colors as bright as seen in an ensemble,
Colors that with water getting mixed evoke a canvas,
Colors that brushes illume on an exotic papyrus,

Let me
Remain as a bucket of colors,
Let me remain as eyes luminous...
Let me weave
A Paradiso.

Perhaps this is life...perhaps this is destiny...

Perhaps
This is life,
As into the cool breeze a soul takes a dive,
As the mist accumulates on trees, streets,
Eyelids,
As foggy glass shows back how i journeyed
From one childhood to another,
Of me, like a feather,
Afloat,
By the dreams
Of the wind,

Perhaps,
This is destiny,
Writing filling with feels too many,
Songs, prosaic, polemic,
Like a feather, sure, floating, forever, non static,

Perhaps,
This is the way to be there in Heavens,
Perhaps this is the way to reach cloud nine,
Nine to seven,
Never stopping...
Flowing,
Gliding,
Hopping.

Heaven must be like this?

So,
I asked my alterego,
Heaven must be
Like this?
Wrapping me around this beautiful mist?
This birth to be imprinted,
This life to write leafy life so scented,
This journey to soul mirroring a lamp,
This glittering sky where stars shine eternal,
This karmatic pen writing always a mind,
This discovery of a rivery flow of a kind,

I asked
My alterego,
Egoless
As the sky spread
She her winged life...
So peace laden,
So divine.

Such a reflection, on water,

After rains,
When the sunshine comes,
After rains,
On puddles some,
When blue white cottony clouds
Appear as reflection,
Of Autumn having a descent,

I see
How festivity
Arrives,
In the city,
And fallen leaves
How float...

(Note: the photo attached is taken by a brilliant street photographer and a friend of mine, Abhijit Roy, )

For such a sky, i can live for ever,

For such a sky,
As a promise that never dies,
I got a feel autumn kind,
I can live forever,
I can outlive me perhaps,
For such a sky...

For such a breeze,
As a long standing promise,
I got a wind
Singing persistent within,
I can outwind me,
I can travel to the sea,
For such a breeze,

For mirth is such a feel,
For happiness is such a journey,
For life is such a way of a Road.

(note: the photo attached is taken by me)

Canst thou bind sweet like loosing bands?

Canst thou bind sweet
Like loosing bands?
As
Pleiades?
Canst thou leave that lighted race
To begin?
This late evening
When crickets sing?
Canst thou bind
Like loosing bands?

A flight to Orion,# thinking of You,

And there are times
When by the smooth clime
i climb surely make-
To the Orionis,
Saiph,Sigma,Rigel,*
Where angels take
A ride to the incidence
Of a moment of rising of mankind to go over jumping all fence,

And there are times
When streets sing only only nursery rhymes
By the same stars down then i make a swoop,
Smelling freshness of counterfoil,
An alterego
A flower bathed by rain
Destined to bloom without fail;

And then poems arrive
In flocks,
Like dreams
Taking stock
Of life.

(Note: #Orion: constellation
*stars of the constellation of Orion,
Literal meaning of Orion:The Heavenly Shepherd)