"Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:" 
- The Gospel according to St. Mathew, Chapter 7, Verse 7


Open your mouth,
and shove your right hand down your throat.
Pull your caged soul out
and take a good look!
Watch out -
your soul is a Bird: He can fly high
before you know it,
leaving you hollow and weak.
Don't clasp too hard now -
your soul is a Beast:
He will chew your humble flesh
and spit your brain out!
Gently rub Him,
as He curls on your palm
gobbling fresh air.
He is no more a virgin!
Ain't it such a pity that He was,
and for this long, you tall, old ****?
Fortunately for you,
its never too late for that luck.


Lift your head up and see!
In time, where exactly do you want to be?
Forcefully and with all your Might,
throw Him in that direction, without losing sight,
and Master your destiny!


Now go fetch your damn Soul:
only this time, don't come back!

The Epic Rider

Trot! Trot! "Go further down-

the path bends towards the setting sun

and she sets well over Macey's Town.

If you make it in time,

it might just about lift that frown!"

Of course, the old Hag was wrong.
Nevertheless, he went around.
The hill, big enough,
and the big brown steed jaded,
and yes there is time - 
for me to fill you in
with the rider's tale 
until they reach the other side of the hill!

Bide with me

And again, I am alone.
I'll just tell her over the phone.
Wait! I see a dog at my doorstep,
scrounging for his meal- I must help.
I call him Seamus and give him a bone!

Happy-ness

The little soldiers of Death march on,
to the Undying rhythm of my heart!

An Impetuous Song

Hot love
White dove
Cold heart
Yellow fart.
Break this chain - 
purple rain!


Blue skies again.

Off-beat policy

urban revenues
layman's blues


rich man's high
farmer's pie

Uptown

Abundance killed the rich fat man!
His moustache left traces of exotic sea food;
he had a pudgy, ugly wife and she sure was no good.
He could have lived longer, they whispered.
But they never cared really.
And in a few leaps in time,
they forgot about the poor fat man!

Surreal

Jazz,                                                                                                                                                                                                  lays me a bridge                                                                                                                                                               to surreal places;                                                                                                                                                                   makes unimaginable dreams                                                                                                                                         a possibility in seams.

This new place I’m at                                                                                                                                                      is nearly on top of a hill.                                                                                                                                                                

Lush green hill.                                                                                                                                                  Clear blue sky.       

The summer sun recedes.                                                                                              

I am right here under this peach tree,

gently swinging out of the melancholy.

The wind blows from Miles away,                                                                                                               probably from the West-coast.                                                                                                                                  The music harbors my thoughts;

syncopation- weakens my wistfulness.

And I begin to realize Monk’s description:                                                                                                        Jazz – This is freedom.

Well Reader,                                                                                                                                                                      Learn some jazz                                                                                                                                                                                  or I bid adieu!                                                                                                                                                                   My train has arrived too. 

A suburban railway station                                                                                                                                         is apparently where I’m at,                                                                                                                                                                                ideating of this new place.

So you see now poppet-

Jazz,

lays me a bridge

to surreal places!

Karva Chauth

The moon shines bright – 
a thick white layer by the window.
I embrace it with the dark night,
to sunrise, should I go?

Girl, be my mellow white disguise
Over my dark shadow!
And I greet this because you are nice;
To all and sundry, I can’t let you go!

With Love,

Your friendly poet.

The Last Waltz

The moon stands still in it's brightness
and they don't even notice it - idiots!
The sun refuses to rise,
an owl dreams at the witching hour,
rivers run dry,
and the night guard is puzzled!

Let's dance - You and I.

The Pencil.

scratch, scratch-
flows black.
words put to use
for mine amuse.

Leonard's Musings

Silence
and 
a deeper silence 
when the crickets
hesitate.

- Leonard Cohen