Gone are the days

The hidden morgue of mind

rage creeps from within.

I hate, I so hate

this dark well

passion, love, death

all rolls into one,

for I know not

why I hate.

I hate your worldly ways

your material aims

your limited ambitions

your selfish dreams.

I hate your rules

your declarations of liberty

you so effectively curtail.

I hate your schools

your mindless institutional discipline

your books

that talk of ideologies

theoretical Utopian realities.

What I love?

Haha! I love

college dropouts

who write poems

criticizing the Government.

I love Juveniles

who love and loose

who weave dreams in Marijuana haze.

I love a hippie heart

with gossamer threads of rebellion

in music, and dance, and silent protests.

I love you

Oh this heart of mine

contradictions galore,

in you i find solace.

I am selfish

aware of my limitations,

and I cry.

I cry to see

I can do nothing,

I have stopped dreaming.

Songs, Poems, Loneliness

You,

my dark swan

proudly gliding,

soft melodies of melancholy.

How humble it must be now

you're home- a tumultuous journey

into the wild and beyond.

You have found love

in the deepest corners of your sorrow.

In loneliness

you sang, you sang to me

that which I ignored.

You have known the wild joy

in abandonment, in loss, in pain.

And you wrote, wrote to me

letters unread for so long,

now lost in the attic

of yesteryear dreams,

only to be found

found in Us.

Only to be found

in everything we lost.

Only to be found

at the crossroads of love, lust and nothingness.

Pine Tree

They met

under the Pine Tree

at crossroads,

that night

stars smiling beguilingly.

They knew not

when they rose in love

silently, like the devils do.

A year later

they got married

under the same Pine Tree

the cello playing a D Minor.

Every morning they would drink tea

from the same cup, one sip two steps at a time.

One day he flew away

like a bird

without a word.

She sat on the window sill

waiting for the eternal return.

Every day she would write to him

letters asking not of return

but of well-being.

One day a reply came

out of nowhere,

no address, no smile

for he would never return.

She still reads to him

letters of love

on an imaginary grave.

She loves him still.

The Passing!!

Let us not have a name.

Let us just be,

two kites flying, free.

Anonymous

What's in a name?

he said,

lounging in a corner

guitar on one hand

smoking a Cuban cigar.

What's in a name?

she mused,

a glass of wine moves

an almost Allan Ginsbergish moment.

Across the room

a silent conversation began,

the heavy smoke

of cheap cigars, wine and

jazz-filled evenings

where intellect met humour.

He sang a John Denver song

and she,she was a ballerina.

He wrote poems

and she too tossed pebbles,

in the air- castles.

That nameless thing

a longing-bitter sweet

in all helplessness.

Forgotten Melody

A lonely path it was,

strewn with budding flowers and dead leaves,

an ode to my dying soul.

i lived the moment i met you

and died today

unsung and forgotten.

Promises were made

only to get lost in the mists of tomorrow.

Hopes were renewed

only to be buried,

a painful transformation to nothingness.

Like the haunting melody of the dusk

i sang a half-remembered song.

The words remain unfinished

slipping away from my fingers

like the long lost rainbow.

The desert mocks me

laughing, screaming, crying

inside my head.

I see you but you are gone,

a mirage and a miracle

of knowing you,

of loving you

and of losing you.

The pain is gone

as i lay here hollow

transported into nothingness...

In old Age We Muse

An old coffee mug sings

summer hailstorm in all glory.

We sit together

watching the world change

in circles.

An old coffee mug speaks

rain-filled mornings.

We walk together

drenched in silence

perfect symmetry.

An old coffee mug thinks

golden hued memories

turning hazy.

We sit in the field

remembering days

autumn at heart.

An old coffee mug rests

leafless trees, cloudless nights

a sense of peace,

our graves together

making love ethereal.

An old coffee mug remembers

what You and I were like

seasonal leaves, changing colours.

Just an old coffee mug

in spirits, in old age, we muse.

You

You live inside my head like a song on the loop,

one that denies peace as I forget and drift away-

a lone bird that hums a midst the thick fog

of never-ending promises

now broken, clasping my soul.

Can you hear the wolf calling its mate?

It came and sat beside me forlorn,

and we spoke,

Years later I climbed the mountain

this time, the wolf was old,

refusing to be martyred by love

stubborn till the last breath.

The full moon lulled me into the deep abyss

as I saw a bat, with the moon

tugged to its sleeve.

How relentless was this pursuit for love

that it stole, begged and killed?

Like a heartbroken record

the wolf howled

like a never-ending war of life.

Again, we spoke.