Choice

       Picture: Own attempt. Morphed myself and the muse into a... a meaning?

The curtains drawn-
a noose hangs
in vain.

Her nose in a book-
the noose hangs
in vain.

Whose nook is it-
she's lain with a book
for days.

The loose noose-
it's not beyond
her gaze.

But the nose
in a book...
And she won't look.

They call her a goose;
her nose
in a book!

Her nose in a book-
the noose hangs
in vain.

Hooked, unhooked-
shook hands
with a book.

The noose
is loose;
not beyond her gaze.

For days
she's lain in vain
and she knows.

Her nose in a book-
the noose hangs
in vain.

She's got to choose;
they call her
a goose.

She's lain for days;
the noose hangs
in vain.

The nook,
the book and
curtains drawn.

She's got to choose-
the noose hangs
in vain.

No, she won't look-
it is the book
again.

It's the book again.

Metaphors

                                   Picture Courtesy: Google

He says the world's a stage
and that he fakes for wage.
He says he's a player;
someone who's come of age.

He says he's got a part
and that he plays it smart.
He says he's a player;
someone who'd soon depart.

He says the act will end
and then he shall descend.
He says he's a player;
someone who can pretend.

He says the world's a stage
and that he makes a wage.
He says he's a player,
come of age; bound to age.

He calls the world a stage
and says he's bound to age.
He says he's a player
forever in bondage.

The Quietus

                     Picture: The Lovers II by Rene Magritte

Each breath expended
in living your dreams
could buy me the trifle
they call life.

But I think I'd rather
be broke than
choke my love
for you.

Yes, I've this silence
that you believe
shall save me.
What have I
save this silence?

I ascribe the reserve
to your care.
Or is it your death?
Or is it that you
mourn for me?

They raised a toast
to love tonight.
What do I care?
I've had my share
of pine-ing...
ing-ing-ing-
Bah.

I'll spend my nights
guzzling sounds
that could have been.

I'll scavenge leftovers
from memories
that have succumbed.

I'll have the whirlpool
walk to you.
And I'll waltz through it
when you call me.

Will you call me then?

Bootless Bouts

                                 Picture: Eros and Psyche

Has the Night
talked you into
sleeping
without me?

What about me?
I do not hear
the promises
Silence makes.

The floor feels cold
against my feet;
I need shoes
to end sensation.

The creaking bed
has but
no blood
to offer me.

I do not die.
I live
in vain
without you.

Silence hurts
the most
when it
talks about you.

Gates

                                             Picture: Own handiwork

He made it
to the Golden Gate
while I
waited
for the Indian sun
to lose its gold
to the sea.

I waited
for shadows
and black silhouettes-
to trap them
like mice
into my meshed
memory.

He waited
for a second
gold rush
while I
hush-hushed
the sea
in its loud reverie.

I made it
to the morning's blur
while he
walked unaided
in the Stones of the Sur
and joined
in the coterie.

He'd sated
the Golden State
with his
energy
while I
returned to one long
journal entry.

I waited
for anything but him
while he
made it
to me
like a whim-
that ill-fated referee.

He waited
for me
to be free
while I
faded
trying
to agree.

A Tribute

   Picture: Richard - III performed by Natrang and Rangroots theatre 

                                    at Amar Mahal, Jammu

Benign the night that brought thy acclaimed selves

to pour to eyes that pine for plays divine,

a fact, an act with tact of playful elves;

a tale, like ale that could prevail past nine.

What math, the hour that hath power and wrath!

What myth, this lore, told not before; how blithe

were we, to see the London Tower bath

the skies with gore; the floor became a scythe!

Who could foretell this spell that would compel,

us beings to stay until kindled anew

with feelings such that even Time’s bosom swell;

who knew that you would come to our rescue!

Remember thee, we will until we breathe,

for thou canst have more than what thou bequeath.

Divorce

                                             Picture: Google, Picasa

I let a confession soar,
soar so high
as to transcend the sky.

But little did I know
that transcendence
needs shattering.

So the sky cracked
like the glass
on my window
and its shards
were lost
to the endless void
that is my heart-
a gluttonous black hole.

What of the confession?
I own it no more.

Afterglow

                                            Picture Courtesy: Google

The moonlight is but a parody
of the cold fire about you.
I laugh it off as I picture your face-
What are nights, without you?

A star-belt adorns the artless sky
and guards its pride in vain,
for when I think of your scornful smile
everything seems plain.

How naive is the wind to whistle
at me and play with a tress,
when you could by a single glance
have my soul undress.

And this silence that serenades
my hours, is but a gale of noise.
I follow the echoes of your beats-
for the quiet hasn't their poise.

An Undying Devotion

                       Picture Courtesy: Google

The night is a pyre
that preys on desire
but my heart, aflame,
yields not to the claim
of this wanton fire.

No touch can profane
my love or its pain
and all this burning
scars not my yearning;
I want him again.

Maim me or tame me,
blame me and shame me;
these longings won't die,
'tis in vain, the try-
he shall reclaim me.

Honey-Coloured Hate

                                     Picture Courtesy: The Black Swan, Picasa

Your intelligence, an indulgence-
How could I not hate you?
Your candour, like camphor-
what power could abate you!

What was I to you who were so much?
Tried though I, to sate you, sate you. . .

Your passions, and piques-
Poems would animate you.
Your innocence, impertinence-
Why must I contemplate you!

What are you to me who's nothing as such?
Tried though I, to hate, hate you. . .

No Simpleton

                                      Picture: Google

That young belle in town
dons not your icy white.
She's garbed in rage red-
the colour of her spite.

Insist her, if you may,
to talk of the weather.
She'll bat an eyelash and
whip you all together!

Rhyming Discord

         Picture Courtesy: The generous Google and a nervous Eagle (me).

What are these fingers
that dance like a dervish
on Time's piano?

What are these fissures
that drink life in?

What are lips
when they kiss whistles?

What is the infinity
secured in skin?

What am I,
seduced by a god
and reduced to a god?

What are you,
seasons virgin?

What is the source
and its force?

What is joy,
or chagrin?

What is a vale
that echoes in vain?

What are brooks
that purge beings of sin?

What is it to last
lest lust is lost?

What are endings
that couldn't begin?

Flutes and Fortune

                      Picture Courtesy: Me and my pipe.

I whistle to the emptiness
what you'd whispered to me.
Today's solitude I address
with tunes that used to be.

Each finger that reveals
the hollow that is my flute,
shrewdly conceals
this heart that is mute.

My breath I lend to songs
so that you may live.
For each one of your wrongs,
I have a note to give.

I flow, I float, I fly at times,
I feel, I feign, I fail.
It is but a frail hope that chimes
your name to no avail.