Full Circle


Footsteps in the sand
of memories made
along the tide
gone awash with surfs white
all that I made long gone
the sea throws back at me
a shell of a being that remains

Detest the feign
of promises never kept
Pray give me eyes
to fetch beauty in that

The soul of the made
is not its keep
The elixir slipped by
in making and letting go
The end, with nothing anew


Love at Work

Busy as I ploughed on for the day..
It was like the beginning
of life in the life of me
I saw her go past me
slender and graceful
she pranced along
to her daily keep
farther down the hill

Leaving me dizzy
the whiff of her sweetness
I waited by the window to
see her face again
wont she ever keep her time
teasing me with moments
slipping by more than the last

Until the day she smiled at me
drawn to the lovelorn in me
She would arrive formerly
glance at me with a luscious smile
but hurried past away
for the dread of duty
but she’d come again
only twenty two of
a thousand moments

A rendezvous brief as a moment
of melting into one
and she goes again
I hold on strong
for before long
she’d come to me again
only to be gone
to make the world go round

…does the minute hand love the hour hand as much as her duty?

Trailing off to serendipity

A usual summer day’s sandstorm had past by, leaving the plants in my tiny garden as if descending into their grave. Washing down the plants. Being hardly attentive to Tanya. She was going on about her job at the school and how everything would ave been different if she had decided to work at the local newspaper instead. Life was like dust and heat piled on everyday with a yearning of rain, trying to remember what it was really like to have the aliveness in her bones. The split life like many others of the repressed yearner and the mechanized worker.
The self on its own spur slips along the same way, ever deeper. An interruption, a wave of inspiration from without the bubbled self stimulates and brings the slipping self back from the precipice.Back from the edge into the mundane. From the gorge onto the cliff…

is a snapshot . a momentary capture of a few wavelengths, many missed in between. the prism of emotion/feeling accentuates some and the others are lost forever. When I look back I just have a constructed truth, but its not the whole truth. A speck called me in this infinite expanse, capable of assimilating no more than a whit, only that I dream the whole of the grandness could live in the whit.

If i get the core of the light I see a path/a hole into the real truth, a la Alice in wonderland, been through, I get to know myself, myself without the worldly noise.

Surging Verve

Was a cool stream
meandering on my happy way
pulled back in a pan
Boiled burned changed
to steam,
to steam again?
Did I cross this bend before?
Maybe not,
Bends are always curvy
Hard and pretty
the same way
Bustle on,
Making my way..

a steady pier

Be sought for
not feigned by beg instead

Command the charge
not for forced on, scampered

Dither, owned askance
not belonged herewith

Enduringly be cherished
not tied entwined

Fastened to belief
no shadows hanging

Ground steadfast pier,
stride afoot from

A thing of beauty

Getting back from sickness, I ve had a long lazy time in the bed for the last four days. Yearning to be on my feet again, I jump to the table with my laptop, reading the numerous feeds queued up in my content aggregator. And then in a glimpse, lying on the black and glass desktop monitor I noticed a white speck move.

Nearly dismissing to be my sick tired eye’s illusion, right there as before, I see it again, better, a bright white blob with fine white eight legs.

Before I could absorb its white striking beauty, it hopped onto to the matte black cabinet. To make its visual opulence even more surreal against contrasting backdrop, akin to a diva on a red carpet, capturing attention. There it landed, leaving behind a glistening silken thread working past the edge of the box.

Enraptured I got up, grabbed a colorful supplement from the Sunday newspaper – thumped it on the edge of the cabinet. Scooped whatever was underneath, and, the crushed ball of paper and all was in the garbage bin in no time.

penance for truth

The ‘rightful’ thing to do
I m aware
of choices on spur,
for duress’ sake

A retreat from ‘truth’
to seek shelter under
The truth that I see

The understanding is fleeting
transient feelings pushing it to heights
so big that it challenges reality

I relent and flow onto
further with the truth of the moment

the ‘rightful’ far left behind
for the gust of the whim is strong
the truth of the moment
dwarfs the rule, the exception
the rightful, and its ties

the moment, the life
owned by now,

years of the past
surmised by a moment
into now
of a prick precipice

– penance to severance
pain a sign of decay, gives way to the new a fresh beginning. At times, though, the scars do not go away

listening to Nee Nenaindal while I write this. I do not understand the words but it sets a reflective mood.

I am what I seek

“My major hobby is teasing people who take themselves and the quality of their knowledge too seriously and those who don’t have the guts to sometimes say: ‘I don’t know….’” -Nassim Nicholas Taleb

We’re born into an illusion. Grow up to live in and create perceptions of us and the world evermore. In fact buying into and working around the illusion is the only way one can navigate through the life here. It’s the only framework available here, one gets into the game of life and has to play by the rules. Most of our life thus, is spent perfecting the game and scoring the points as the rules dictate. The only difference between being lost and having a handle to the railing is in being aware that there is an illusion. As the guard of awareness goes off, the railing vanishes and one simply falls infinitum into the deep dark hole of the myth.

Though Taleb meant the above in the context of once awe-inspiring now hated financial pundits, this ailment of believing your own myth seems all-pervasive in these times. Is the reason that the life’s illusory myth has self perpetuated to such a complex level that it is harder to keep up with the other half of the void of the myth? The balance to seek between the self, hidden and marred by role-specific perceptions and expectations; the life, in all its material manifestations and limited time; and in the and the game therein, of perfecting the rules and workarounds about it: to me, is the aim to seek in my time here. Mystics and spiritually enlightened folks, from their high pedestal of having been there, done that call others ‘ignorant’. I understand the spiritual journey to be a very personal and internal endeavour, one that is catalysed and guided by the trials and tribulation of the illusory life aforementioned. A guide should be able to nudge to on track if you go astray, but nothing can push you or bring it to you unless you respect it, seek it in earnest; and, perceive yourself to be worthy and ready for it. A seeker seeks and cannot be shown. To each his own, in this long hard journey. There is no one single highway or even a single destination. There is no formula, and probably no answers at the end. An individual evokes respect, if his is a sincere path treaded with earnestness and awareness that the absolute is a semblance.

the dewdrop’s story

a sky of rue
bows under pining pall
wither the hue
reminiscing the play over blue

drained of day
of the morose gale
settles the verdure way
the dainty dew

appears orb another
succor in tow
a million sentinels hither
rests the dainty dew

covered down
lying low, anticipating
holding the dream
of a life in bask

come another day anew
the warm sun glisten bestowed
beaming but veiled asudden
ebbs covering dew