I sit on Stone. Bare legs feel the cold seep through the pores of me. I feel the texture, the smoothness, the slightly serrated under skin. Breath leaves no mist on the azure. No haze to clear, no sight I bear. I am in a mist and the mist is in me. Wind rushes through the corridors of Memory, moaning, whispering in pain and ecstasy. I am a figure in stone. The wind continues to moan. Eons pass by, I don’t question why. I feel vibrations from the other side. The waves continue to lap the shore. Sunshine warms my heart no more. The tranquil blue, the soothing green, the playful orange that leaped up at me. The Sea once more I long to feel.
The fins are at rest, the eyes downcast, the cold never thaws, but forever will last. The smile is frozen in time though the Clock continues to chime. Living flesh turned to eternal stone. Mermaid of Copenhagen is my name. I live in my mind and Wind continues to moan….
Monday, July 14, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
Second Skin
Days go by, sometimes white and red.
Voices keep talking, inside my head,
Some full of laughter, some full of pain.
Echoing and pounding, they stretch and strain.
I say something, they hear something else.
Opposites collide, tangents align themselves.
And when it hurts too much, I slip this skin.
The voices no longer whisper, the tears dry unshed.
The cruel whispers are silent, hopefully dead.
Silence serenades, no shouts or screams.
Colours have transformed into a beautiful, pearly sheen.
Time floats by, the day is painful no more,
Red recedes, the blue silent waves lap the shore.
I am you and you are me.
Night is coming, the sun fades away,
The mysterious moon is dawning, so ends the day.
I keep walking, whistling fragmentary tunes to myself
Suddenly someone clamps my mouth, I can’t scream help.
I am pushed roughly against a stony, dirty wall,
The stranger forces, shuttered windows, no one to call.
The hands of mine push, he slips, he falls.
The throat I claw, he thrashes, then no longer moves at all.
I see his eyes; they no longer do see mine.
Danger is gone, now I am fine.
I stand up straight, I stand up tall.
The sinful dead, another joins the Dark hall.
I start walking, the night is beautiful once more.
Whistling resumes, fragments I encore.
I look at my hands, they have blood-how could it be?
I am unhurt and yet no one I did see.
I was walking back home and no one stopped my way.
It was another uneventful, colourless day.
The voices start again, clamouring to break free.
I am you and you are me.
Voices keep talking, inside my head,
Some full of laughter, some full of pain.
Echoing and pounding, they stretch and strain.
I say something, they hear something else.
Opposites collide, tangents align themselves.
And when it hurts too much, I slip this skin.
The voices no longer whisper, the tears dry unshed.
The cruel whispers are silent, hopefully dead.
Silence serenades, no shouts or screams.
Colours have transformed into a beautiful, pearly sheen.
Time floats by, the day is painful no more,
Red recedes, the blue silent waves lap the shore.
I am you and you are me.
Night is coming, the sun fades away,
The mysterious moon is dawning, so ends the day.
I keep walking, whistling fragmentary tunes to myself
Suddenly someone clamps my mouth, I can’t scream help.
I am pushed roughly against a stony, dirty wall,
The stranger forces, shuttered windows, no one to call.
The hands of mine push, he slips, he falls.
The throat I claw, he thrashes, then no longer moves at all.
I see his eyes; they no longer do see mine.
Danger is gone, now I am fine.
I stand up straight, I stand up tall.
The sinful dead, another joins the Dark hall.
I start walking, the night is beautiful once more.
Whistling resumes, fragments I encore.
I look at my hands, they have blood-how could it be?
I am unhurt and yet no one I did see.
I was walking back home and no one stopped my way.
It was another uneventful, colourless day.
The voices start again, clamouring to break free.
I am you and you are me.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
I sang...
Sometimes one wakes up in the morning looking at Grey. The eyes have turned monochromatic. The cold feeling stays, wrapping itself around like tendrils of ice, the fiercest rubbing cannot thaw. I am Kay, and the mirror pieces are in my heart.
The Snow Queen in her glorious magnificence is my best friend. And I celebrate “this is my December.”
Sometimes the threads of Lonliness wave in the wind like gossamer threads looking for an open,warm heart to connect to. The people walk past each other looking straight through. They see you and yet they don’t. Closed faces, hurried paces, people running their measured races. The hungry man looks for Hope, the addict for dope. I am Oliver Twist and the hunger is in my heart. Fagin with his nimble hands and many pockets is my best friend. And I celebrate “where the streets have no name”.
Sometimes the body shakes from within. The breath chokes and stops. The blood has been boiling for too long. The repressed voice strains to break free. Flashbacks of childhood on you, catharsis is unleashed. The victim is the inflictor, history repeats but you cannot see. I am Dr Jekyll and the medicine is in my veins. Hyde with his cruel visage is my best friend. And I celebrate “ a whiter shade of pale”.
The Snow Queen in her glorious magnificence is my best friend. And I celebrate “this is my December.”
Sometimes the threads of Lonliness wave in the wind like gossamer threads looking for an open,warm heart to connect to. The people walk past each other looking straight through. They see you and yet they don’t. Closed faces, hurried paces, people running their measured races. The hungry man looks for Hope, the addict for dope. I am Oliver Twist and the hunger is in my heart. Fagin with his nimble hands and many pockets is my best friend. And I celebrate “where the streets have no name”.
Sometimes the body shakes from within. The breath chokes and stops. The blood has been boiling for too long. The repressed voice strains to break free. Flashbacks of childhood on you, catharsis is unleashed. The victim is the inflictor, history repeats but you cannot see. I am Dr Jekyll and the medicine is in my veins. Hyde with his cruel visage is my best friend. And I celebrate “ a whiter shade of pale”.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Can you hear silence?
The strains of silence ..amidst the cacophony.
In the noisy jungle and in the underworld city.
It could never be silent..completely silent.Even if there was no sound one could still hear the blood rushing through the ears, the whooshing each time the heart pumps life blood.And the whump of the heart beat. It is never an absolute silence.
Until.
Unless..
It is the second when the heart stops beating and at that infinitesimal point- Complete Silence.
After that point if the conscious mind registers, you gasp for air- the most wanted sound Life can utter, the same akin to your own baby breathing its first breath outside of the womb, or you hear nothing except maybe the Wind Of Life passing you by, or the Black Wings flapping and the most inevitable smile of all - more than the Mona Lisa, curving on the unforgiving Cold Face.
Bliss...
In the noisy jungle and in the underworld city.
It could never be silent..completely silent.Even if there was no sound one could still hear the blood rushing through the ears, the whooshing each time the heart pumps life blood.And the whump of the heart beat. It is never an absolute silence.
Until.
Unless..
It is the second when the heart stops beating and at that infinitesimal point- Complete Silence.
After that point if the conscious mind registers, you gasp for air- the most wanted sound Life can utter, the same akin to your own baby breathing its first breath outside of the womb, or you hear nothing except maybe the Wind Of Life passing you by, or the Black Wings flapping and the most inevitable smile of all - more than the Mona Lisa, curving on the unforgiving Cold Face.
Bliss...
Monday, April 14, 2008
The last word of a line
The stars are no longer clear but a haze,
The city so familiar becomes a distant maze.
Some dreams long ago I gave up to chase,
Life often presents a mysterious face.
People competing like rats in the rat race.
Not Gabriel the angel, we all fell from Grace.
People, their ancestry through DNA are trying to trace.
Bio- Diesel and Olympic torches are the latest craze.
Power always corrupts is a cliched phrase.
Self defence says- Women to protect themselves with Mace.
It is not a rap and doesnt even much rhyme.
Terrorism is a multi billion dollar organized crime.
Theatre is reviving and maybe so should Mime.
Tell me,40 yrs of age is old or is it Prime?
Global warming or a new Ice Age, are we running out of Time?
Sub prime crises,stability's no longer a dotted line.
Cricket is now a bid sport, but no body seems to mind.
Did you smile at me?.. Oh well I am fine.
The lustre on the dollar, seems has lost its shine.
The dog doesnt bark, in hunger it whines.
No more its an us, its only a 'Me' and 'Mine'.
Are we trying to sell Humanity, or is it already sold?
12000 INR and rising, its boom time for gold.
Ebola or HN51, who catches common cold?
New generation leaders are striving for solutions bold
Trying to break 'Another brick in the wall' mold.
Einstein predicted a third world war , so did Nostradame I'm told
I hope to be dead by then and not just old.
Thought we all for earthly Paradise could try
Maybe not too late, maybe our scriptures did not lie.
The greed for oil, Iraq is still getting fried.
Egos before Human life, the Darfur baby cries.
We can still Heal the World, if we promise -You and I.
The city so familiar becomes a distant maze.
Some dreams long ago I gave up to chase,
Life often presents a mysterious face.
People competing like rats in the rat race.
Not Gabriel the angel, we all fell from Grace.
People, their ancestry through DNA are trying to trace.
Bio- Diesel and Olympic torches are the latest craze.
Power always corrupts is a cliched phrase.
Self defence says- Women to protect themselves with Mace.
It is not a rap and doesnt even much rhyme.
Terrorism is a multi billion dollar organized crime.
Theatre is reviving and maybe so should Mime.
Tell me,40 yrs of age is old or is it Prime?
Global warming or a new Ice Age, are we running out of Time?
Sub prime crises,stability's no longer a dotted line.
Cricket is now a bid sport, but no body seems to mind.
Did you smile at me?.. Oh well I am fine.
The lustre on the dollar, seems has lost its shine.
The dog doesnt bark, in hunger it whines.
No more its an us, its only a 'Me' and 'Mine'.
Are we trying to sell Humanity, or is it already sold?
12000 INR and rising, its boom time for gold.
Ebola or HN51, who catches common cold?
New generation leaders are striving for solutions bold
Trying to break 'Another brick in the wall' mold.
Einstein predicted a third world war , so did Nostradame I'm told
I hope to be dead by then and not just old.
Thought we all for earthly Paradise could try
Maybe not too late, maybe our scriptures did not lie.
The greed for oil, Iraq is still getting fried.
Egos before Human life, the Darfur baby cries.
We can still Heal the World, if we promise -You and I.
Friday, April 11, 2008
The Candle flame's choice
Ever wondered why one wakes up feeling blessed one day or Sinned as the feeling may be. Sometimes the heart feels and the mind ponders on the questions why-Who am I, why am I here, what about my true calling in life, is this what I am supposed to do....?
Questions course through either like the sudden gush of restless water, breaking out from the dam, or like the slow, sensual yet deadly un-coiling of the serpent lying peacefully in the sun. Both are forces of nature. Both individualistic. Totally overwhelm or in an instant pass you passively by. And you dont even realize why...
Ever watched the naked singularity of a candle flame, undisturbed by any wind in a closed room. Controlled heat, rooted to the wick. A dry cotton ball near it and the flame stretches, leans towards it, almost touching and yet not.But suddenly the cotton is alight. A few seconds hence and all that remains is nothing but a few floating strands of Black. The same flame in the same room.But now the room has only pure oxygen replacing the closed air. Does the flame burn?
The wick is not essential any more. The force is explosively combustible... more light than a naked eye could see.
The heat Searing , white or maybe blue
Blinding to most but dazzling to the fortunate few.
Wick= limited consciousness
Candle flame= You and I
Cotton ball= conservative consiousness
Oxygen- Unlimited consious potential/Awakening of the Self/ The Inner Eye
The cotton ball or O2?
What will you do?
Questions course through either like the sudden gush of restless water, breaking out from the dam, or like the slow, sensual yet deadly un-coiling of the serpent lying peacefully in the sun. Both are forces of nature. Both individualistic. Totally overwhelm or in an instant pass you passively by. And you dont even realize why...
Ever watched the naked singularity of a candle flame, undisturbed by any wind in a closed room. Controlled heat, rooted to the wick. A dry cotton ball near it and the flame stretches, leans towards it, almost touching and yet not.But suddenly the cotton is alight. A few seconds hence and all that remains is nothing but a few floating strands of Black. The same flame in the same room.But now the room has only pure oxygen replacing the closed air. Does the flame burn?
The wick is not essential any more. The force is explosively combustible... more light than a naked eye could see.
The heat Searing , white or maybe blue
Blinding to most but dazzling to the fortunate few.
Wick= limited consciousness
Candle flame= You and I
Cotton ball= conservative consiousness
Oxygen- Unlimited consious potential/Awakening of the Self/ The Inner Eye
The cotton ball or O2?
What will you do?
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Welcome!
Welcome to my blog friend,
Finally took the step to start writing thoughts publicly rather than confine myself to a 200 page papyrus to account for all that I think, see and say. Or may be that sometimes the mind does not, nor does the tongue want to, but the heart does and the fingers follow..
My pages are not a daily journal, nor a marathon monologue
They reflect my perceptions only yet it could be a dialogue.
They could be the cloud on a sunny day, or the snow when you already blue.
They could be the wind to lift you away to an alternate reality glimpsed by few.
They are pages you and I write, we share , we hide , we dream
The voice to the hidden agony only the mind can feel and scream.
I say write on to myself and hope the words will speak.
To cherish memories and memoirs for a lifetime to keep.
Finally took the step to start writing thoughts publicly rather than confine myself to a 200 page papyrus to account for all that I think, see and say. Or may be that sometimes the mind does not, nor does the tongue want to, but the heart does and the fingers follow..
My pages are not a daily journal, nor a marathon monologue
They reflect my perceptions only yet it could be a dialogue.
They could be the cloud on a sunny day, or the snow when you already blue.
They could be the wind to lift you away to an alternate reality glimpsed by few.
They are pages you and I write, we share , we hide , we dream
The voice to the hidden agony only the mind can feel and scream.
I say write on to myself and hope the words will speak.
To cherish memories and memoirs for a lifetime to keep.
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