Blank was the school’s big black board
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Blank
Blank was the school’s big black board
Choice
The other side...
lie on the ground collecting sand and powder
the deep blue sea holds a few - precious i.e.
adorns everybody – from politicians to pious
Oh Stone.. how enticing are you!
Sometimes in the memory of a Building,
as a monument, place of worship & birth
or a few accolades in books for your size and girth
As a toy to my joy – when I filled my pockets
Small stones rattling & jingling, eager to make it to my collection
ah! those days of chaste dream – sometimes space sometimes rockets
Never knew the other side, until I heard the Church bell!
to my man I commit, I trust and love – to share my life
It was that one precious stone on my finger – to make me his wife
The high church was all Stone, stood tall as the town’s pride
for every girl in the town, dreamed standing in there as a bride
To the many in nature, you stand occult
for I have heard some say stone hearted - used as an insult
Such dreary standards man is always known to set
Prejudice in every stage – for pride, pomp and threat
Never will they know nor hear another bell
needs a stone at burial– a stone – to write their name of life spent!
to leave a mark loud enough as if struck by cymbal
Oh Stone, how grave can you be, even in the final event!
Remember to Forget...
I am put in the same next minute
Is this so important I should remember or
I wonder how did it make home in my mind,
I know I should forget
I say, "That’s it, now I forget"
But there you go memory just met
Like an unsolved riddle, this thought was kept
I wish I remembered how to forget... . . .
Poetry
Meditation, pass-time and hobby are some of its names It’s neither an academic score nor an effort for fame a sheer joy of expression, in all the true colors, while the most beautiful lady of literature seeks not to flirt with amateurs Acts as a best companion during loneliness awakens the hidden friend to oneness Friend I call, which seizes to have any entity It’s a pretzel of oneself being in its own identity This speaking painting does take many shapes & forms the reader owns the brush, writer writes no norms! | |
void everywhere!
creating a deafening silence
too few communicate,
Too many beings, too few feelings
whats the meaning
Only with their knowledge of math;
people know not lost their way
then where is the way?
the ship might sink, Shouldn't we think?
Might not last very long,
when things are going wrong.
could some one tell me where?
Can't let them in the air
Life of Death
As the cool breeze ruffles the dry leaves,
which time had covered the buried,
I take time to look back,
So soon, so fast, I was here ..back !
People I see around me bidding good bye
with their humane feelings standing by
this burrow very vast, so quiet, so calm,
the father still standing beside reading the psalm
Although Time had let me enough to grow
never attempted to know this burrow
Little do we make efforts to look forth
We remain wanderers walking back & forth
I, in this new world am all-alone,
Just as I in the other,
Neither brothers, nor bothers,
just left to ponder
I turn around to see my friends and foes
Who have finally given up their egos,
And wishing to turn their clocks back,
now that they are here…back !
Alas..! I wish they knew this before,
Which anyday was in store,
this realisation all along veiled
whilst only hither to be revealed!
Same mornings..,same nights.. pass,
Seasons doth reasons surpass
as I lay cold in the grass,
to count myself once amongst the mass!