A spread of bluish bliss

Today I decided to pry open my eyes a bit more and absorb every essence of the world outside my window.

I have looked at the sky before and whenever I could relay to it my truest attention, I had sensed its gifts in clear sight, unhesitatingly rolling towards me— its vigour and silence piercing my heart, a subtle freedom cuddling my eyesight, something that could not be traced in daily objects.

I thought I would repeat my act of paying attention to that infinite realm above me, dig deeper into the scene. Because why not? The blue of the sky was swelling with such vigour—a shapeless spread, a daunting echo of something magnificent. Clouds didn’t dare to engage with this scene.

I surveyed the wide length, scanning for a remote corner of it that was perhaps not too perfect but I found none. It was spotless. The blue felt effortlessly tangible. Perhaps if I  willed my hands to reach the magnanimous sky, it would offer me its own, and hold my palms for eternity.

I lay thinking how a few months prior, I had lost my tether to it, numb eyes struck by a colossal blackness that could no longer decipher the blue of the sky. I can’t imagine I had lost the sky back then and everything it had to offer.

After regaining it— its essence tending to my heart once again, I can graciously praise its boundless existence. When we are struck with a dreaded realization that we have lost something forever and then it finds its way back to us, we are enormously grateful for its presence and never take it for granted. Our hearts are filled with an inexplicable joy of revival and rebirth, the vibrations of it magnifying our senses, until the colours are not just colours but living creatures with souls— roaming entities that sing and occupy our ears and hearts. I can feel the blue reverberate within me and I doubt it is just a colour for I can hear its voice and secret wishes.


A gesture of regal calm

I took a slice of peace
and crafted it with a maple bow,
to set it apart from those stacks of enlarged joys
that took shape inside tumblers placed on precarious roofs.

Silence sped up,
fortunes flavoured inside lemon coloured hues of the sun,
havens sewed from the bodice of delicate buds.

There might have been an unsung mayhem in the clouds just then,
yet it strived to procure the assembled spirit
of the settled dust on loose soils.

I aimed to record those scant moments
of enhanced peace,
spinning the end of a docile rainbow while it lasted,
and offering my prayers of gratitude
to the stirring aura of lives beyond the horizon.


Drawn to the monsoon dream

I am craving the ascending tone
of hued rain,
the frolicking dust stalled for a while,
chaste drizzles taming the fidgeting dreams,
swiftly moving through shaky realms,
relaying moist touches over crippled skin.

I try to furnish the heated grounds of my home
with dreams of a stoic downpour,
where every drop stirs a gentle rhythm
in caged hearts,
and forays a subtle hope of an emerging rainbow,
right after the skies have depleted their stock of clouds


The heart holds a season

I remember a flushed face, a warmth growing in it every second during the peak hours of heat and during the radiant scarlet afternoon when the vibrant sunrays prowled over subdued places. People were assembling their smiles and zeal in that spot of vibrancy and light, decoding games over the hot sand, and picking at oddly shaped fries in red-white plastic plates. The height of fun could be sensed from a mile away, there had been a massive outbreak of joy and amidst that joy, a face held the expressions of the common crowd—a wonderful smile cast to it. Yet those eyes seemed affected, a murky vibe settling in the depths of it that didn’t vibe with the rest of the atmosphere. Smiles can be versatile and at times careless, not always attuned to one’s deepest spirits and hence can even be carved out of morbid realms. But the eyes tell truer stories, they are faithful to one’s cores and if there’s ever a need to determine the season stacked in someone’s heart, those oval depths can offer a view of it.

So when everything in that spirited hot realm pronounced joy, they only accentuated the smiles and vagrant laughs, missing those eyes that were so reluctant to join in. Later they held on to their staunch view that those sandy realms held the most jovial hearts, every soul immersed in a certain kind of joy. Yet their attention hadn’t processed the colour of those eyes and had missed the sight of shadowed whirlpools inside them.

Days later, atop a faint sunlit passage, those eye beheld the scene of scaling trees enunciating the breeze of spring. The layers inside those eyes shifted a bit and there began the cleansing of those dark waters.


Expectations galore

I have sought a string of mellow days where I can peer into the load relayed by hindered destinies. I have threshed on the halo of the night or the tan-green spirit of the day for spawning the efforts needed to settle those expectations that multiply in a frenzy manner each time.

In the hurrying stream of thoughts where doubts pervade the highways and corner streets, collisions are likely to assail the varying flow of mind’s deeds. Directions hindered—the relapse initiated by untamed goals and unpreserved zeal of my heart— I have slipped outside time to reconcile with ceaseless expectations.

Hence I prey on reflections and lucid observations to strike a harmony with time and the flow of a life that harvests over the slow songs of nature’s abode— my mind capturing an essence of true earth.


Coils of unrest

I have been gambling with rest for a while, allowing my mind to go vagrant in the wilderness of fresh dreams.

My mind’s been bedecked with a sensor, which traces the succession of deeds that needs to be finished or done more frequently. In this way I have been atleast saved from tangled worries brewed through seasons, precipitates of idleness diminishing.

Yet unrest flares and toys with my breaths. Perhaps it could be termed as earnest—this unrest that’s attached to my passions, yet it carries the gesture of wasted habits, habits that restrain my bones from harnessing nature’s whimsy.

The clouded nest of hurry resulting from a notable deed might perhaps be called harmless as it may redeem a glory in a future story. However it won’t uncage a treasury or unmask a bliss that is in tune with the chaste songs produced amidst the rhythmic soils, the soils upon which lie nature’s armoury of hate-erasing cannons.

Perhaps I am relaying a hard judgement on my person, thinking too much about my state of unrest, since that thought itself is a measure of unrest.  I thought I was treading inside a circle but I can see how I have marked a loop here—brewing unrest and brooding over it, then witnessing the brooding, and here the loop is unwound over and over again, shrieking its presence until it’s engraved in my bones.


Writer’s block

I am sitting in front of the tv and striking out words one at a time in a haphazard sequence, until none remain and my feelings have lost a language. At a moment like this I try to pry open my heart a bit more. The staunch will of an ache, longing to reside in a page for long, toys with my patience. 

But as easily as words can craft joy and relay a blissful essence within seconds, they can, at times, stubbornly resist my call and tactfully avoid my ink stained hands. I encounter a pressure then, one that keeps nudging me to open a door to let out those entangled emotions captured in the fragile creases of the heart. But, on the other hand, words drag their footsteps towards a vague spot I can’t reach, refusing to aid my fragile feelings and provide them a space in a thick clean sheet. 

The whole process breeds complication till the end moment, since after several minutes of an inherent battle with words, they do sink into the page—at least some of them do—yet a rhythm is not fostered. There is the trace of a weak invisible string that does not braid them well, and thus I risk putting into paper a thing that cannot offer allegiance to the voice of my heart. 

A forcefully forged meaning assails the strength of my poetic vision and thus I drown in the deed of striking out words and phrases— phrases that are sufficiently metaphoric but are unable to contain my world.



I was kneeling on the grass and solemnly guiding my gaze to rest on the wayward branches of those aloof trees. The spin of the earth was naive then, still trailing like a snail deep inside the grounds. When the sun rays faltered in the open skies and stocked themselves in the clouds, the fluffy whiteness dimmed its fervour and a jarring yellow reigned in glory. I tamed my eyes to pause at the colour show for a while, and then my gaze slid towards the scene of trees a second time. They were poised like a slow song, subtle in the movements of their leaves, yet a moment later they had swayed dangerously as if possessed by the vindictiveness of a forest spirit. It was then I had noticed the lurch, the tremble of the grounds beneath me. There’s no song to be relayed to the moment of seething unbalance in the earth’s surface, that gathers destruction in slow pauses. Yet the moment hadn’t lasted— just a second of noiseless shaking of the grounds, the trees regaining their feisty steadiness at an instant, the wary sway detached from their souls. My slumber was erased after that, my senses keen to spot the hint of a tremor. It didn’t return, the last traces of it scantily removed from the atmosphere. By that time nature seemed prosperous, humbly changing its skin tones as it retreated from sunlight, the husk of a crescent moon revealed amidst the retiring sheen of the day’s framework.


Sunset strides

Leaves pool into grass-less lanes,
serene claws of sunset smothering
their unruly shapes.
I am pinned to the modern world of unbalance,
yet verily I can rely on my breaths
that can behold nature’s caress
in such miniature moments of sunlit haze

Here I am not plowing through my loose corners and unfixed parts
and I can hear the sensitivity of every nook,
their cries of warmth bestowed over the fallen leaves,
their rejuvenation marked by the glossy creases in the sky

For the dozen minutes of gentle strides
amongst the last trees of this remote haven,
I don’t falter over any bumps in soil
and procure a pricy steadiness instead,
an hour of stoic balance renewed,
gears of nature forever working their way through time.


Untitled poem

I relay my paramount gratitude
to that ground silence for not waking up

to those waning caresses
renewed in melted form

to that assembling of cast away breezes
in the forest of lost songs

to the halycon moment gambling
with the memories of trickery shadows

to us weaving the spring time bouquets commemorating our bruises in kingly shapes

to those background tunes
that hold our dawn
even when it’s flattened by hideous storms

to the realm of art that reverts
the bankrupt triviality
and reclaims the doom as magnificent creative forms