The Koel and the Rain


As the koel bird sang, I wandered through the garden of my memories;

The places I danced.

Under dancing lights, to beats pulsing from the floors.

The people I loved.

Around round tables, through frosted glass doors.

The songs and laughter,

Some louder, some softer,

Some bittersweet.

Then came the rain, as if nature mourned as it had been for days.

Covering the sun with forty-nine clouds and a billion droplets of pain.

And I remembered.

Though I am scared, I will dance again.

Though I now refrain, I will laugh again.

And sing and kiss and love and live,

Fear has no strong enough chain.



At the center of the sun a ball of iron spins in one place, unseen;

The black anchor of our heavens living under the firestorm of life.

Millions of miles away, patches of dirt, soaked in morning dew, blossom;

Touched by the light of flares flung in the course of entropic combustion.

Clovers and wild violets amid wild grass; a foreign seed a plant once fashioned;

It has grown into a bitter gourd vine; floating over the city line.


Hand of God

When you close your eyes, believe you can fly.

You can fly.

But only with closed eyes.

If then you shed a tear, believe you are clear.

You are clear.

But only if you tear.

Into the fire of your pier, where the blazing sun appears.

If you’re trembling inside, but speak as if alight.

You are alight.

In and out of sight.

And when you reach that height, you are bright.

You are bright.

But only without fright.

From the ashes of your fears, your own blazing sun appears.

The Branch of Terror


Terror, terror everywhere; on every mouth, in every stare;

Drummers droning, bleeding hide; sowing scare to dare.

Lies and liars fires strike; burning bridges, turning spike;

Trappers trapped in mirror’s light, throwing glaring flare.

Mirror, mirror on the ball, spinning round until they fall;

Coward playing cowered slight; widening its tear.

Dreamers to their teamers cry; freshened scars do not lie;

Pleading peace with every try, mumming humble prayer.

Terror, terror on my mind; behind my eyes, it’s all I find.

Suffocating soulful light, my quill and paper’s tugging fight.

Mothers, brothers, fathers chide; before going, time’s a snide.

Nightmares, their memories hide; a hollow where they cared.

Terrorists with mirror balls, breathing fear in teething halls.

Sitting on their heightened perch, cutting down their chair.


No Hurry

Sooner or later everyone’ll have something you’ll love and something you’ll hate; you’ll judge what you hate and covet what you’ll make.  Sooner or later you’ll be shackled onto that weighing scale – good, bad and rigged.  But it’s only if you put all your eggs in soon and late.  And only if you desire to possess with love and hate – pass judgment and become a hypocrite.  If you don’t believe in good and bad, in right and wrong; if you find baskets, or boxes, or find a way to do without eggs and have beans instead – life would be filled with joy and be a place of limitless bliss.  Simply put, ask yourself why you have to follow the status quo just because people say.  Ask yourself, why everyday everyone pulls and pushes you towards what they need you to be – and why and to what extent you extend.  Then ask yourself why you don’t extend further, but only as yourself.  In your own way, beyond someone else’s imagination – even if for just one moment of their long day.  If there’s no soon, there’s no late; if there’s no evil, no good prevails.  Only things that remain ever-changing and ever the same – a fleeting soul.



I am a shadow of what I could have been, and I have you to thank for it.  Thank you for making me mutable and immutable – giving me wings to change direction at the beckoning of the sun.  Thank you for giving me my omnipresence while being nothing at all; forever a companion who’s never there – you gave me this transient bliss; without which I’d have known a lot but the meanings I’d have missed.  On the less green side, I can see more green – if I stoop, it’s to see what’s beneath me; you made me this place holder of time, a herald for herald’s sake – for that, I have you to pay.




An illustrious life is thwart with calamities and disasters – misadventures and mistakes.  Joyful moments and painful hours all congeal inside the mind.  But for some, something happens when all the excrement reaches the library of brains – it fertilizes the seeds of curiosity.  New ideas blossom from this tree.

But this life withers quickly – its mortal form defeated by its upstream evolution, and its devotion suited to universal need, it retains the memory of existence through a clandestine omniscience. Our guardian angels in all plains, our unexplainable moments – and the fairies in our dreams.


A sheltered life cowers under the weight of desire – nepotisms and non sequiturs.  Pain and suffering overcome such beings despite all material things, all comforts, and all belongings.  For most of such sad fortune, nothing can ever satiate, nor create happiness out of spinning money, power and games.

Too much of anything burns a hole into the fabric of unknowns and predestinations.  While too much sugar causes diabetes, none of it makes life indescribably boring.  So the shaded existence expects too much, including the sun and the moon, its light and even the darkness of the night – and chaos overcomes them.


A life of deceit has a veneer of peace – Betrayals and duplicities. No emotion dominates but a blinding selfish desire.  It consumes even itself, cutting off its own air supply because of near-sighted flare.  In colors of love and law, it menacingly dances atop mass graves of conquests, ruthlessly massacred.

For such souls only devolution exists.  A constant incremental decline into the nearest black-hole, only to be rediscovered on the other end – in pieces, yet still retaining conscious memory of misdeeds like a maggot trapped under its skin.  It festers, explodes and implodes, and eternally eats itself.



A star burns brightest right before it implodes.

It gradually, voraciously, consumes itself;

Leaving a trail of light for a few billion years.

As if stopped by the iron hell-hound,

It rumbles inward; it can’t eat the dog.

So it eats itself – and shatters and scatters.

That Big Bang makes life,

For another few billion years;

It becomes the unseen.

The taker now, and many;

Circling around its kin in pieces.

Atop such a grain of sand,

With grass and water,

And parrots and robots,

Glued by gravity,

Only to look into the abyss of space,

To see another star,

That imploded only God knows when,

We stare.

For a rare cosmic glimpse,

Before we become stars again.