The hopeful cynics

buried and forgotten
of mists rising in obscure graveyards
search liberation from afterthoughts
as searing dilemmas in perception of horizons
create smokescreens confounding
the conscience that incited
optimism and love in

in love and optimism
incited that conscience
the confounding smokescreens
create horizons of perception in dilemmas
searing as afterthoughts from liberation
search graveyards obscure in rising mists of
forgotten and buried

Palindrome poems can be read both forwards and backwards. –Selenophile97


An ode to philosophy

read the poets
bards and philosophers
rationalizing me and my actions
but failing to define feelings and emotions.

Think so
on and so forth, they said
go find the truth hidden
between the lines
beyond the circuitous words
but laughed when I did so
dropping my existential guards.

Therefore unlike you
and your books
your wisdom laced with
vanity and jaded looks,
I must struggle to find
peace and probably bliss
delving within to solve
the puzzle with pieces amiss.

I must think to
conquer this mortal bane
because gods that created this life
and the wise who explained it
always seem sparingly sane.
Is there a meaning to every figment
a reason for every lie
or the wise and gods colluded so we are
miserable till we die.

Exist in my own thinking
though all of you do
I may condone the transgression
or give in to similar arrogance
and join the confounding mission.
I may choose instead to ignore
your edifying trophies
or fight and outlive
these esoteric philosophies.


Spoils of grief

Morning shines off the bard with hair still gray

a lilting voice that quivers from tales of far away

people gather and listen with awe

he too sees the lips move but listens to the silence,

deafened by the incessant whispers of his grief.


Day breaks in without notice

men trapped in their lives and with much malice

they move with purpose matching the determined sun in its ascent

unmoved though he wonders, of life, universe and everything deep,

wasted, he lies tired with the gentle toils of his grief.


Earthy fumes from raindrops falling on

the dusky fields from ages dried

as they rise to compete with smoky pots

those evening cauldrons of the veiled brides

reminiscing on the memories of a love so brief

he suffocates with the nauseating whiffs of his grief.


Moonlit nights of countless bliss

cloud the eyes with a not so unknown mist

and the dreams blossom in the gentle breeze

but in the midst of fighting the demons and reaching the heavens

he wakes up to face the staring eyes of phantoms of his grief.


Song of the seven sons

ceremony started in the early hours of seventh morn
as rising sun shone on the empty effulgent throne
raving crowds cheered, as did from faraway towns
dancers and clowns wearing shimmering gowns

intrepid nubile singers sung the ancient lore
noblemen winced but people asked for more
ascending the steps the king waved with flair
leading his sons who longed for the high chair.

spectre of forgotten sins suddenly appeared in the sky
impertinent clouds echoed the silver wolves cry
night out of turn made the valiant king’s eyes burn
summoned were the sons, pledged wins or no return.

poise and arrogance drove the eldest
pejoratively dismissing he conquered the west
pugnacious mien, unloved, his fame slowly died
praised by the clique he never swallowed his pride.

going east with vast legions and still wanting more
garnering support he ruled lands till the rocky shores
glowered soon at allies grandeur, gold and steed
grimacing at all, the second was failed by his greed.

luscious wines and women abandoned like dirt
leching now for glory, to the south marched the third
licentious reign ensued a pervasive lack of trust
lacking purpose, he was consumed by a debilitating lust.

enamored of grudges, at injustice of being the fourth
ensigns of longing marched, coveting not just the north
engaging in spite, slurring peers so that great he would be
engulfed everything he had in the slow fire of his envy.

losing his sons, the king in remorse
introspecting much he did in his final repose
evoked the gods, asked for mercy, to let him free
we would, they said, but you still have three.


Tale of the imploring exorcist

Sipping a little of you
every night, keeps me high.
Imbibing a little more
may seem harmless
ah! what a ruse, to whom do I lie,
but let me get drunk all over again
for I have seen monsters
thriving, festering in the sober men.
I can denounce them, I can trounce them,
but not the one raging within.

I must drink a little more
to be human once again.

Loving you every night
makes me wake up with a high.
Making love a little more
may seem like stretching
the mornings only too far,
but let me love you all over again
for I have seen demons
sulking, scheming inside the heartless men.
I can get them exposed, get them disposed
but not the cold-blooded one thriving within.

I must love a little more
and remain a human till I can.

Seeking you every night
gives me solace, gives me a sound sleep.
Craving for you, your presence, a little more
may seem hopeless,
the futility leads me to the lands of the insane,
but let me start my prayers all over again
for I have seen devils
consuming, gnawing at the minds of faithless men
I can preach them, I can breach them
but not the heretic questioning me within.

I must lose myself in you a little more
to be called a human once again.


Writhing dreams

Let me open your eyes,
show you how the world lies.
Let me show you the dark,
clouded by this blinding moonshine.

Music from a forgotten oboe pierces their souls,
spinning heads circle the rising totem poles,
their crimson bodies, now sway in a known trance,
while the severed feet move in a profane dance!

When your ginger stained eyes look for solace
and spider legs crawl on your contorted face,
let me bind you with my stories, with my chains
let me be a part of you, let us be one,
forever in my misery and in your pain.

Would you wake up to the arrows
that have abandoned the cupids,
would you wake up to the mirrors
that show and sing your cruel deeds.

The ghouls of your past
feel real, yet feel like a hundred dreams
and the distant future seems bright
because it burns in the foraging fires
of innocence in your impending sins.

Would you wake up to your present
and be thankful for what you are,
and what you desire is no worse than me
or will you resist and perish rather than see.

Let me open your eyes,
show you how the biting pain
has become your scarred skin.
Let me open your mind,
show you how the poison you imbibed
has colored your soul in a mortal dye.

Let me open your eyes,
show you how the world lies.
Hold my hand and let me take you
to the dark beyond the world
of this blinding moonshine.


Evolution of the artist

guided by an innate urge to please
equipped with senses exhorting doubts
in the cautious strokes of earnest endeavour
with measured traces striving for perfection
he mirrors the faces conniving with reflection,
unaware of the beautiful yet incongruous nature.

a stickler for structure, enamoured by wisdom
of saints, philosophers and the morbid poets
craft acquired over languid classes
adheres to the norms edified by masses
the cultivated symmetry is a far cry,
wasted on the serene yet erratic nature.

recurrent inspiration and elusive metaphors
laid astray by well articulated arrogance
cruises to far away hills undertaken with fanfares
turquoise sky reverberating on tranquil waters
make him search for witless romance in scrappy affairs,
as he attempts to embellish a graceful yet flawed nature.

the artist is born in affliction not by choice
jerked out of his space by circumstances tragic
for it’s only a devastated soul that transpires surreal magic
the flaws, fractured norms, his foibles now in sight
crooked rivers, errant petals, skewed trees and such once critiqued,
within himself now he sees as he takes the transcendental flight.

Next: Revelation of the artist