Rain

Quite unaware of anything
Or everything
That it created
Or that created it

The rain falls
Outside my window
Slow and gray and silent
Alone and alone

All by itself

Blinks

Blue blink
Laptop
Green blink
Speakers
Red Blink
Power supply
Yellow Blink
Data Card

How many blinks
In how many colours
Besides my bed
Inside the dark night
Inside my room

Blink blink
Blink

Log

Things end at the end of six
Things gone are born again in seven
Seven, begins – nothing has changed
Yet times have changed
Times have changed,
As have things

Landed, floored, marked, seconded
Booked, sectioned
Running late, on the way
Forgive
Forgiven

Existentialism is
Existentialism is all about is
ness
Existentialism is not excreta
Existentialism is,
Et cetera
Existentialism is all of everything
That is

Spunky groupies
In goaties, styles of talking
And choice of words –
Spunky, new, groupies, not so
A word a day
Can keep you all away

High school parties, wealth of
Nations
Heh, feel good!

Oh not to forget lips
Black

Things have changed
So have the times

Cleansed doors of perception
Bottom(s) up approach
To the singer or the song
Leather pants

Choice of clichéd words
Subconscious

Stories, ambitions, ten years from
Now, then, past twenty years hence
Forward from now
Stories, sorrow, “where did I go wrong?”
No, not you, not me, it’s just me
Spoon feed not sorrow, encrypt it
Encapsulate in husk – difficult to reach
Do not spoon feed sorrow,
I repeat

Times have changed
So have things

And then soon,
Happy Birthday.

Borrowed Song

On skewed paper shoulders he
Carries a song that he borrowed
From a nightingale
Walking, his steps in a gracious rhythm,
As if in a dance, he sings the borrowed song

Wishes he does to change the tune -
Make a tune from the nightingale song
A song that he can call his own
A song his own, woven
From threads of his own thought

Songs are born as his rays of thought
Walk in through his prism mind
Chromatic tunes, melodies, his songs
All resembling the nightingale song
The way they start or the way they end

His songs fare not just as good
As the song that he had once borrowed,
Carried on his skewed paper shoulders –
No new song ever matches
That song of the nightingale

On skewed paper shoulders still, he
Carries the song that he borrowed
From a nightingale
Walking, his steps in a gracious rhythm,
As if in a dance, still sings the borrowed song

Blue Flags

Hoisting blue flags is not a hobby
But is, and should be a routine, like breathing, eating
Reading, writing or singing songs
Hoisting blue flags is not an option – everyone
Should hoist at least one blue flag, must
Hoist a blue flag a day, every one
That flies high atop the forts, graying towers
With clock dials, spears kissing misty morning skies

Soon
Closer to the stars, casting shadows on the moon
Only the blue flags hoisted - can and will
Mark the stars and the moon and the clouds
With their shadows cast,
Signatures of our own moments lived
Bathed in moon light, memories of starry bejeweled moonlit

Nights

Being Buddha

Being Buddha is very easy for everyone
But Buddha
Everyone is an easy specialist in
Being Buddha
Everyone has one’s own notion of
Being Buddha
Only Buddha knows or knows nothing at all
About being Buddha
As are the existential doubts with everyone
It is easy for everyone being someone else
Everyone else is good at being Buddha
But for Buddha
Everyone else can never be themselves
Buddha included
Only Buddha knows - it is not so easy
Being Buddha
‘Coz no one knows what it is to be Buddha -
Buddha knows,
Buddha included
Buddha know not – if there is Buddha
If Buddha exists, at least a thought, Buddha
But everyone is good at being Buddha
‘Coz they think Buddha is what they think
Buddha is
And so, being Buddha is very easy for everyone
But Buddha

Evolution

Tens are not remembered when they are lived
Normal sub-human lives, sub-human, normally
Not even worth memories, but for a select few
You want to remember, if possible forever too
Only what they tell you

Twenties are remembered when lived
And much after, in all humanness
Human lives, nostalgia for years to come -
Full of scenes of twenties, awesome, woe-some,
Longing, made up of twenties’ scenes, total sum

Thirty brings in the change
Thirty pushes us to the evolved side
Thirty makes super humans of us all
Makes us divine - makes heard clearly, the call
Super human, we rise, from the longest ever fall

Thrue Sthory

He lisped.
All his ‘Ta’s where ‘Tha’s.
A thick tick was always a thick thick.

His name was Thim. He was a thaoisth.

He was a pothatho eather, his friend, Thom thoo was a pothatho eather.
All day long, they sath on shorth sthools, they peeled pothathoes and athe pothathoes.
They liked tho eath pothathoes, they liked tho thalk abouth eathing pothtathoes.

Eathing pothathoes, thalking all day long, reading thao de jing, he was on his thao, they were on their thao.
He thought not, practhiced non-being, along with Thom.

Enlighthenmenth was noth far away for them both.
Ith happened nathurally - on one Thuesday morning.
They forgoth all abouth enlighthenmenth very soon and conthinued eathing pothathoes and thalked abouth pothatho eathing.

All day long.

Disaster

Each with a raging sea
Rough surfaces, storm building up
Inside

With clear blue eyes
Pretentious calm
Before, after and during the storm

Lightning
One, two, more - from
The calm blue eyes, expectant

Myths, beliefs
One and the same
All myths are beliefs, all beliefs myths

Accept one, pretend
To accept one and all
With eyes closed, living is not as easy

Nothing, and
Something more called nothing
Are both really imaginary.

Secrets

3 AM. A dream.
A new realization.
Eyes open, other end of existence realized.

Awake, now with a few secrets lesser, I lie down.
I now know of that one dimension.
That dimension that I’d never have accepted.

Nothing much has changed, around.
Nothing at all has changed, around.
Only a new realization –

That has corrected the eyes.

Doors and Things

All that we bought - all that we brought here from where we came from are all stacked neatly behind our doors.
And we are always expecting someone else too, at our doorsteps.
And at times, there are knocks, some expected, some unexpected, some unwanted – but all knocks just as mysterious as every other knock, till the doors are opened in anticipation.
And behind the doors are stacked, made to lean against the door are the things that we bought, brought, accumulated for ourselves – our beliefs included.
Some things stacked are fragile, some strong while some just crumble at a mere sight.
Some things do not ever bear any resemblance whatsoever to the things that they were before they broke down, before they crumbled.
All things break down as things stacked against the door break down, crumble and fall, fall and crumble.
Even when the doors open to welcome the expected someone else’s knock at the door, things fall down, crumble, leave the fine dust of all things that were once collected with much zeal.
We want not to see them things in dust.
We want not to not open the door too.
We are scared.

And they tell us, that to be scared is not a justification, not even an excuse.
There is another knock at the door when we pretend to listen to them and pretend that we never heard the knock at the door.

Disclaimer

This is a nonsensical blog.
But the posts being nonsensical, are not intentional.
At all.

At least consciously, no, not intentional.

A

Aarthi, spelt A-A-R-T-H-I is the first name in all her friends' mobile contacts lists.

Children play with mobile phones at every friend's place.

She gets approximately 5-10 blank calls and 5-10 blank messages every month.

I asked her if she ever got irritated because of this. She said she found it amusing.

I said "Heh, nice!"

Turn, turn, turn

To ev'rything
Turn, turn, turn
There is a season
Turn, turn, turn
And a time for ev'ry purpose under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

~The Byrds.

surprise

sunlight is fine. who would have thought otherwise? the world can only work the way one has understood it through life, through living. if there be changes, one is in for a surprise or a pleasant surprise, in the worst case. alternate universes and unknown science fiction lands are all twinkly and starry - where dreams reside, where one dwells in dreams, or the alternate reality. one learns a little more through living and then happen more mind, land and thought scapes unknown.

surprises continue to surprise one and all.

or else we

or else we

at times against our own wishes,
wear suits even on hot summer days
wear neck ties or bow ties, pointed shoes, shined black
waist belts with silver metal buckles
drink orange juice, eat bread, cheese, wipe the corners of our mouths
with folded triangular napkins
we open doors to let others through

or else we

wear new clothes, bright orange shirts
frayed denim, light blue and washed white vests
play shrill notes on our fifes
dance to marching army tunes with steps and moves learnt anew
acquire new experiences, write poems, read them aloud
sitting atop brown trees - from where sing song birds
or read pages of clear bright skies and interpret

or else we

sit and wish that we too
were a part of that elusive dream...

expected

very soon:

11. a change in the weather
12. another reason to say 'no way!'
13. another impossibility
14. more questions

etc.

face

the shadow of that tree
has shades of the face
of god

the shape of the eyes
one can be pretty sure -
this is how god'll look

on growing up

whty?

Google chat.
I typed "been busty".
Meant to type "been busy".
My sloppy fingers.

hahaha-ic moments followed.

birth

in a matter of not more than
12 minutes will be born - even
in the absence of paper
ink, and the quill
will be born poetry, beautiful poetry

from the sky, all of it
in its darkness, the shooting stars that
fill it till no end
and the flaming tree with fierce flames
dancing, jumping up and down
sacred poetry, scary

poetry

tbtt

can and does mean teabag thirty. or teabag 30.

ash to be

ash to be is just
as we are, as we have been
shapes of trees with mushroom th
oughts

roots grow upwards
become wings they do - and then
more clear it gets -
ash to be, but can still
fly!

Japanese

Murakami made me buy more Japanese.
Kobo Abe and Kawabata.

Big mistake.

left to right

duh, nobody writes like that! it's way too... hmm... absurd. cheesy. at the same time!

it's very wannabe. like that.

books

1. The brilliance of Aseem Kaul's Etudes. Like all good books, the last page of Etudes too, left me kind of sad.

2. And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks , very good! Jack Kerouac after all, so I'll read and love the book without a complaint anyway :)

form

tomorrows may be formless
yesterdays aren't

today till now feels like yesterday
and the rest of today

formless

white, gray, black

the beginning of it all, to think of it now, or well, when I try to think of now, feels like it happened inside a white room. high white walls, windows that filled the white room with glorious white light, immaculate whiteness that filled the formlessness that was the beginning or a while before the beginning or just when it was beginning to begin.

the end, when I try to see it, feels like it will end, the end of the ends, inside a dark black chamber, shutting me away from everything, when knowledge, experience and all of it will all fade away, while bright blackness would surround and fill.

the white beginning, the black end. and gray in between, just after the beginning till just before the end.

joy unlimited.

puddle

the puddle that held
the sun and moon for hours
is no more

Cow

Super fantabulous Ogden Nash's famous cow. Rewrite attempt.

The Cow

The cow is of the bovine ilk;
One end is moo, the udder, milk.