Naked Music

 Naked music of a Tuesday morning (after a cup of coffee thinking about all the saffron that grows all around growing hatred planting seeds of hate trees haittrees if you will, after the rain of the night before thinking about not thinking and sentimental states of vacuum in the minds of the thinker who creepily thinks about reading science fiction books quotes about which reach him immediately in a minute or two more before or after the end of the works inside brown glass bottles of cough-syrup worn around your eyes watching the world in the brown diffraction of light bending to prove a point like a little thin slim blade of grass in the woods right outside the doors of wooden log cabins built by recluse philosophers) plays nice and slow and comfortably loud while yet another batch of coffee brews inside my mind in the shape of you because the music is naked this morning of this Tuesday

Walk on water

Saturday morning I bought
My new shirt with long orange
Sleeves and wore it the next
Morning. There was a missing
Sunday in between that none realized.

Then there grew a sea outside my door
Salt water and lots of sand at my
Doorstep. The sky became more blue
And the clouds, more silver fluffy.

I wore my weekend slippers
Blue strapped, light rubber.

I stepped out and walked on water
Without a thought. Only half way through
Did I realize the water I walked upon.
Quickly I drowned and swam my way
To the next door.

Walking is easy, and on water, till I
Know it is water beneath.
(And I remembered stories)

Moses got the sea in splits
& made his way through.
Had he walked on water,
He might've become big
Bigger - a god, even!

(5)

(5)

"I wished I could see you, just to run around with the breeze. The breeze just carried me around as I sang our song", the voice went on. Silence filled the waking mind.

Movie

'Let's just have cuts of video where we show the writer doing various things - like sudden flashes of him doing this and him doing that, one after another. I think that'll go well with the dark tone of the narrative' said the bearded man. His beard had strands of gray hair.

'What kind of different things?' I asked.

'Like him reading, writing, playing with shadows on the wall, playing the flute...'

'Playing the fool?'

'Yeah that too! To play the fool is the definite first step of one who gives up on things around, and eventually possibly all, the world included!'

'But why would he do many things, if he is about to give up on or just to give up everything?'

'He does them all for himself. Living doesn't stop. He loves living....'

'So the narrative is not a suicide note then?'

'No! Not at all! What makes you think so? He just bids adieu to everything to be himself. To be with himself...'

'And then he switches off the light?'

'Yes, then glorious darkness, for himself, to be all by himself!'

'Oh I get it! Let's go for the take then!'

'Right! Lights, camera... Action!'

The actor switches off the light as the camera rolls. As scripted, there is glorious darkness.

'That's it! Cut!'

irreversible. time.

four long days of mayhem
when reality was only a dream
of music in the air, music in minds
no normal footsteps but dance steps
to cover the distance from one day to another

forgotten abodes and forgotten usual company
nothing unusual at all from day one to day four or five
life as life should be

and in the end
only torn bits of colour paper scattered all around
on grass lawns reflected
on glass window panes
like broken bits of rainbows on earth

only a wish, only a dream
to get back there to live them days again

irreversible time, irreversible time
oh, irreversible time

summers

shadows
of sunny days
fit every face!

7. 210.

7 should be enough, say 210
seven should be enough, say two ten
to close them windows
and just be - throwing blank stares
at the rainbows spread across the sky

yes, 7 colours, seven
the clouds, the clouds and time
are all just one and the same
but my windows are closed
and i only thank myself for that

the breeze can stay out
and i can be this way, the way i do
the way i've always done

!

then there were words
of accepted and understood wisdom
of abnormal behaviour
unexpected instincts
and awkward silence

the day only ends with words spoken
and more of them unspoken

and let free
to be

A polka dotted poem

She sat by the window with her notebook open. Empty pages, waiting to be filled in. She remembered the polka dotted bra that she wore the night before. They'd both liked it. She could not find that bra this morning. It did not bother her at all.

She could not understand the reason for her sudden writer’s block. “Had I worn something else last night, things would have been different and I’d have my poem written by now” she wrote in her notebook and closed it.

Everything made sense with her notebook closed and windows open.

evenings

any evening is good enough for you to see through the grave your own
for time repeats and time is so full of stories and the stories repeat with time
moments replace one another as moments pass by when today is a fond memory
and yesterdays long forgotten to take you to the next day when new flowers are abloom already
stories of people wearing red caps only to prove the uncertainty in real or in paintings
everyone has a version of their own yesterday and it is only a lesson
for one's own self and for everyone else when realizations do dawn from somewhere
across the table or from somewhere besides when you know what from inside woke up
to show you things in real a lion or a red bit of paper of only shadows of eyes for
nostalgia does help at times but not always for nostalgia only blocks the way to rush
forward towards tomorrow or the next day of life or the next pointless living moment
with no element of surprise, woo - hoo, and this is new, yes, brand new
totally out of the gift wraps that we never knew
neither i or them or he or she or it or you, oh yes neither i nor you
time to taste the latest brew, the super potent dark brown brew
the shade of the dark night sky
the shade of a failed try
and the moments pass, as the minutes now are then past, as you grow old
you only know it's all

gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold gold!

6 to 7

i must have had seven cups of coffee today
or may be more, no counting the moments of boredom or the cups of coffee consumed
i must have read four pages of the book i read in all of whatever i read today
from three different books that i carry in my bag, i think i should carry more
if only the bag did not feel heavy the way the heavy it is
there is one droplet of black ink left in my pen. yes a fountain pen -
it is not my fault at all if i happen to like them
i should be able to write at least seven lines with that one droplet i hope
and i can paint a dream for seven lives whether there be ink in my pen or not
and dreams being dreams do not bother me and i wouldn't let you care about them at all
i was asked not to wear black, green, or white today and the ceremony moved to the next day
so no black or white or green tomorrow too - i can't imagine a rainbow
without black or white or green, but well a day or two without rainbows work just fine
or a rainbow or two without black or white or green and the visual poetry that awaits the next week
the breeze blows in wet with the teasing rain and brings in motion pictures in black and white
the distant bells ring and ring till they think they should ring and the echoes persist
i remember the bus window seat where one song played in my head over and over again
i fell asleep singing my song and forgot to get down where i should and it matters not
when the world outside the window is only the unchanging world and every place else
is reachable from anywhere else with a song in a head that repeats itself
and i only dread the night when i might fall asleep despite the seven cups of coffee
and it is now six, only six days to seven now and i've done nothing at all

rain

lightning, the best friend
say thunder too
a boom before rain
*
another day
another rain
yesterday again
*
clouds float
pass on by
new clouds, rain
*

11. Monday

You are sitting in your comfortable chair. Legs nicely comfortably stretched, you think this is how you would define relaxing. It is comfortably cool. With the lines of the book through which your eyes walk through, you feel almost in heaven. The breeze from your garden blows nicely cool onto your face, you take your eyes away from your book for a very brief moment, take a deep breath. You can feel the air getting inside your lungs, filling you with a very sudden feeling of being born all over again. You stretch your legs full length, rest the book on your chest and stretch your arms above your head and take a lazy look around. Then it starts drizzling. Gentle shower, gentle shower, falling slowly down. Your music player set to random play chooses the next song randomly. You know this song. Oh yes, this song. You must have listened to this song a million times before. You must have lived many a million moments of your life with this song. You must have lived many a million moments of your life through this song. This song has been through you. But you have not listened to this song in the recent years. You have almost forgotten the song. Oh yes, this same very song. The tune that filled your soul for a considerable length of your life. The song starts playing. More time flows into the song, the more the song flows into your time, you start seeing things inside your mind. A rewind of a long stretch of your life starts playing inside your mind. Like a movie. A song such, a tune such has scenes from your life etched all over it. A song such, a tune such invokes a barrage of images from your past, inside your mind. The movie has begun and there is no stopping it. You are suddenly transported from inside to another world, a world that was, a world that you have lived through, a world that is so gone away. You are here, physically, but from inside you already have been transported to somewhere else in time, in the past. You see it all inside you, neat, loud and clear. You are more playful wherever you see yourself inside your mind. You are free. You are not what you are now. Slowly starts a tear drop from your left eye. It rolls down your left cheek. You are surprised at the birth of this tear drop. Then start another tear drop from the right and before you know there are streams flowing down your eyes. Your lips twitch uncontrollably and you think the way your lips twitch should really look ugly, but you do not care. You want to see yourself crying and so you walk to the mirror and take a look at yourself. The man in the mirror looks so different and so difficult to control. As you keep watching him, he doesn’t stop. He goes on crying. Oh my god, I haven’t cried in years now, you think to yourself. You do not feel sorry that you are crying. You are not crying because you are feeling bad. You are not feeling bad because you are crying. But you cry. The song plays on and then it ends, then you put your music player in repeat mode. The song plays over and over again and you go on crying uncontrollably. You do not want to control yourself. You do not want to be controlled. You thank the cosmic conspiracy that let you be alone this very moment. Inside, in that world where you are at this moment, you are playing happily. You are jumping around. You are singing songs. There inside you do not remember the man that you are at this moment when you cry. Here this moment now, all that you remember is that one moment that you are living inside yourself. That song started it all. You splash some water on your face after some time of joyous crying and then get back to your comfortable chair. The lines of your book do not interest you any more. You carefully leave your book mark on that page and keep it aside. You get inside your room. You switch off the lights. You do not like the light any more. You lie down on your bed and you try to search through your ceiling for the reason why you cried. You get no answers. The song plays on. The movie continues inside your mind. And you do not know when you fall asleep.

forgotten fibre

...that one fine shining thread that once threw rainbows at you when you looked through it the sun, the sun, the sun that shone through that single fibre that shone like a strand of diamond, diamond, diamond, that filled your days with joyous bright light, light, light that soon was swallowed by darkness and was soon forgotten, forgotten, that forgotten fibre of silky web...

Pictures

Innocent act of rummaging through the books crate

Pictures stay. A silent record of past
They come out, suddenly
From the depths, from beneath them books

Pictures remain. A silent proof
Of moments past
When faces were different
Thoughts, the world, different

new morning, I face my shadow
I can't study with both eyes full of tears*

I tried.

I sit on my white cloud
Waaaay up above
Take a look at my world

Nostalgia keeps me alive
...most times...

* From: Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

this road of the night

the night brings with it
- silence
and little lights
of fast moving cars

little stars from a little away
they grow as I walk
they grow as they come near
- big, bigger, biggest they grow
and they move away

- fade without a sound
into the night, to the other side

and then flows in the next stream
of starry spots
and again they move near
again they grow

and fade away

them trees without leaves
must have seen all and more of this
as they shed their leaves
awaiting spring

them trees don't mind
this road of the night doesn't

they just are...

D

... a mad philosopher with his own views of things through illogical human deductions - no rationale supports his thoughts or decisions but they are almost always right, at least the way he sees them, his road, his weight, his lightness are all his, but he is not and he is not his is all he tells the sea that swallows the sun and sunshine along the edges of sky that just is, neither bothered about his philosophies nor does it question him on any of his beliefs or disbeliefs thus making apparent at least one reason why he should like the sky, he loves it, that just is and has just been all the while, loves all them that just are and have just been all the while - D excluded or not, none never knows, neither the sky nor the little feather that secretly flats down from there to here falling down there beneath the tree where there once was the foot step of D when he stood there thinking of falling feathers and about his then recent dream of a feather that floated down from the skies and kissed his foot step when he was not there, that mad philosopher, D, who stood beneath the tree thinking...

Thankfully This Time

Castles built on sugar cubes
Do not last long
Everything appears strong,
At that weak deceitful moment

Like sugar cubes
And sweet hopeful things similar
Castles, the sweetest of ones are built
In unseen spaces of a mind

Rain
Or droplets of tears
Flow with time
& the castles are washed away

Leaving emptiness
& hopelessness to fill it up

And thankfully this time
No castles were built
Nothing was started
And nothing ended hence

The next day starts
Where yesterday ended

The breeze blows
Pregnant with profound sense of relief
On every expectant face