First Fire

these days
I find myself
wondering
what became 
of that man
who rubbed
two stones 
and lit the first fire

was he mocked
hounded
and done to death
for daring to dent
the rule of darkness
by those whose eyes
were blinded
by the dazzle of light ?

251

Dead Love

these days 
I talk
to a woman whose
love has died

voice sodden 
with grief
she speaks of
love's young days
of battling the world
promises made
and unmade

he beats her now
yet with hopelessness
of an echo
ricocheting off stone walls
she repeats
he loves me
I love him
I really do

and I think
of edifices
raised
of rainbow bricks
expected to last
forever and more

250

Dream 1 and 2

Dreams-1
===========

sometimes
dreams of the night
slip in
through the doorway
of dawn
mocking
harshness of light
with fanciful tales
they make me mourn
throughout the day

Dreams-2
===========

eyes nesting dreams
in sanctuary of night
mourn emptiness
of nests
robbed by
cruel light of day

249

Fading Away

I watch him
fading 
slowly
bit by bit
each passing day
child's drawing
erased
by a determined hand
till one day
nothing remains
but few grey smudges
on the blankness
of a dead white sheet

248

Following

he fights for truth
he walks alone
on bruising paths
his flame held high
I follow him
in hopefulness
of keeping my
flickering spark alive

247

Warrior

caught in the fury
and madness of battle
I learn
that the only 
real way to fight
is to seek in my heart
the eye of the storm 
to be rooted 
in still silence of that space
makes the warrior invincible.

246

The Sailor's Dilemma

This is inspired by Mahesh Natarajan's telling me that attachment and detachment are two faces of the same coin.

On stormy seas
in rocking ships
he longs for
firmness of the shore.
In tedium
of his land bound days
he hears 
the ocean's vastness call.

245

Language

that night
finding me 
on the terrace
alone
the moon
whispered 
my eyes
misted
I knew not why

rain too
when it came
calling this afternoon
quenching dryness
conversed
reminding me
of some
thirst
long forgotten

and I find
love
in mysterious ways
has taught me
some strange
language of silence
understood
by heart alone

244

House

bolted
shuttered
yet the dust
comes creeping in 
and sits unmoving
all colour covered
in thickening shroud 
of uninterrupted greyness
breath stilled
the house waits
for the living
to return.

243

Longing

somewhere
within
longing runs
subterranean river
nameless, concealed
meandering darkly
on and on
in hopelessness
and 
in fervent hope
that one day it will
break into open
and raise its face
to the sky above

242

was it not enough?

was it not enough
love 
opened doors
crumbled walls
flowered your wilderness 
maddened your senses 
with fragrances unknown ?

was it not enough
that you
shedding hot tears
now strive
to imprison it
in your covetous hands?

do you not know
caged songbirds
forget their songs
and fragrances locked
in crystal bottles
are nothing but tears
crushed
from dead flowers?

set love free
and on its soaring wings
the open sky
will make its home
in your heart

241

knowing myself

when I say
I want
to know myself
the moon giggles
the sun laughs
the trees, the rivers
the hills, the winds
mock me for my
mortal foolishness

240

Songs

 hidden deep 
in tamarind tree's
lush green-gold summer glory
the cuckoo calls
and the crow
caws boldly too
their songs born
from heart's delight
they sing for
no one's ears

After The Rain

after the rain:
freshly washed
satiation
stillled
in gratitude

238

Return

hidden in her deep
obscure memories
of how
she had risen
from ocean's breast
to be a cloud
and so
the river
from distant lands
begins
her long journey
home

237

Summer Rain

brief summer rain
moments of satiation
in seasons of thirst

236

drifting

knots unravelled
the tether falls
listless on the shore
my boat drifts
on gentle waves
pulled by ocean's lure

235

Body

This sheath of flesh
and blood and bone
is it nothing but
spirit's ephemeral home?
Destined to be ashes
or in dust
be gone?
Or is it akin
to a beautiful vase
watering the soul
holding in place
spirit's experience
of pleasure and pain
traversing its path
on this mortal plane?
Is it not true
that every pore
that makes this body
holds in store
chronicles of journeys
undertaken and to come
sanctum sanctorum
enshrining within
glorious expression
of immortal being?

234