Inheritance.

Early to bed, early to rise.
Get up and get on.
Neat, shaved and clean,
Cup of tea, a biscuit or two.
Tick tock, tick tock – up and down, to and fro, time for a new shoe.
Voice – a surprise, nods seemed to do fine.
Time to dine, new shoes to shine.
Brush those teeth, pass into good sleep; dream of the earth, sand, stone, and  smoke.

Words.

Words lie oceanful, I’ve got a bucketful.
Where, what, how?
Not so much in words.
Maybe a ruse here, for a circus delight.
A tune there, for a fiddler to take flight.
Or a moon, for the lovers to swoon.
Or a pill, for the mind to go nil.
A sore so that a heart may not soar.
Maybe a dictionary from 1984.
Words oceanful, me got a bucketful.

Conformity.

Touched the skin of the wolf; felt it’s thumping heart.

The voices, they lay me flat,
So flat that I only see the tip of my nose.
An awkward kiss, maybe that’s it.
As I rinse my hands and make my face,
a piece of trumpet strums through the air and hits my drums.
The words touches the lens..
brain gets lit, firing neurons through the head.
A whiff of leaves on the pot.
Cold walls, warm hearths.
The stirrings…another place, another time.

Sharp claws, white teeth; familiar scars, forgotten bites.

A change in tune,
“You’re invisible now, you’ve got no secrets to conceal.”
The tambourine man wails on.
As the clouds descend upon the mountains, snaking it’s way through valleys and across the hills.
There they were, not anymore.
Flights of fancy, figments of imagination; can’t live in the head, the world anticipates.
Burdens need to be borne, deeds require to be done.

The howls, not useful no more; the wolf evolves, learns to wag it’s tail and fetch the bone.

Here it is.

Roamed and read, lost and found, topsy-turvy, merry go round.

Knowledge, found it remarkably exhausting.
Words of the wise, had me beguiled.
Thought maybe religion, but was spoilt for choice.
Keats got me high, Heisenberg hung me to dry.
Radiohead left me high and dry.

The last of all places, why not, I looked within, and there lay the whisper,
– I’m you and you are me – straightforward and uncomplicated.

The narrow and the small warms us all.
The chains of conditioning secures us all.
A very petty proof of the cosmic poof, we’ve become.

Could go on for a fortnite and more, but sleepy eyes need to fold. So bringing the verse to an abrupt halt. Here it is, the .

The Fool.

Edgy and exposed, on no ground
stands the fool.

The pendulum swings, to and fro.
Un at ease, pushing itself forth,
Buried under the twigs, the skeletons turn.

Fears, regrets,
The musings of a derelict mind.
A new note begins, where the other ends.
The high, the low, the serenade.

Science and scriptures.
The absolute, can it be perceived or seen?
Or the very light used to seek, distorts the vision.

Clothed in shiny golden robes,
an apple to bite.
Live and die,
cold and blind.

Peace is made, let the quiet prevail.
To each moment it’s own, a raag, a symphony.

Eyes may pierce, tongues may cut.
Some may be, many and more may not.
The fool has found it’s place, upon
the altar, where it will burn.









The flu that rhymes.

Ahem ahem, sniff sniff,
This flu is giving me the tiff.

Need to get up, got things to do.
I forget, what was I up to?

My eyes they burn,
As out the tears they churn.

My knees feel weak,
All the way, from Kanchenjunga to Mozambique.

Rub some balm on my chest,
if only, I had given it a rest.
But no,
I need to go and go.

Oh here comes the sneeze, always in degrees.
I start I stop, while contemplating fables of Aesop.

Cough filling up my sinuses,
Did I miss any of the verses?
I take a pill,
its going to be a steep hill.

Ahem, ahem, sniff, sniff,
This flu is giving me the tiff.



Transcendence.

You and I, we will live.
When passions be at wane,
We will live on words.
When eyesight be at wane,
We will live on words.
As deafness arrives, and mind takes a stroll,
In each other’s warmth and company, we will live.
As our bodies break and perish, till matters none,
In silence we will live.

You and I, we will live.

Beautiful Superficial.


Fret not for there is nothing more than your beauty,
Care not for there is nothing less than your mind.
Oh your heart, your heart; how much it feels and how much it yearns,
to be seen and be seen.
Cold; warm,
Shearing pangs and aches for that cannot be.
You shine and universe is sold.
Push; pull,
Dark black lines beckoning to take it.
Red’s do not part and universe is hush.
Depth and shallow; off and on.
One of another, another of one.
Care not, fret not.

Broccoli Sprouts.

Awww…you little life!
Priming yourself for the stage.
No retakes or prompts;
Scenes, a kaleidoscope of the comic and the tragic.
Movement it is and only movement there is.
From nought to nay, and nay to nought,
Entrance to exit, end to exordium.
Somewhere an obscure tune, noise all there is.
Awww…you little life, when will you turn green?

Perspective.

The closeness, one loses sight.
The theater becomes personal. Emotions high, reason nigh,
Forgetting to remember the remembrance forgotten.
The head the heart, the heart the head, the heart the head, the head the heart.

What is what, what is not. What is not, what is…
The wheels turn on and on and on; points infinite,
each not the same, but the repetition.
The head the heart, the heart the head, the heart the head, the head the heart or nothing.