disappearance
an empty shell
the flesh in a soul
and the space in a well.
disappearance
in asking and telling
in going and felling.

reverberance
of going back in time
repeated over and over
in the condo and shrine.
disappearance
in the retreated sea
and my heart's plea.

reappearance
of an echo from seas
tortures in half a degree
looking beyond sunshine
disappearance
if it had given more time
to built catacombs and mines.

I am here, right next to me.
I have light, beside this tree.
I miss someone, or someone me.
I take a pledge, not to speak.

I don't know any here-
yet many are known to me.
I don't look back with fear,
But all I say is no labels please.

It’s knocking, It’s knocking once again.

She said you could see it only when the lamp is lost.

But my lamp is still flickering, it is wavering- yet alive.

And I can see it knocking, waiting to get inside.

I leave it knocking, while I tend to the tiny light.

The 27 Januaries of Lore:

There have been in total the magic number of which I don’t remember many in my slumber.
Of those when I look deep within, I find maybe each had its own twin.
Were they pulsating or alternating- to take me through a journey reverberating?

Of those which I hear and remember:
One was which they all say was really cold and rainy.
But after there are many which play no memory,
until the one with a hand tightly wound in a cast,
making a run, in the heavy rain, across the garden grass.

There are of course pictures to tell the tale of the ones I forgot.
In top hats and dresses; even one surrounding toys, sitting on the floor.

There are ones which maybe have a distinct sound-
was it a January where over a cactus image they were all wound?

And of course there are ones, I just cannot place.
It definitely would be unnatural to have each in tandem replayed.

There are some after the 9th which seem to blur together-
A ritual which held each in a series of great fervours.
I remember smiles and people and love from before.
I remember one, in sobs, thinking of a tale that could never be.
I remember another surrounded by books and yet many finding time to call home the day.
This too was about moving around and finding Pieces hidden within many doors.
Which repeated itself strangely after a day of being hidden on the first floor.

I suddenly remember one all dressed and waiting,
This was way before the ones last mentioned;
As was often the case, it was a freezing freezing time of the year.
We were all to trot back home and out of the administrative tier..
And guess what I got to visit some place, I had not really been before.
I wouldn't have known then, that I would now move towards a similar school.
But maybe things are connected in ways we are unable to accurately spool.

I remember stickers and I remember candy, I remember days when I didn’t feel as dandy.
Then there was growth which I could not have imagined. I grew into a person,
few could have intricately patterned.

There was one with flowers and colours and feeling of gain.
And others with people we befriend just to forget all over again.

The ones which came next were the ones I was left to stroll.
Wondering was it the day or night or the wind which was meant to be cold.
Moments of contingence moved in and out, from gestures of motion to greater emotion.
To poked fun and dinners, of pretending and being. Of living dreams of serenity and gleam.
It all moved towards understanding and days, till one January took my breath away.

This was I would say 21st in the row. I wouldn’t have guessed what it brought in tow.
I was surprised by a visit in the second half of the month,
by an incredible person and a family built through coincidence and fun.
This would change me through and through-
those who met me in the phase would tell you this is true.
I found something within, which was lost ages ago, I spoke of moments I thought I did not know.
This brought a new rigour in life.
For this 21st January gave me a strength beyond I could have surmised.

Of the next maybe I am not so sure, for I think I spent it looking at images and maybe more.
It all seems a blur now that it is gone, I don’t see why it was spent in such a throng.
I think the next was when I stood up and said. I need a change and need to cool down my head.
I remember feeling on top of the world, as I shed my skin and more, left behind stories I didn’t want to hold on to anymore. I traveled and changed places, to move on in life.
I met some great people and made some lasting bonds, to surmise.

The next I refuse to dwell on much. It went past almost in a tuft,
I have thought much during the days after, but I refuse to give in again to the roster.
A blur it all was till we reached the next, the 25th of them all brought another colour of text.
I discovered and moved, I recovered and groomed. I spent a much piffle in trying to figure,
I missed out on narratives, yet I knew I could not wither.

The movement that emerged here was enormous,
as I decided to configure what had been so long on the trellis.

By the 26th January I had reformed.
With just the right amount of fervour, I decided to remount.
What came next has been the time of reprieve. So much has been reconfigured to meet the world’s might. I have no thoughts of going back to redefine. The days I had assumed were totally mine.

As I sit in the 27th of them all. The magic number promises me yet another enthrall. Oh I know it would be another time altogether. For this was when I was bound to tether. Not in grass or a peg or even a pole, just to realism in ways I chose to unfold. I could not presume to define, how each of these have been the solace of this attempted rhyme.
It has been a journey bound to many ways, but not I choose to trust in only hopeful frays.

Who says wear and tear in always a bad thing, for those of us who believe in constant living- it is only fair that any piece bound to explore, will soon discover ways it could implore.
Change is not a bad phase, nor is holding on to any latter din, I chose to believe in eternal believing. To explore one’s inside as much as the world and to implore to the universe for everything that we are worth.  

The single headed beast

Months down the line,
if now I may.
Respond to reality, with the head I flay
I ran for it was consuming
It was booming yet grooming.
I was done and left with no space
For this head took up more and more
and not even with the slightest grace.
I plucked it out and now I wait-
for the 10th and final head to grow.
And not realsing until moments ago
I gave into a metaphor I had no intentions to show.

i consciously locked a lot of light again.

i slowly collected it within a rim,
compressing as it grew brighter still,
seeping out of my conscious gild.

it blared right in my face,
and the process took for an eternity
it blinded not me nor my race,
yet it left no void to be seen.

as i slowly shut the box around,
i managed to reduce it further too.
spilling its contents at the sides,
as i carefully sealed it in a pinch size.

i then bade it a stern farewell,
with a swipe here and there too.
i offered it a sinking bed of rest,
of gallons and gallons of water blue.

i promised it would resurface tough,
if the time was ever truly right.
i priced the stake as context moves,
for it was my only safe- reprieve.

the light had been my solace
its exile will not be my demise.
for the moment i bade it adieu
the breath i took was pure-true.

for every light as it shines bright
not just brings the colour blue,
it hosts along a sea of legion too.

not either looking to negate,
yet uninvited in my summer due.

The monster eat my socks no more.

Whirling and spinning,

Singing and ringing,

Often moving a bit of the carpet ring.
The monster eat my socks no more. 

The world has been set back up-right,

Or maybe it is back up-side-down,
I don't have a care no more.
The monster spit my each sock out.
Not alone, in wait for another-one.
But together with their rightful-pair.

And I would happily skip around,
For this time I would truly dare.
The monster eat my socks no more.

The many headed beast

It had heads many I saw, 

Two three and four
But one could never have been sure.

Some heads I got to meet
The others grew in peace
Some heads I did get to know
The others could barely grow.
Each decided to leave me a gift,
A string of pearls or maybe a rib.

Each head I encountered in time
Sometimes one I would meet
At-times two-three together would treat,
There was no greed I hope,
Just curiosity and some burning rope.
Each came to leave a mark
None was less sharper than the last.

The first came to teach me peace
Some laughter, explicitly for me.
Goodbyes are for sure forlorn,
So it left not a note from a song.
But a long list of possibilities 

To write a hymn on my own.

The second which came before the third,
Or maybe after for I can't be sure:
Taught patience with peace, and some more.
It left the mindfulness of minutes
Rented to many hours by me.
It spoke of continuity and time,
Stable forms and shrines,
Movements and songs which go on and on.

The third which came before the second,
Or maybe after for I can't be sure:
Came with a basket of fries and jam
Each with a new sense of plan.
It left a strange flavour behind,
For it never left me blind.
It decided to leave a simple note
Right under my wide open door.
It finally left by never leaving
And it taught me about dreaming.

The fourth is where I am losing count
For the heads now I speak of,
I care not to recall a great amount.
One I know left behind contagious laughter.
The other some form of compliance in me.
Yet another a ghost of a sad sad smile.
But one I care to remember
Let's call it the seventh, not more.
It left the law of force in mind.
The head I chose to slice,
Left myself in pieces too.
The force I thought was blunt,
Left wedges deep in the surface blue.

And then there was head number eight may I say,
For four-five-six I chose to ignore,
Whose fate was sealed the day it bloomed.
How did the giant live so long,
With one head consuming the last.
I remember watching as a new head grew,
The pain I imagined was maybe true.
So back to eight shall we move,
It was the youngest of the crowd.
It was maybe borne with its shroud.
Yet not sad it felt and left me a grin,
For it taught me quality of conversation.

Before it left, the ninth had already grown,
It was now taking place on the giant's collar bone.
Poised on a throne this one had style,
And it told me it would not leave anything behind.
It hasn't left much I would like to say,
But generosity and kindness
Are hard to weigh.
It hasn't left yet so I wouldn't know,
But head number nine loves to put up a show,
It often leaves a trail of breadcrumbs behind.
As Hansel once did, It too believes
Retraced footsteps will help it lead
This mighty giant homeward in peace.

Listen

Meet 'e'

(a piece under work, hopefully to take the form of a visual story and a larger setting called "Becoming No-one", it is for another day I leave to expand further on that idea. Until then I would simply say, come, meet 'e' )

‘e’ is neither he nor she
not young nor old
not white, brown, black or gold
(not god, nor devil)
not man, nor beast
‘e’ is alive and loves a feast.

‘e’ is both good and bad
both happy and sad.
‘e’ is brave and kind
even at times jealous and mad.

‘e’ learnt how to love and trust
to live on,
‘e’ knew ‘e’ must.

‘e’ was once young and male
and then a woman and frail.
‘e’ was then a goat shy,
and soon a falcon wry;
then a tiger both fierce and tame
finally ‘e’ burnt out the flame.

‘e’ travelled to paris and milan,
the new york, london and even the barn.
‘e’ went to the mountains and
then to the plains and the sea.
looking for more places and people to be.

‘e’ was once told to be a doctor
                                           a writer
                                           a lawyer
                                           a pea!
eventually ‘e’ chose to simple be.

‘e’ was mocked
     and bullied
     and pushed
     and shunned.
‘e’ complained but to no one.

‘e’ wondered and wandered
‘e’ clambered and pondered
‘e’ forgot and retained
and finally
‘e’ took a leap in great pain.

The free fall halted,
‘e’ was now beyond gravity
‘e’ floated around
for what felt like a century.
Now so high above
‘e’ was starting to freeze,
yet, ‘e’ enjoyed the breeze!

Soon ‘e’ began to float low
and saw a strange land below.
‘e’ took a deep breath and released
now floating down with ease.
as ‘e’ touched the shore
‘e’ was grateful for a new land to explore.

Breakfast in Red

Worth it?

Can worth be measured in the people we meet?
The people we touch and the people we feed?
Can worth be measured in the people we love?
The people we treasure and the people we trust?
Can worth be measured in the days of past?
The people we flatten and finally eat?
Can worth be measured in pounds of flesh?
In trash cleared and smeared on in with the mess?
Can worth be measured in days gone and to come?
Can it be tethered with the idea of justice and fun?
Can worth be equated to having tried?
Having cried and played by the rules, abide?
Can with be written in plain text, gain and pain?
Can it be defined by relentless love and game?
Can it be written not to be erased?
Was it just a phase?
Or can worth be published only with what you achieve?
For you neither have a penchant nor do you admit defeat.

Last published
is not necessarily last met.
I could meet people over pages,
and files, and messages.
Over virtual coffee and biscuits.
Over a pizza and brunch.
Over politics and then lunch.
I could meet people
over all the food and drink.
I could see them
within every blink.
I could make friends in two's
over texts and our blues.
We talk about all that is gone
Happening now and now torn.
We crib, direct and maim,
We talk of all the pain.
Much has come and gone,
we are still singing our song.

If everything could tremble
we could have done it.
If there was a rumble,
we would have done it.
If we were born in a jungle,
we should have done it.

Last met
is not necessarily last seen.
I could see you in pictures.
On turfs unsold and plains.
On beautiful canoes and trains.
In parties and in games.
Through soil and refrain.
I could see you in pain.
In sharing and in gain.
We met through a window,
we met in self contain.
Much has wilted and waned,
we are still not to blame.

If a fist could crush concrete,
we are the saint.
If they fell with a tumble,
we left out the paint.
If a dream capsized,
we didn't dream to dream again.

Last seen,
is not for sure the last has-been.

The Mask

The rebuttal,
the return
Bringing the colours
of the old and new.
Decision among fruits.

Inhale!
Being still.
a thought
a rebuke,
Exhale!

Language,
a trick in words,
a meaning behind the turf.
The layer removed,
unearthed,
reworked.
A peel
ripped,
gathered,
shed.

Inhale!
go back to
Being still.
a thought
another rebuke.
Exhale!

If love was but a parady,
Of a life lived and stolen.
Of moments uneven and gallant.
Of kisses bought and sold,
Of metres ran untold.
Of eggs broken and rigged.
Of hearths fired and lit.
Of homes built on quicksand.
Of walls built in glass stands.
Of a face admonished in brass.
Of people walking on grass
and of kindness but a task.
What if love was that tragedy
Of those stories untold,
and the many books yet unsold.
Of pieces of paper ridged underneath
That heavy squalor and burnt sheets.
What if, like from those years ago
Love was still that haze in blue.
The squints from eyes two.
As blue as the far off mountains
As blue as the everyday rain.
As blue as the unvisited ocean
and yet as blue as all that pain.
As blue as the bird in flight,
and bluer still after a fight.
For blue is as warm as can be
As true as the unheard melody.
As tall as the heights unscaled.
As wide as the girth of ancient trees.
For blue is as strong as can be,
To digest this reverence in parody.

An Eon after a Series of Flights

I left

He left

So did she.

I reached,

Neither did he nor she.

It's a beautiful day
There is so much noise around me
It's almost impossible to draw or write.
I seem to have forgotten noise.
I have tried to live in a couple of noisier cities than here, but it was never so noisy.
I always have found that corner, that spot,  that thought.
But now, here, every horn feels louder, ever vehicle without a silencer. Every bump in the road, ah well. I think I overrated moving here. Home is where the hearth is. But my hearth is amiss at the moment. 
I travel by buses to curb the feeling. I try to hide behind a book, as I always have. I work late into the night. I hide behind the bathroom door or the headphone set, as I always have. As I always have, was years ago. Can it still be the same. Sleep is a reprieve. Is it my book or my mind.
My dreams wake me. Sometimes they take me.

Of the Wall

The brick
The concrete
The plaster
and the paint.

The flaking paint.

I see the green beneath
the once beautiful blue.
And some of the white
beneath all that was new.

The white which gets on my shirt
and my pants
and my skin.
The white-wash refuses to leave.
Blemishing the brown beneath.

I scraped some blue off
to make some jello cream.
I looked it up fair
but wasn't sure which
flavors to pair.

How to make jello:
1 and 1/2 cup "chosen" juice
1/4 cup cool water
1/4 cup almost boiling water
1 tbsp gelatin powder
1-2 cups of "chosen" fruit.

Mix gelatin in cool water.
Stir briskly.
Add really hot water. 
Stir briskly.
Combine with "chosen" juice.
Stir briskly.
Add "chosen" fruit.
Stir lightly.
Pour in a setting dish.
Refrigerate for good.

I decided against the blue.
I added a grape fruit
as my "chosen" juice.
I now had a beautiful green.
I decided against any cream.
For the fruit I "chose" aubergine.
The flesh appealed to me.

And I looked for the perfect tray
in which to slowly slide
to take that ominous shape
to beautifully support and hide.

I chose against a dish,
instead I poured my wish.
I filled some old eggshells
with the now jello dream.

Knowing, the next morning,
I could have a certain meal.

The Sinking Ship

The ship sank.
"Why do I call it a ship?"
you ask.
Why not a boat,
               a canoe,
           or a raft?

"For a ship it surely is."
a ship with a large hold
a small stern
and the hull, the size of a whale.

Someone ran a spear
straight into the rear of the ship.
"What will a spear do to a ship?"
you ask again.

I smirk.
"A lot!"
The ship is soft and beautiful
and was afloat.

Water refuses to leave it now.
The outlet is way above,
on the deck
too proud to function
the main mast takes too much space
the sails unfurl and the rest all hides.

The mizzen is still to be found.
as tall as the main I want it to be
with interlocking shrouds.
"Such a ship could never exist."
you say finally.

This I think about
look at the sinking ship
drop an anchor far from the crowd.
Sneak into the crow's nest
afloat in my doubts.

Pile On

One brick over the next
One brick over halves of two
One brick at nighty to two
One brick over the next.
The strong base
A brick added on top of it
One brick over the next.
One brick over quarters of two
Two bricks at nighty to one
One brick overt the next.
The wall now high enough
One last brick over the last
Wait, one more brick over it.