Sunday, 13 August 2017


I want to write poems in fountain pen ink,
-Hazy purple, on yellowed pages,
On the back of a novel, unopened for ages.
But I can't make a mark,
On this blue screen of computer bark.

I want to buy a guitar from that old pawn shop,
In the old part of town, with a tea stained table top.
They tell me at the store,"Gone are the blues and bebop!"
So I buy myself today's harp-the latest laptop.

I used to buy Rubik's cubes from an old Parsi shop in Bombay,
But the mall there now sells cubes with fifty four pieces of gray.
So I try to meet the changing times halfway,
And buy my food in predigested sachets!

To eat out is in, cooking with calories is a sin!
To kill language to save a few seconds is #hip,
But you better spend hours to find the filter to hide that melanin.
Like the cubes, all is gray in this township.

Sitting in this colour blind sink,
I want to write poems in fountain pen ink,
-Hazy purple , on yellowed pages,
On the back of a novel, unread for ages.

Sunday, 28 May 2017

Rope/ For CC

I carry pocket size chaos on my shoulder,
As I push my Sisyphean boulder.

I sit by the sea with ennui,
As the waves wash away every buoy.

Do not throw me rope!
You don’t know my chaos’ scope!

Hold your sympathetic display,
For I am the autumn moon,I am the highway!
The breadth of my inner wings,
Cannot be measured by man made things.

Do not throw me rope!
I am nefarious! Throw me hope!

I gather my chaos now spread over me so chaotically,
By my mind full of thoughts of excesses sought.
Collecting it in a manner oh so orderly,
Into a chaos pocket sized and 10000 watts.

As I push my Sisyphean boulder,

I carry pocket sized chaos on my shoulder.

/* This is for the sad loss of Chris Cornell. RIP Shadow King and say hello to heaven */

Sunday, 26 February 2017

Someday I'll Fly

Someday I’ll fly,
Beyond the questions ‘what?’, ‘where?’and ‘why?’,
To where answers are only given with a sigh.
To where time does not fly by the bye,
A day,
A year,
Are meaningless words to say.

Someday I’ll see,
Beyond the need to be,
Loved as to love.
Beyond the smell of burning clove,
As smoke
    Takes away
All woes.

Someday I’ll  write,
To not stub out ends of burning hearts by the night,
But to be one with beauty in all it’s might.
Someday I’ll pick up crumpled papers of poetry,
Their blight.

Someday when the chords turn minor,
I shall not glance at the world’s pyre.
Even when I’m down to the wire,
I shall dance,dance,dance,

/* Check out this fine ditty whilst you read these words. There's also a rather rough take of a piece of music I think goes well with these words */