Translation Of A Dream.
March 29, 2008
An old man in the shade of a patio, sitting,
And listening to the warm summer rain,
Thunders cracking through old oak trees,
Furious for some unknown loses.
The old record playing mind soothing jazz,
Sax played the notes in perfect harmony,
Of the rain that tickles the soul deep,
The after noon sun too bathed,
In the pool made by the dancing rain.
The ebony tail of the English pipe stuck,
On The corner of his mouth leaving,
Smoke through the other side of the mouth,
Deep in thought, Oh wonder what he is listening,
The music from the record or the music of the nature,
Deaf he is not as nature sure reached his ears,
As for every thunders he shook like a dead leaf.
Though the records played one by one,
His mind far back in reverie,
About some days far back in his noon time,
Smiles through his face flashed,
And the lightings in counter point, joined,
But in the happiness of him that filled.
His soul and another soul he filled,
Which upon his smiles and still glowing showed,
No lightning, colors, rains or blossoms,
Of nature is in anyway a match.
The rain played on and on like a broken record,
And the evening lingered along with the rain,
Smile after smile filled the nature,
And none lived now who can understand,
As thirty years passed after he blew,
His hundredth birthday candle.
What a fulfilled life he lived,
With a candle in his heart lit,
By a darling girl in those noon time days.
The early night sleep left with the dream,
As darker and darker the night grown,
Still the echoes of the rain in mind’s ears stayed,
And a face in mind’s eyes still smiled,
And far away with all her loving naughtiness she stayed,
Still the very thought of her translated,
Every bit of the dream from subconscious to real,
That started the moment sleep and dream left.
Spring Cleaning
March 25, 2008
The last bit of winter consumed,
By the Vultures of nature leaving,
No trace of the frost and cold.
Oh’ what a wonderful way for nature to clean,
Those died away and bring forth,
New greenery upon the old,
Long way away to see those blossoms,
Still cold-free rain lashed around as blessings.
The gathered dust upon old cupboards,
With the feather filled hand broom cleared,
The books, Oh’ when dust free smelt good,
But those old shoes still stink,
At the corner of the closet.
Paper after paper gathered,
Most kept just for keeping,
Most just of no good use,
So into the shredder they went,
Then into the big recycle box.
Old bags, crockery all stood in mockery,
They all filled in the cartons,
And found their way out through the door,
Oh’ one times passion gone wasted into trash.
Old car gone, new truck filled in the garage,
Old clothes gone and closets half empty,
Though half empty the wallet craved,
To be used in the newness of spring.
The vacuum cleaner went to every inch of the house,
Anti-bacterial spray cleansed the micro ones too,
The old pictures upon the wall glowed,
As only eyes fell on it in the winter gloom.
Everything cleaned up and some went to trash,
Some to charity and when day came to an end,
Order and discipline along with the smell of spring came,
And filled the mind leaving smile upon face.
When stretching legs upon the recliner,
Thoughts from the depths of mind came,
Oh’ none of the tools and crafts one know,
Can clean the mind from those memories,
Holding the beautiful ones, trashing the bitter ones.
Forgotten Tunes
March 14, 2008
Forgotten Tunes.
Fingers pressed on the guitar fret,
And from the burning mind flown,
A tune strummed on the shiny strings,
As night gathered around the weeping horizon.
Standing on the melting ground,
He saw nothing, heard only the tune he played,
Somewhere in the depths of that mind hidden,
Are some words that makes no sense.
Everything in senseless machinations fought,
As nothing completed in fullness in life,
More wrath than any other emotions felt,
But they all faded when her face in memory came.
Oh’ his love for her was like plot less novel,
Or like the diary of a celibatic priest,
Only imaginations lived its life leaving dreams,
And feelings that pierced him with wrath.
From those feelings himself he relieved,
When he expressed the depths of his pain,
As broken tunes played and forgotten,
By a musician he never was.
What a gorgeous day it was wow.. 73f and light breeze that brought the smell of spring. It is good news for most of the people and I love these kinda weather too. But to people who really know me as a poet, they really won’t be happy. As opposite to what many may think, the poet in me goes to hibernation during warm days. Well he did not go too far as work came to a grinding halt. My boss got some personal issues so she is not available today. She didn’t gave me anything to do. So I leashed the poet and told ‘write you old, ugly, lazy bones’ by around 4:43PM, now it is 5:07PM. Enjoy what he did.
The Guiding Light.
March 12, 2008
The Guiding Light.
Compelled by the flow of the world,
Nothing seen around but the roaring fears,
All in material born, lived, dead and gone,
And she remained confused in her thoughts.
Nothing grabbed those outstretched hands,
Those who touched slipped away,
Some in tears, some with mocking smiles,
Time tightened the grip all around,
Like an overflowing river.
Confusion led to suspicion,
Both led to frustration,
All led to isolation,
What remained, breathless silence,
And a feeling of guilt for an uncommitted crime.
Oh’ in every way the world complicated,
Life with misery and competition,
Where what left was jealousy and pity,
When she forgot to show compassion, to oneself.
In the simplest of wisdom commonly known,
Live as who you are and with what you got,
But as the world sinks in a waterless ocean,
Where dreams are made of illusions,
Than any thought of reality,
It takes more than courage to swim against,
All that comes at her to drown her.
Stop where you are and look where you are,
Beware of the steps you take,
What is meant of for someone else don’t fit on you,
Be not lost even in the first step to life you take.
There is a guiding light all around you,
There is none better than the maternal half,
From your five senses why not spare one,
For a moment or two into the wisdom of that life.
I will never say the subject of this poem is mine. I cannot say that as I looked at someone else’s post and wrote what I felt about it. That girl may never agree with me. But I say what is in my mind, that’s just me. It means no offense. If it takes that I should repeat what I said and saying a billion times I will do that as I feel that is the right.
