A Lyre To My Muse

An hour before the dawn
When I wake up
To write the unwritten,
Words don’t listen to my call,
Thoughts seem yet relishing a deep slumber.

This rubbish that comes out still
Must I struggle to compose so
That you give it a go
And may inadvertently
Boost my poetic ego.

Unstructured thoughts
Adorned with unresponsive words
Resemble indifferent strangers with callous looks,
Crowding the clumsy creative space around,
Thus, aborting a timeless creation
For its no certain sin.

A divine bliss is
To have your inspired thoughts
Lead you to pick choicest words
To wrap themselves in, for, then
Your Muse cherry-picks you to be the lyre,
For some soothing, soulful lyrics to flow by,
Decreeing mellow music to multiply eternally.

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]


Your Failed Crops

O’ God, your pregnant silence
Has given them enough words
To make this abode
Clamorous to the core!

Your sickening inaction
Has swung them into action,
Often bereft of
Any ethical intention.

Your delayed justice
Has left them enough room
To gather fake evidences
Favoring their unjust action.

Your inconceivable omniscience
Has failed to infuse in them
Any willingness to trace
The beginning of their being.

Your grateful benevolence
Has lamed them so brutally,
Crippled them so horribly,
That they now mistake it
As their rightful allotment.

And, your mysterious inaccessibility
Despite your invisible ubiquity, O’ God,
Seems to have lent them
Some unguarded authority
That has widened the gaping gulf
Between You and them.

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]

The Remnant Days

The weight of those earned memories
Has overgrown – that hurts me not;
The feeling of how less memories
I can create, in the days left,
Scares me though!

The bounteous love from the kindred souls
Has engulfed me – that builds me;
The dismay of how less I can love
The deprived ones in return, in the days left,
Aches me though.

A bigger chunk of this selfish life
Has been lived well – that cheers me up;
The fear of how less I can commit
To make others live better, in the days left,
Dreads me though!

The ocean of learning that Life offers
Has been traversed through –
That uplifts me;
The alarm of how less I can learn,
In the days left,
Sends shivers down my spine though!

The magnificence of Life’s canvas
Has infused myriad colours
Into my wearied soul – that delights me;
The sense of how less I can
Savor these colours, in the days left,
Grieves me though!

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]

My Omniscient Muse

Your celebrated absence
Over all these days
Has planted doubts in me
If I don’t host you
As I must.

Your decisive delay
In leading my nib
To rub on those blank sheets
Has drowned many a stirring tale
In the pen full of ink,
Locking them up until eternity.

Yet, your omniscience, my Muse,
Like His,
Has but kindled hopes
In my primal being
Of your palatine presence
At some propitious time!

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]

Unseen Diwalis

The question persists!

I d l e M u s i n g z

The aroma of the shimmering
Incense sticks and
The lump of sandal paste
Unable to hold itself together
On a flat banana leaf
Mesmerizes you still.

The warmth oozing out of
Those Diwali gatherings
Of undivided families, beyond roots,
To welcome the august arrival
Of ancestry in a mystic form
Comforts you still.

But, the imminent anguish for
The days unseen, of a new generation
Inconsiderate to the weakening links
To its cultural roots and rich ancestry
In a false pursuit for riches and fame –
Doesn’t that send a chill down your spine?

[Submitted to StoryMirror]

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The Odyssey, Long-Awaited

This lethargy,
This hopelessness,
This gut feeling of a looming doom
– Shun them all!

For, lethargy never
Allows you to
Inch closer to your sole goal;
Dejection welcomes a feeble end
Long before it’s due; and
Anxious wait for a dicey doom
Oft grapples your rosy now
Ravaging your unborn dreams.

Own instead, if you must,
That Himalayan resilience
To fight the thrashings of a faltering fate,
To buck the burgeoning wrath around,
And the fluidity of the Ganges
To flow by unrestrained
Dissecting the rocky terrains, in silent toils
Until your soul merges with the Supreme.

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]

Prayer for Peace

Peace has deserted me,
Since pain has invaded
My fatigued self.

These sorrows, Sufferings
Lethargy, insomnia
Diseases, and stresses thereof –
I hail all thorns in life,
With Peace around.

Lend me infinite pain,
In the guise of Peace, O Lord!
I will endure it,
With uncompromising love
And devotion for You
In gratitude.

For, to evade helping others,
Being engrossed in
A selfish quest for peace,
Is to shirk paying my tribute;
To pray You,
Being engulfed in turbulence,
Is to disgrace Your Supremacy;
And to remember You
Only in distress,
Is to celebrate my selfishness.

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]

Business of Death

These mortal remains
That you drag home,
For a mysterious reason,
Could best match
The marlin of Santiago,
Sans the accolades he amassed
For his uncommon courage.

The immortal souls
That effortlessly flee
From those culled carcasses,
Blinks before you own them,
Would someday trace
A pound of flesh yet again,
To house themselves in,
And tease you to chase them
For their futile frames.

This business you run, O Death,
Would land you someday
In an abyss of ceaseless agony,
Blinding you from your
Supreme goal, yet undiscovered.

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]

Those Little Lessons

Your tender warmth,
Infectious smile,
Playful mood,
Despite my needless wrath,
A while ago.
Compel me
To recompense,
In all little ways.

Your wanting for my love,
Countless bear-hugs,
Unconditional care,
Despite my fitful frenzy
A while ago,
Discipline me instead,
In all little ways.

Your tailing runs,
Behind me,
Spiraling questions,
Ceaseless babbles,
Despite my unbecoming anger,
A while ago,
Crush my adult ego,
In all little ways.

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]

Wavering Thoughts

Flickering its flames,
Driving the darkness,
Pleasing the straightforward
And paining the black-hearted,
It ends itself for others,
Only after instilling life in them.

Inspires and inspires all with its endeavors,
Fighting a lonely, ‘black’ battle
With no cartridge but courage.
But alas! All in vain!

None prefers the white path,
Black despair captures all.
And for its own self, it’s nothing
But sheer masochism:
The niggling pain, an aching joy.

Amazing! Never heartbroken,
With renewed vigor rather,
It still acts, like Keats’ nightingale,
Infusing the life-warmth in others.
Hope springs eternal in its heart.
Perhaps, it’s fallen for Life’s satiety!
Will I follow its path in my life?
Will I merge my life-flame into its?
I’m scared, for, Hamlet peeps throu’ the curtain.

[Published earlier in StoryMirror]