a silent vigil

the ice has taken hold between the two passages,
carrying the crystal white burden of dreams
and the languages of intrinsic qualifications –

to choose the fog over mist, slush over dirt,
and to keep frozen into stone all deals upturned,
all wishes parted by a moment’s touch –

lost is the sudden acquaintance with sensation,
I am near the end, I am at the edge, always dazed,
glorified by the fear of tumbling down – just the bliss
of never seeing the light

for it’s hard to dream with open eyes, for it’s hard
to see through your lips where you reside –

who ever said that this mosaic of understanding is fulfilling?

that blithe sun has devoured all else.

you are the halo, the shadow, the skin to my desire, the symbol
to this paradigm of pain,
and I keep up my silent vigil,
I wait.

.
Linking it up with The Tuesday Platform at With Real Toads.

Soaking

unheeded
soaking the grass greener-
December dew

.

Linking it up with Carpe Diem Special # 122

Image source

The thoughts also become foggy just like these days sometimes. I remember such incidents which are of no significance anymore. They are smeared with the ink of the past, which one can’t change.
The dew of hope soaks the memories and dreams, making them appear brighter than they ever were or would be. This grass still grows within me, as December is passing by, and another year would soon be erased from our lifetimes.

Anm

justice wrought as words tumble out/ at least for now- I am a vampire (Part 1)

a worm bite it is as I take rounds around the walking path

of the garden where the mutts shout, reclaim their territory,

I get the notion to return back and open the empty pages

so to absorb their whiteness through my trembling fingers

as they begin to trot on their own accord, a voice found

some words to relinquish my thirst, my loquacious desires

.

“You look very much like a vampire,” a class mate says to me,

I make the gesture of biting my own wrist so that the blood

shall run free, and sniff the air of imaginative dreams

“Hello, unique,” a mate calls me out from the crowd

and I embrace his title for me, the uniqueness imbued in us all

struggling to sore out in the form of an image

to represent the remains that are left of me

.

how little I know my vanity, how much I know my individuality,

sins I create, sins I commit, I am pardoned by my justice

that stings like the worm bite and I caress it incredulously

.

Thank you so much for your support. I haven’t replied to your kind comments in my previous post but I have embraced your love and the beauty of your kind words.
This poem here is a part of a series of poems: “I am a vampire”. I have already written the second part as well. So, it is final that it would at least have two parts and if it happens to be so, I would like to continue further with it.

A Mid-Day Summer Dream|the Sun melts me…

the leaves, brittle by the hands of the sun

sway like a thirsty bird in the afternoon loo,

the streets empty of travelers, a distant voice

of screeching tires, on the melting coal tar

and the gurgling of coolers exhaling a breath

that sustains life, as June heightens into

a derogatory mark for the residents of city,

.

I let a beam of the celestial torch to hit me

and burn that spot where my fears hide

so that they dissolve, dissipate, rather

finding their place in some others’ abode

(I engulf selfishness, as the entire world)

.

– soon I retreat back to the insides as sweat

slithers along our fates, down my brow,

there is a news, I have received a provisionary

admission letter from a college managed by

a council under ministry of tourism,

the heat flushes my cheeks, I’m deranged

while making a decision of such propensity,

there is a solemn expression I see in me

twinkling in my eyes, for in order to

catch a dream, I have to shatter all others

and leave them combusted into fires of sun,

.

a day would come (if it would, my mortality

glares at me, while the living alludes me)

when to look back, I wonder what I’d find:

the dead remains of those dreams I left out

or a face that is of me, beaming and mocking,

as the sun sets down nowhere when I’m asleep

.

Image source

Gathering: A Short Story

They gather out of nowhere, like a crowd that drifts towards where blood gets spilled. And the blood is spilled this day, right outside where I fell down, while playing with the neighbourhood guys. I cried many tears and made a puddle out of them on my palms.

I was rushed to the doctor. I do not remember much but for the agony, when he sprayed some liquid which coagulated my blood there and then, which still is circumventing through my mind. I have been acting like a lame person ever since returning back home.

And now they have gathered. I have loved them since as long as I can remember. Mum tells me that it had rained the morning I was born and my first cry was accompanied by the ringing of the temple bells and the morning hymns of the gurudwara, symphonising with the drip-drop of water pearls. So, it may very well be so that we are connected in some way.

“It is going to rain,” my sister says what everyone already knows. She rushes off to the terrace to gather the clothes, hanging to get dried in the sun, but the fate has it that it must rain today.

I cripple along her up the stairs and reach in time to have the first drops to fall down on my cheeks and stream down my throat to the chest. I feel light.

She gets angry and asks me to go back down but I am not the one to listen. I am here to pick at them and gather what I can, hiding them in every possible crevice of my body. I do not joke and thus, my intent is true.

She has gathered the clothes. They are now flung on her left arm and she hands over her right for me to take so that we can go back down. But I rather hold onto the door and crouch because I do not want to be taken away. I want to see my destiny in the few drops that have painted the dust riddled bricks below me. My blood had made stains just like that.

And then, the thunder crackles and the lightning zooms piercing the sky apart and showering blessed pearls. She exclaims in horror and takes me by force and yet, my arms try to reach out to them as she makes me walk down with her.

Stepping down the stairs, I lose my view of them at their gathering. I want to join them. My vision, thus screened, and I am thrust to darkness.

Now, I rise, feeling the trace of those drops on my cheeks that stream along, down my throat to my chest. I feel light.

I clutch at them dotted on my skin where the matchsticks have branded them. Feeling my ribs, I fall down on the bed, zooming through the many gatherings of visions or dreams. It doesn’t matter what they are because they are tangible to me.

.

A 500 word story for Oloriel’s Tale Weaver’s Prompt. It is a blend of reality and fiction… what is what… I don’t know and I won’t tell.

Image source

Walking with her… in her heels

she wakes up drenched in the ocean of dreams,

and hurries off to repair, work on her life’s seams,

brushing rivulets of her hair, she leans into the mirror,

considering self, moving forward near and nearer,

only disturbed by the ring of the peaceful phone,

but deciding whether to attend it or not, it is gone

to leave a silence, that she tastes tingling on her lips,

and finally, she leaves for the streets, swaying her hips,

down the path to the usual location, she waits,

habitually ignoring the trail of car after car that rates,

the size and shape of her and others of her business,

conforming to their needs, their lives of weakness,

one hand points towards her, agreeing her to come,

she notices, complies, and through the door she sits glum,

on the seat reeking of cigarettes and urine of old,

she feels the four wheels move, she is now sold

to the night, forgetful of her heart that refuses to beat,

she falls out, not to see a thing or hear the fall of sleet,

coming to herself, she stands, stumbling, stiffness she feels,

exits a bar, a motel, an apartment in her heels,

carefully counting the bills, walking on into the day,

alone on the path where there are many and many  lay,

but no one really is, but for dreams that await on the single bed,

those false entities have no seams repaired, she has no threads

.

Image source

I started off without any thought but then I was reminded of the insensitivity of some people towards those… whose lives they have not lived and yet they judge. They do not know how it is to be in their shoes. I feel and I can at least try to imagine their lives… and give words to their untold stories. This is a work of fiction but it may well be a real life account… I don’t know.

I appreciate constructive criticism.

I am linking it up with dVerse Meeting the Bar.

Circus of Emotions

circus of emotions, finding a way to fly,

leaving a tail of silver glittering fire,

the residue of what once was dear to heart,

.

the land where, one had found the strength,

time to bid goodbye, to those boulders,

(which are now broken into sand kernels),

.

as the crescent moon gazes, meditating

at the scene of sultry separation,

.

the circus of emotions in tatters, flying

away, with the memories of those lives,

no longer tied, to the rope of significance,

.

I close my eyes… I am that pulled apart earth,

bidding goodbye to the circus, and along with it,

a farewell, to what all were my dreams once

.

* The art work is by Catrin Welz Stein. You can find more of her work at http://catrinwelzstein.blogspot.de/

** A quick piece for dVerse Poetics.