fumbling feeling

no ripple in the pond

the passing of a weightless pebble

flimsy fragile flake

circling, directionless

swirling across the beam

whimsy clumsy tipsy

rolling guttery soupy

no ties

shabby ragey soul

doddering

dithering

stumbling

a pre-destined trail

uneasy

unable

unmoored

It is then...

In the middle of a quiet afternoon 
or in the sleepy corners of the night – 
it is then that it hits. 
It is then that it hurts. 
The loneliness. 
The hoodless-ness. 
The ties that bind 
surely are most slack then. 
Because, surely where are they 
when the heart stretches and stretches and 
yet finds that that which fills 
it is not the intangible belongingness; 
it is the more tangible emptiness. 
Emptiness. 
Pervasive emptiness. 
The flaccidness of the empty corners of the heart. 
Kinfolk were never kin, you see. 
Shattered dreams. 
Uprooted to a distance, 
the short thread of dreams 
hardly withstood the pull and push and pinch. 
Loneliness of hearth. 
Loneliness of frailty. 
Begets loneliness of kinlessness. 
Wandering heart forever. 
Anchored in bravado. 
Moored in the gloating of meaningless triumphs. 
The pull of façade did unmoor it. 
Wandering heart. 
Pining heart. 
Seeking heart. 
Painful beyond measure. 
Thus did the heart grow. 
Thus did the heart shrink. 
And yet the emptiness loomed. 
Cynical heart. 
Questioning heart. 
Tallied up with chary mind. 
A moat. 
More like a swamp. 
The emptiness turned jellysludge. 
Trapping. 
Mocking. 
Laughing. 
Loss. 
Utter loss. 
Pervasive loss. 
A quick silver flash of fulfilled life. 
Washed away in the tide ever rising. 
Mourning heart. 
Wasting heart. 
The beats vary. 
Dunn-dunn-dunn. 
And then that’s all. 
Swamp conquering. 
Failing heart. 
Clutching heart. 
Fate beckons still. 
Quickening beats. 
Tired beats. 
Pleading beats. 
Another chance. 
Life is for once. 
Live it or fail it. 
Failing, falling.  
The falls are near. 
Drowning. 
Gasping. 
Feeble hold
Lights out.

"Self-Pity' by David Herbert Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

The little room

A hidden nook in my mind’s fold
Home to musty books
And secret scrapbooks
Empty chocolate cake boxes

A mind fort for comfort in dreams
When the unpalatable bleeds through

A lair to burrow in
When virtual strangers come knocking
When sword-wielding pursuit turns too real
When the invisibility cloak must be called for

A cosy hearth on a rainy day
When I seek to lie in lazy wondrousness
At the inevitability of love seeking me out

A fort built several years ago
From dreamy cobwebs
To keep away the cold wind
That reflects in cold eyes
And even colder fingers

Soon,
Treasure cupboard turned
To certain reverie stopovers
Cold door open with warm welcome

Last night, I crept into the circle
Lo! the fort was breached
The dark cold had lost its hold
To sunny murmurs of orange life

I feared for loss and tears
I only felt a déjà vu

My life - no longer just mine
To plough through in secure solitude
But an open land to mine in shared luxury

The sub-conscious' verdict is in
The conscious mind ever a follower...

Block

Who are you?

Why do you crouch in the dark shadows of my mind?

Do you wait for something?
Or someone to manifest from the creases of my chaotic mind?

Do you seek something?

Like I do,
Like I have always done?

Do you try and grasp flowing air,
Arrest running water,
Hold on to sliding sand?

As I have done ever since that day
When I questioned the mystery of the chimeral strands
Swaying in front of my eyes
As I walked down an alley with a bleeding knee?

Two burning ends of a candle

On the first day
I walked over a virginal beach of glass
Burnt cold with the icy glare of a dead sun

On the second moonrise
I reached the edge of the red sun
Blinking tiredly over the yellow pockmarked planet

On the third rise of dawn
I looked up into the trapped eyes of the man
Draining his life-blood on my expensive Turkish rug

On the fourth burst of first light
I looked askance at the walking green
Lolling sideways with each passing twirl of wind

As the fifth day bled into symphony
Each red drip like the stealthy stroke of soft percussion
Each paper cut like the fine chords of the deaf master’s opus

The sixth day struck; And –
I wandered past the mechanical junk of eyes and limbs
Obsolete; with their masters long buried in decaying stench

As the sixth day wound down
I mourned the bitter arrogance of a youthful species and
Took issue with the smugness of old deities for letting things come to such a pass

And there was no seventh day comfort for a mortal

Random Walk

A reflection of the mirror within
The wandering of the soul without

A patchwork of lived experiences
Filtered by the haze of time
Every road passed -
Every face faced -
Every shake of hand and nod of head
- A record of a life's passage

A detour into the garden of white lilies
A flick of the magical wand of time
A laurel crown over the golden swathe
Dewish temptations on the lips of dark angels
Waving red heralds of deceitful hope
Enticed by the righteous look of thorny path
Prodded by the drool of quick accomplishment

Fly Itch

I could call you names
I will smile at your naiveté

I could rant about your evasiveness
I will credit your scrappy guts

I could make an example of you
I will keep your example in mind

I could seethe about absurd attitude
I will marvel at your obtuseness

I could rat out your Houdini skills
I will forgive you your closed mind

I could still lend you a helping hand
I will look to shield my own hand

I could yank the ignorant veil off
I will allow you to fester ignorance

I could outright dislike you
I will expend my pity on you

My Day

I could speak of my day

I could speak of my...
Obama-induced envy of the Americans
Resignation at Rafa beating Fed X...again
Contentment at winning some scattered ODI
Duh! at Modi's misappropriation of funds
Impressed nod at a Black Republican head

Rolling eyes...
At hijack dramas by petulant boys
Of jobless men getting a hard on
From a misplaced sense of putting
The 'virtueless' girls in place
Of unfulfilled men in mid-age crisis
Ranting about trailers of bomb blasts

Exasperation at...
The air of growing impatience
Intolerance of fellow humans
Suspicion of all the 'Others'
The literal man-eat-man world

Distasteful awe at...
Freshmen negotiating like pros
Newbies = smooth operators
Misuse of womanly wiles to wash hands
Big round eyes and a hint of wetness
Rediscovered godliness; smoking jaunts
Clueless hierarchy piled under dislike

Pathetic self-pity at...
Being caught in crosshairs
Overdone sense of duty
Wimpy sense of individuality
Seeping away time and chances

Self-consciousness at...
Being caught in a phone conversation
Unawareness with five people in a crowd
All staccato limbs and scattered balance
Morally grey conscience and white lies
The unbidden smile that creeps on my face

Joy at...
The thought that brings the unbidden smile

Mind Dawn

As the sun climbs higher
As the dark mists vaporise
As dark trees lift their veil
As birdcalls pitter across leaves
Nature's symphony in cacophony
Fine lines drawn in avian lyrics

As little alarms chirp across town
As light creeps behind sleepy eyelids
As sunlight streams past reluctant curtains

Clarity sweeps the subconscious floor