In the forever now

The other day when the clock
tick-talked us into the night,
you observed how premonition 
could be a cheaper alternative
to time traveling. Of course,
neither you nor I had the gift
or the money to afford the real deal,
so we just discussed the possibility
in the capacity of veterans in making
this far into our lives, failing
at every moment at interpreting
the future, until it was deja vu
on the horizon.

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Paradise Hope Humanity – Four Poems (an experiment)

Let’s not move                               Sit like a rock                            Let hope take root

Down this road                              Vulnerable to destiny             Let Faith be not enshrined

In the burnt city                             Exactly above the haunt       Where her cries were buried

Not far from                                    Where time-capsuled             Injustice in memory lives

Tourism billboards plastering     Unacknowledged stories       Defile

Paradise                                             Hope                                           Humanity

Wind Rising

The atoms of air
like Uber on a busy day
shuttle restlessly,
agitated by uncomfortable heat.

My atoms do not respond
to stimuli in the same way
They have been conditioned,
nurtured to resist, to find
alternative responses.

Or you may just say
I have been bowing too long
over an unharvested field
leased out to me for an eternity
to understand when it’s

enough;

to believe I could
actually lift my head up
not in expectation,
but with an intent to reclaim
what is mine.

My promised land is not mentioned
in the book,
it’s someone else’s.
I have been dragged
so far out I can’t tell the Star
from the Moon.

Maybe I could name my own
North
and sail towards it
on the freedom-possessed wind
that rises in my heart.

Words

Words –

battered and bruised,
used and abused,
metamorphosed,
conjured,
celebrated, relegated,

doomed,

deemed as spoils of cultural wars,
donned as pride,
skinned as hide,
held as armour,
pierced as sword (for nothing leaves a more lasting wound),
hugged as identity,
kissed as sorrow,
dreamt as tomorrow –

have percolated
down the fine mesh
of lives and worlds before you,
to get to you
with hope and a twinkling desire
to be lead

to a place they’ve never been to before

 

What’s for dinner tonight?

What have we got here?

I see, a quiet, cold night
out of December’s deep freezer,
finely ground desires, cold water 
sourced directly from the shore
of doused hopes, a sprinkle of
native sadness, a ginger of a brazen self.

Just let the mix simmer to some sad synth rhythm
and there you have it –
soup for the sentimental soul

A ghazal

Another day, another invitation to lose my way,
But I won’t; I think I know where my heart is.

It gulps in something alien on this loveless shore.
Until it’s high tide, stranded is what my heart is.

I would’ve banished your memories if it weren’t
For the feelings – a graceful host my heart is.

They say I’ll grow wise with every heartbreak.
Really? They don’t know what a fool my heart is.

We could look for the Man of the Book in the Library,
In case you wonder how romantic my heart is.