The Common Touch

I look around this swell of sea,
And find many same as me,
But I feel no pain, at our common touch,
Only pride that we don’t, differ much,
And remain aloft and alive of will,
All masters of some meagre skill,
Much unlike those precious few,
Who sell themselves to buy something new,
And yet remain same as old,
With that begging bowl, made of gold.

The Dozen Soliloquies Of A Fallen

How helpless are we,
To hope that one,
As helpless as us,
Shall ever if follow me?

Do I hear the bitter bile,
Being gulped by voiceless throats?
Are they caterpillars I am watching,
Disguised as desirous moths?
Is this the foretold vista, at my journey’s sojourn end,
Am I to blame some finger, for pointing a different, different bend?

I had left my doors open,
Was it a mistake I made?
Would I still be standing,
Had I bowed my uncrowned head?
Will it be right of me to say; I never meant a lasting harm,
And it was wrong of them to take, the pulse of my dying arm?

Am I still allowed to think, the thoughts I often do,
Is it a confession if the walls, repeats my whispers too?
How am I to know, if I am treated just,
Even before any trial, if I am sentenced first?
Is it for the reason, that I lit the undying fire,
I am blindfolded amidst the blind, to show me as a liar?

Why the sky is crimson burning, why the sea is deathly quite,
Why all shades of hand are in hand, why isn’t there any fight?
Are they breathing same, the need to break all free,
Or are they already dead, the same as good old me?


A soul meanders,
Blossoms, bursts.

Silent night,
Hold me still,
You, yesterday, were a pretty thing,
Under liquored light,
Dancing upon ropes, of tangled treasure,
With fairy arms, you, pretty thing,
Said nothing, just the calm closure of your eyelashes,
Like a mirror with opened wings.

Speckled stars, speckled stars,
Tiara of Love,
Tiptoe, swan like, across shinning snow,
And find, warm hands;
The shape of parting sea,
To hold you, O Silent Night,
Sipping, our bottled memory.

The Man Without Love

A man without love is a man lost,
Picture one, if ye can,
A day when all preach,
Of a day yet to come; when a day farther away,
Shall be blind to the sun.

Thence, the abiding and the unsigned,
Dispersed or aligned, shall matter no more,
For a man without love is a man lost,
And he cares not of the form,
Shaping in the darkness,
His eyes are inward, towards the time behind,
At the scattered filaments of pleasure,
Of moments unattained,
Of strangers who remained strangers,
Left searching alone through artless existence.

Thus a man without love is a man lost,
He as soon forgets the present,
As he remembers the past,
And try to trade one for the other,
Till none really lasts,
Being beggared thus must he wander,
Searching through artless existence, alone.

So, picture one, if ye can,
A day when all preach,
Of a day yet to come; when a day farther away,
Shall be blind to the sun.

Ask Me Not Of Home.

Ask me not of home,
I know not where it is now,
The old paths are forgotten
And I shan’t tell you how,
Yet if by some miracle,
You find my old life’s door,
Bare your heart by the threshold,
Don’t dirty the polished floor.

Ask me not of home,
Of my children by the lake,
My wife’s face lay forgotten,
Like moon upon daybreak,
And I wonder if my mother,
Will be standing, still,
By the wicket gate of my garden,
Eyes along the path uphill,
Where by a wayside stone,
A wrinkled frame of man,
Of my father shall be awaiting,
As long as he thither can.

Ask me not of home,
Of my sheep and unploughed farm,
I have slept in upturned graves,
The living has lost its charm,
And oft at night I whimper,
By the ebbing fire I weep,
Another sky lay open,
I am too afraid to sleep.

So, ask me not of home,
Of its red bricks and wooden stair,
Ask me why I am not home,
Braiding my daughter’s hair,
Ask me how I faltered,
Ask me how I failed,
When was my heart was anchored home,
Ask me why I sailed.


To know that the world,
Is as colorful even now,
As it seems, in the vintage monochromes;
Silent in their chorus of a bygone time,
Is a sweet thought with sour taste,
For how are we to dwell and dissolve,
One with the eternal moment,
And yet be remembered,
As a sole flower in the bouquet,
If years away from now,
Fading against the flow,
We are to remain nothing more than a shade of each other.