Who Wins Tonight?


I sit in silence, staring at the stark white walls,
Shadows, silhouettes of sort start moving-
First, slowly like a cheetah going for prey,
then a frenzied ascend to a fuzzy plateau.
I am sinking into nothingness –
Chasing my breath, in what feels like plunging down a waterfall.
Heave! A Sigh!
Tranquility.

I float lightly like a lone wave-
feeling like a soft tad crashing at the shores of my heart.
The only thing I hear is Her voice-
a calming whisper lulling me to sleep.
No, mom. I am scared. Save me.
I don’t want to close my eyes.
I am praying for you son
a firmer whisper, masking her thin fading smile.
Her eyes are heavy, tears threatening to break banks.
My fingers twitch.
I can’t breathe!
I am sinking into nothingness, again–
Falling through what feels like soft wool of clouds.
The earth beckoning my name…

I face heavier things tonight.
I am at the door…armed with good intentions
and a folded fist, a sign. Raring for a fight.
This is the war of my life;
I intend to win. Sigh!
I am out of time and there is no way to round.
‘Come out angels and ghosts,
Come out darkness and everyone you know
I am not scared anymore,
I am waiting. I am prepared.
Yes, I also got a hammer in this mine cage of glass
I’m not sure which walls to smash?
‘Cos if fear hasn’t killed me yet, then love wins tonight-
baptizing me in numbness-my new deep.

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Posted in poetry, Randoms | 1 Comment

The Story of Peter

Four scores of sore soul searching,
Peter finally makes it to the peak-
a haven, a bed of rest, so he thinks.
And, the thought stinks;
when he realizes ‘twas a fickle glimpse of paradise-
And, all he clasps in his frail hands is a mere para-dice,
gambled with his very soul at the table of seekers.
His dreams crumble like morsels of stale bread.
His visions of this junction slip under his fingers quietly
like dry dust of nothingness from a broken porcelain.

All he gets now as his sun sets;
is a paltry taste of bliss,
a bitter slice of destiny diced with drab colors of charred melon green.
He sighs, and falls on his knees.

Turns out Peter sacrificed his soul at the fork of the road.
The road he took was an echo of a distant past,
a path long forgotten,
a path past trodden,
a path drenched in sweat from clammy feet of weary sojourners;
thinkers, crazies, squares, crest-necked misfit-outlaws:
smiling back at the mocking reflection of their choices.
A flock of goats hauling the bolder of their secrets uphill
like a seemingly happy Sisyphus,
buoyed by thirst and hope of finding true illumination.

On the other side of the veil-
SHE sits on her pedestal;
humming graciously to the melodies of HER angels,
aglow with the magnificence of the celestials.

SHE moves one more piece on HER timeless board-
Bored-
A smile.
CHECKMATE.
SHE sighs heavily, like the Southern Winds,
that make the North Coast heave in a mini tornado.
‘WHAT!’ the four pillars of the earth quack.
‘Mercy me, Peter has fallen’ the angel whisper
Silence.
Darkness.
The sun hesitates.
The clouds churn and ramble in pain;
her sparks of agony colour the sky
with thin shades of luminous grey,

then her heavy and beady tears fall-
torrents that fill the oceans and then spills through the black-hole.

SHE runs this goddamn carousel-
It’s HER tiny circus on her backyard.

AND the earth spins in a dizzying speed,
the earthlings oblivious of the grand cantata.

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Empty Hall-Ways

We were born in sin.
Oblivious of the unseen
gimmicks of the puppeteer behind the scene;
Orchestrating a grand cantata,
probably for the amusement of the earthlings.

All we wanted was to live
Fuss, floss, and fill the earth-
All we wanted was mother nature’s embrace.
Suckle upon her emaciated breasts,
pull her chirped nipples,
seek a morsel of hope to nurture
our flailing and rumbling bellies of broken dreams-
Feel the last taste of our lost brothers,
Delink the last syllable of our broken record.

But, but …
All we got was an echo of our past,
lone sounds of our broken souls-
like faint steps trudging upon empty hallways
hounded by eerie shrieks of dying children-
drowning in silence, save the occasional shrill of the evening birds…

Should we afraid of what we have turned out to be?

Posted in Men and Women, poetry | 1 Comment

Where Have You Been? Where Have I been?

pexels-photo-54377Life happens-
and just like any other stage;
we’ll find cold and warm seats,
applauses and boos,
tearing eyes,
emotional lumps and all that.

Life is a major stage-
dotted with transitions,
Goodbyes and welcoming roses.
we move out
we move on
we move up
we leave home and venture into the unknown.

Where have you been?
Oooh where have I been?
Here…
I never left-maybe my voice, and my shadow.
But between then and now:
I stood on the edge a thousand times,
with the life-giving air beckoning,
calls of the unknown whispering my name.
I caught cold,
I tripped,
I hesistated…
But someday I found the balls-
more of a scratch on them pair,
And I lept.
The edge does things to your soul-
I grew a pair-
not of balls this time BUT wings.
I let the winds carry me,
drifting me to wherever they blew.
Trusting in the tag of gravity and staying afloat;
-death and freedom-

Where have I been?
Just here
I never left…maybe my voice, and echoes of my shadow.
But between then and now; I looked for home-
in the eyes of strangers,
in the scents of foreign food,
in the streets without names,
in an away land-where the sun sets late.
And yes I found home
Right here, where I left.

We all leave home-
in search of whatever that calms the tempest in our souls.
Other times we leave home-
buoyed with the spirit of adventure,
venturing beyond our caves,
in search of ourselves, maybe a thrill.
Sometimes we loose ourselves
other times we get scared by the man on the mirror
and, we retrace our steps back,
More like finding our footprints on sand.
We comb every thought, every memory, anything familiar
and there before us are bits and bits of what used to be.
Little dots of what our lives have become,
and we join them dots seeking that line we crossed.

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Rainy Days

mikael

Those Rainy Days Photo Courtesy of Mikael http://www.moxiewg.com/

The sky is drab
A shade of ashes:
dotted with speckles of black-
a weary shade of dark,
inter-twined with dying threads of white

I gaze at the lazy raindrops,
pelting the asphalt:
A symphony of passing time,
A hazy rhythm of life-
ebbing out with every tick of the clock

I smell dust;
an aftermath of heavens’ copulation,
a soothing breeze on the skin-
marked with goose bumps and clutter of teeth

I think of home
The warmth of love
The torrents of memories
The priceless smile of mama,
her white teeth glittering
against the flames of the hearth,
and papa humming in the background,
a sense of comfort

But here I am,
Chasing a feel beyond my skin,
Courting thoughts of life,
Of brighter days to come,
Of sunny days and laughter,
and rainy days at home

Posted in Love and Beauty, poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Crusade

this one

A walk on beaten paths, wading through
bushes of uncombed thoughts,
tongue on the cheek,
rolling eyes from the camera flashes
and flashes of stale memories
screaming shades of neon,
glamour of decomposing trash
of the moral fabric;
like they said-lost souls.

But are we really lost?

Talk of toiling fallow lands
Stretches and stretches of meadows
Praying for stoned minds,
Oblivious of the spoils waiting
and pestilences flying in nightly dreams,
wetness of luring tongues
and fake embraces

At the onset,
Everything was so clear
That we were waging the grand campaign,
Of Good versus Evil;
No middle grounds,
No what ifs,
Just clear lines and definite goalposts,

But these days, hehehe
Black and white has dissolved into
shades of gray…
The fairy tale of everyone feeling
they are heroes and heroines in their own stories,
is nothing but a reflection in a dark mirror
There are no villains, no heroes, or heroines,
Just people, human souls,
Trying to do the best they can,
Trying to marry the reflection
In the mirror and their true self

How about we wage a grand crusade,
Hit the streets with horns, and whips,
Not to preach truth-Not that it doesn’t matter anymore
But to preach common sense, and good manners,
That we are a race called humans and the earth is our only home

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Theatre

Guess the world is just a theatre...with some unaware of what's going on, or their roles.

Guess the world is just like a theatre…with some unaware of what’s going on, or their roles.

Let’s dance with the ghosts of yesterday,
Precipitation of our charred memories
Sired with the milk of the firstborns
And sealed with kisses of angels
Where bellies full of untold misery
Churn deep threads of love and loyalty

Is there anything there to fear anymore?
If our shadows can dance in the dark
And our children’s milk teeth have turned brown
From the rust of their mothers’ breasts

Take a sip of the vile
Stretch on the hard bench of life
Inhale the fumes of our choices,
The world is a stage of the insane
The unafraid and the mavericks
Crowded in clandestine contours
What is there in your heart?
That should make you see the world with a spectrum?
Hatred, fear, color, shriveled mindset, what?
Or is it the sour-bitter after-taste of barley and smoothies
Churned from grapes plucked in the graveyards

Is the world a garden of memories?
Or a theatre of sad humor?
Or is it a footstool of the gods;
Where earthlings are to feast on the remains
and spit of they that dwell in the high places-
For theirs is the kingdom, the power and the glory?

Posted in Musings, poetry, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Open Seas

You will never know how strong you are if you don't venture out there, beyond the horizon.

You will never know how strong you are if you don’t venture out there, beyond the horizon.

We find love in the oddest of places.
At times it is offered in a crucible
or balanced on a precipice-daring for the fall.
Other times love shouts a hello in our chaos;
drowning our gray stories painted on the canvas of shame
and hanged in the hall of dirt for all to behold.
rarely, love will show up clad in glamour-
Floating like tiny white feathers,
with open arms,
calm scents and tender words
that steal our hearts, and steel them to a halt.

But of friendships:
Some show up disguised as angels of death,
brandishing swords and tongues of fire and brimstone.
They slash through the marrow of our cares and scars-
scaring the bits of self chains,
totems of “I can’t” and “…not good enough”
Then goes on to set our souls ablaze
baptizing us in the of zeal, of freedom, and power to be,
then, tattoos magic smiles on our foreheads-
for all to see the blessedness of lives.

Hallowed be friendship:
Friendship that scales heights love knows not:
scaling heights not as a duty but a push to be-
to sync in the vibe of our oneness

Friendship that is unhinged, a free bird

Hail friendship:
Friendship that thrives in our cosmos connectedness,
Friendships without masks: naked and stripped to the bone-
without price tags of class but value of the soul;
without signposts of “impossible” or “No Thruway”
BUT an open sea of possibilities:
of dreams coming true,
of living the dream,
of surviving the high tides,
of rocking in the waves,
of enjoying the slack tide,
of mastering the vibration of the wind,
of nature and constellations,
of staying afloat,
of being safe in this boat we call our skin-
a kin the din and ruckus
of phobias, religion, conspiracies and greed.

Blessed are friendships that are open seas,
held by nothing but hope of sunny days
beautiful shores and the beauty of now:
For they thrive on the rocks of life,
shine through the silver sheets of doom,
laugh in the rain
love in the storm
survive the ordeals of the shifting goalposts
and appreciates that time is a slut-
in that it screws everyone at some point in life.

Posted in Love and Beauty, Men and Women, poetry | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Why should I?

ballot-paper-Custom

So many whys than how(s)

They said this paper is my ticket,
My ticket from poverty,
A hallway to victory;
An expressway to Canaan-
the land of manna, flowing with milk and honey

They say this vote:
This vote is my arsenal, shield and sword,
The magic key to the wonderland on my backyard
The wonderland with no power surges,
Or dry taps adorned with cobwebs
But a land of smooth tarmacs,
Functional street surveillance cameras,
lazy sunsets,
lush streets,
A dazzling green everywhere-
Paradise reinvention my brother

They also say this vote is power,
Power to wade away evils spirits-
Demons shrouding our houses-
I mean:
the power to keep away the monkeys
that cause havoc on the plantains,
The power to change,
The power to clean the streets,
to dump the garbage,
and paint the streets fresh
With happy colors,
and of course, smoke the street urchins to oblivion

They said we should go in numbers and vote,
Not just vote…
Vote for our person; our very own
A lamb without blemish-
So that we can maintain the lineage,
the history, the trail and dust
They said it is the right thing to do- even God approves it

But here we are,
10 steps forward,
30 steps backward,
Our motherland land is parched,
Wells of good-will have run dry,
Thoughts of better days have turned to mirage
we run to clean the streets with our blood,
pelt stones and stop live bullets
Souls donning thread smiles lumber around mumbling,
Engulfed in eerie calmness-
Some sort of a slack tide
Heavy cumulus cloud hanging loose,
Not clouds really, but tear gas…
A pre-workout for some serious pounding

Life is being supped from every mortal,
Right, center and left,
The heart monitor beeps slowly,
Like something evil is about to happen,
It is inevitable we are running out of life
And the land watchers standby doing nothing
Daring the vultures to descend,
Urging us to die quick-
Plenty of alibis fort the next talk show

so you tell me to vote?
Fuck that,
Fuck the vote,
Fuck the idea,
Why should I vote?
For what cause,
You said change? Screw that!
I am tired of the hoodwinks,
Sideshows and drama
This right here is nothing but a fizzle,
A blurred image,
A broken mirror
That needs no fixing anymore

Posted in Musings, Rants | Leave a comment

GOD: The Artist

the-artist-drawing-palette-color-paint-easel-brush-creativity-art-good-idea-close-up-blur-bokeh-wallpaper

God is good.
He thrives in details
From the complexion of the eyes
To the last strand of hair,
To the number of stars in the galaxy
to the wee bits of sand.
his spirit is wind,
blows to wherever it wishes: unpredictable, unhinged
He paints the skies with a medley of colors;
shades of orange with a touch of red,
or a sad grey, with flashes of white,
or strokes of turquoise reflected in the deep sea
or a deeper blue in the sky piercing the soul
complete with an infinite horizon

He has breathed in us a need;
to imitate,
to create,
and make all things in his image

but He is the master Wright
and His story is etched in us,
thriving in twists and turns,
humor and gore
victory washed in tears of loss
He has surpassed our imagination
Our thoughts are juvenile to His
Lost in a deep suspense of the ultimate
Playing with the odds of the end
Vacillating between doom and glory,
Apocalypse the ascension to the saints
Yet He has mystified the end and clothed it in death

So in death-
we speculate,
we create imaginations
escape in our own little stories;
stories with happy endings
scorning the immoral thought-
thoughts of evil triumphing over good

we christen them-
those who have had a smoky glimpse of eternity;
seen the ultimate of men:
no matter how shaky the glimpse was,
or the clarity of the visions.
we are afraid to believe that death is the end

So we believe God is real
with a stubbornness of a mule with reels
we believe in His divine love:-
though His love is different.
Adorned in pain and blood,
With a hidden price tag-
a sacrifice of self.
It is love of tears,
of submission and obedience,
trusting in His Divine guidance
receiving chastening with love…
bowing in reverence and halleluiah
But,
Is love endurance?
Is it an inconvenience?
Is it even appropriate?
I mean, can love be wrong?

But we endure the pain of becoming,
Guess like purification of gold by fire

At times, I think of God as an Artist:
the earth-His canvas, paper, or a clean slate
The humans-
Bits of his creation: work of His hands
Playing the roles,
Living lives
Believing in whatever assurance there is
But:
He balances our breathe like a color wheel
With the precision of an artist,
holding his pencils and eraser-
props of life and death.

At times I see Him;
Guiding,
Saving,
Taking,
Healing,
Restoring and destroying,
Balancing His equations, the work of his hands,
At times with the stroke of his breathe;
He erases-
the bad bits,
the odd bits,
the good bits,
A reminder of the ultimate-
Although this is real, death is real
there are no buts or oops,
when He calls the shots
At times I hear him laugh out loud-humored
Other times He turns angry; though for a while
Other times he his quiet:
when we get at the fork of the road
Most of the time He nods, knowing soon
He is putting a full stop, a final sketch
An end to this madness…

Maybe then,
He will fold this canvas in anger;
with sparks of fire in His voice,
as he tosses his creation in the bin,
or in the fire of damnation…

Or maybe,
He will write another script,
Or draw another sequel,
Has he hangs this masterpiece
In the hall of fame.

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