Showing posts from August, 2016

Running off the Course of Time

Running off the course of time–
I dream so high, so big that flames
could not burn a heart made of steel,
nerves breaking to nothing, and a frown
looking at the future ahead enduring
all the misguided slings and broken rhymes,
I hold the course anyhow, eyes ahead–
I'm running off the course of time.
Little high, little low, the world seems so close
at times, and beyond my reach, at times–
waves of fleeting emotions to enjoy
while they last, and fuel the road ahead
with memories not to dwell in like a cell,
but to conquer loneliness and fear–
an offbeat road after road does not guarantee
at the end of the day to have a company;
little high, little low, I keep my eyes so fixed
the prize ahead is not a better tomorrow,
the prize ahead is a better man.
Running off the course of time–
to live once –as if I knew there were more–
to pass once like an exuberant hurricane,
not to leak drop by drop with no hope–
a memory tank filled with stories of all kind
some were heard, some were told, but not made, not one…


Who am I?
I am the wind cutting through trees
so gently, they call me a breeze–
so sweet, they bow to me
and I go my way,
but they stay;
eternal like the light of day–
I blow and they sway.
Who am I?
I am the voice you hear in the deep–
when the end seems to creep
to judge you stale
long before the end of your tale–
like fallen autumn leaves,
it comes too fast to sweep
to make room for new ones
To fall– I am the voice that tells you,
At this very moment, to hold on.
Who am I?
I am that boy still playing at that creek–
whining every day at those distant powers;
for him, the world’s too rude,
and he, so meek
to go on and make them all fall–
all those power-is-all mongers;
he cannot afford to be weak,
not anymore, but he’s afraid
he’d break his humane streak
and lose the last shred of his innocence.
Who am I?
I am the hand that cuts
I am the arm that builds
I am the leg that carries–
the nails broken on rocks
scratching a living off my flesh
creating hope, but never a wish–
all those shortcuts may lead astray,
and there…

Life in a Cubicle

She rests her head, so heavy, so wearied on her fist
looking at her screen or way beyond the words
she tries to translate, or should she translate the signs–
That paper copy as plan B when too long have the eyes
been fixed on inkless words till no longer the eyes can see
a little bit of substance– a tangible meaning for today,
and a tomorrow that’s already seen as yesterday.
Her graceful fingers touch upon the paper like the wind
stripping an old tree from its dying leaves,
yet to shine again, there is still ahead a long winter
and words like splinters cut through all her senses
and the vestiges left from her femininity– not there today–
her hair held up like an uprising, revolting against nobody,
setting out to go nowhere. Yet, a pencil striking through
all that serenity, amidst a revolution where a hair is fighting a hair,
that long neck appears like a trunk that could carry the world
contracted in a cubicle– a cell soon to be called home–
all the seasons drop on her like fruits so tropical,
and wa…

Crazy Like God

Crazy, like God–
everyone believes in me,
yet everyone does not give a damn
about whence I came,
they all but hold a guarantee
that I never leave.
So sure so secure
when they have me–
coins in their pockets,
a raging river with endless uproar
a body melting towards the sun
angels or demons’ wings soar
against the wind, I’m there
fueling their fantasies like hell,
hot wheels on an eternal fire
burning yet never turning to ash–
like death, for me to be,
I need to keep them alive.
Crazy, like God–
everyone believes in me,
they shy away from the truth–
too bashful to name me
the one and only king;
I buy them power
I give them sovereign rings–
every lash to remind their slaves’ backs
my whip has struck,
every dash for a chance against all odds
to fleetingly own the heart of a stranger
was the might of my buck,
to own the floor and dance like angels
was forever guarded by my demon spawn,
for their words to nod every head
taking a glimpse inside their pockets
where the dragon’s lair
everyone has learned to revere;
they thin…

Dying at a Desk

Sitting, daydreaming, flying
to the endless boundaries
of a silver screen—
the world is all at hand
waiting yet to be seen,
and hearts are up and running—
desire inside so keen
to get by day by day—
the world is all at hand,
yet what does that wide world mean?

Sitting, daydreaming, dying
at a desk, a destiny foretold
to sit to buy and wait to die
for those growing needs
are growing like evil seeds
rooting deep like anchors
to hold a vessel from the open seas;
the journey starts here and ends here—
feet rumbling beneath like wingless eagles,
old gallant warriors dying in their cradles,
creeds no longer born; it feeds
on people like you and me
imprisoned in cubicles
with iron bars around with only one open side
never used to escape; still stands
a living proof of the leash we have inside—
security lies in a decorated cell
of quotes and lovers and idols
trying to make it home
no heart for adventure and risk
we all wait to die at our desk.