Category: Poems

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to war throughout the hour
‘Cause someone in a minute’s span
Enraged me for something I love.

I went to…write about it, then.

I often end up acting like
I’m center of the universe.
Which isn’t quite inaccurate.
If universe is infinite,
Then every point’s a center, right?
I am, you are, they are, all are.
The centers of the universe.
I blame my English accent, though.
I am the spatial center, but
I think I am the special one.
The one true center. Only one.
The once and future singular.
Forgetting in this cosmic dance,
The center’s simply sitting still.
No fun in being the center, no?

Forgiving, as the word suggests,
Is meant for giving, not for getting.
Don’t forget it’s up to them.

Forgetting, as the word suggests,
Is meant for getting, not for giving.
Just forgive. It’s up to you.

I’m always sitting on the fence,
As that’s the only place that gives
A bird’s eye view of both the sides.
I see one side and shit the other,
Turn around, repeat the act,
And then I see the Buddha Way:
The Middle Path along the fence.

The fence obstructs the others’ views.
The ones on left can’t see the right,
The ones on right can’t see the left,
And so they spray graffiti fiends
They claim as proof of evilness.
The only thing they both can see?
The turning bird upon the fence.

It’s dreams that put me down to sleep.
Exhausted with the man I am
I dream to visit other lives.
I wake up grateful in this man,
This man whose consciousness has fled
Exhausted with the man he was.
The one who fled must not have been
Aware of all advantages
This man has over other lives.
No matter! I will make of him
What he has not yet made of him.
So many many things to do.
So many many lives to touch.
So what if he has erred ago?
So what if he has traumas past?
So much so much ahead of him.
He still has dreams awakening.

While sitting on the fence, I saw
A narcissistic monsoon frog
Regard its rippling countenance
Inside the well my Grandpa dug.

It croaked at it a mating call
And promptly got an echoed yes,
But something in the eagerness
Alerted it to something else.

It jumped around the steining wall
And stole a look inside to check.
The one inside seemed eager still
And beckoned to its rippling lake.

“Don’t fall for it,” I heard me say.
It, startled, jumped into the well.
I clapped my forehead, slapped my thighs,
And bit into a half-picked nail.

“For all I know it’s happier.
The monarch of its monsoon realm.”
I let the drizzle tickle me,
Resumed my throne upon the fence.

“You write because you feel too much,
Too much to keep it all within.”

I love it when my therapist
Relinquishes her ” you tell me”,
And shares a bit of what she thinks.
For what she thinks is so so off
I cannot help but laugh aloud
And make her blush and closed again.

“You call me not to look at you.
You call me now to laugh at me.”

Sometimes, I wonder if she’s right.
And other times, if she’s the right
Psychologist for me to see.
At least, she’s pretty. Present. Prompt.
At least, she’s vulnerable too.
At least, she reads the books I read.
Not all of them. Important ones.
At least, I see her as a friend.
Perhaps the only friend I trust
In times I do not trust myself.

“I write because I do not feel,
I _cannot_ feel the way they feel,
The way the writers I admire
Describe the feelings I require
To feel that I can also feel.
I write because I envy them.
Now that’s a feeling I can feel.”

She laughs. I sigh. She laughs again.
“Frustration. That’s another one.
You try too hard, but I see you.
You write because you feel too much.
Too much to keep it all within.
Now, tell me if I’m wrong, okay?
You’ll write this as a poem too.”

At least, she knows the way I think.

The day is done for others, but
I haven’t even started yet.
They stretch their backs,
They shoo their kids,
They plonk into their TV couch.
I haven’t even started yet
For that is sort of what I did
Throughout the day,
Throughout their day.

I pick the pen, I scratch my head,
I roll the pen between my teeth.
The laptop booting takes a while.
I type with pen between my teeth.
Within the minute I am sure
The lines are going nowhere good.
They take their writer’s life as guide.
I think about deleting them.

The nurse, whose shift has just begun,
Is here to make mistakes again.
“You have to rest.”
“It’s all I do.”
“The laptop’s on.”
“I see it too.”
“You have to rest.”
“I have to write.”
“The doctor scolds me.”
“My delight.”
She turns and stomps out. Then returns.
She’d left the clipboard on my bed.
“You have to rest.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She turns and drops the clipboard pen.
At least, she’s started with her day.

I slip into a seashore sleep,
My snoring waves erasing all
The lines I’d fingered in the sand.

I wake to melancholic notes
The bottle sings on empty tum,
Its paper cargo still so blank.

The snoring waves return, return.
The fingered words erase, erase.

A hermit crab ideas out
And dashes sideways leaving dots:
“To dream, you sleep,”
Its Morse Code reads.

“To write, you dream,”
My page begins.

For some, the road’s their only home.
For others, home’s their only road.
It doesn’t mean they aren’t lost.
It simply means they haven’t found
A better road, a better home.