A Waterfall

Through rocking movements on the bed,

I discern that you move, down and down

And down again. An immense pleasure,

A thirst unknown before, quenched,

Quenched well in every drop you make.

The valley that parts and in parts, bliss,

Wave upon wave of which sweeps over me,

The peaks that rise with every fall,

Oh ,what will I not give, to live under those sheets,

The curtain, as it may seem, that covers your chastitiy?

A plunge, a chill down my spine as it happens,

I’m one with you, no more shall playing help.

Hot and cold, cold or hot, thermal determination off for a toss.

And with it goes the other determination too,

No match for the allure of pleasure, albeit painful.

Your flowing arms embrace me, in a frenzy that knows no bounds,

You pour yourself, slithering serpentinely, wrapping me around,

The fiery cobra in heat, engaged in a sensuous dance.

Short of breath, yet not of carnal bliss, I keep coming up for air,

Alluring although elusive is your aroma, that keeps taking me deeper.

But where lies the source of all bliss, whither thy spot?

“Go deeper, go harder”, you tell me,

So I dive, headlong, into caverns of carnal paradise

More and more of your essence runs through me,

Cooling my steamy loins, and the heat in me,

More of you I relish, you, Nature’s favorite daughter,

More and more, until there’s more of you and no more of me.

Losing to you, losing myself in you was the best victory I’ve had.

And I shall lose, lose more, until I’m no more me.

Until you the chalice I drink from, shall let me pass

Shall let me pause, on her sacred cradle, on the bed of Creation.

Thanks and Sorry Pablo Neruda

In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
Muttering as it traipses through streets, long reserved,
Long abandoned by all those but rain bathers.
Chiding dirty children on the streets, born out of dirtier streets,
Chasing the cats and dogs it rains as, into curling about the chimneys.
Dark alleys, shady avenues, and underground sewers,
The long fingers extend far down the smoke screen,
Arousing suppressed emotions in clouds that smell of mud,
Reeking of tunes composed on a violin long turned to dust.
The lover, on his lonesome loiter, and the loner, loving his litter,
Does rain sing to each one, his song of choice, as on a TV show?
A baritone, a treble, more often a chorus or a cacophony,
Playing keys of phony arguments of a couple, no more husband and wife,
Meandering through the warped arguments of family long dead,
Gentle goodbyes to lovers of hate, drenching Cupid’s mates.
Upon concrete roofs, confused thoughts, and con jobs,
Upon dilettantes, and dabblers and dilemmaic thinkers,
Does rain fall alike on each of them to add or lose itself?
In what language does it talk to those it despises?
In my tongue, does it? Waiting always, with a wicked comeback,
But never the heart to hurt a horde of hard hearts?
Are tongues corrupted by a stray word, spoken in disgust?
Are words swappable, by tongues kissing in unison?
Does rain corrupt and swap as it speaks and kisses, if so in what tongues?
Lost out at sea, rain falling from clouds and rising from the waters,
Looking out for its loved ones, does it ever share a compass with a traveller?
Singing in glee at discovery of an unknown composer in a shoe store,
Does rain take away the sorrows of the statue it erodes?
Does it offer a word of comfort to those sleeping
Under epitaphs that talk about all that they should’ve done but didn’t?
What final words did rain have for the crying baby it smothered gently?
A mother to quench her thirst, a brother in playful company,
A soulmate by the bedside as it finally convinced her,
That it was tender than life would be on the fragile heart.

Lame Ducks

She lay in bed counting the minutes,

He was late, as usual, so much so

His lateness was an allure to her.

But today she had hoped for him to be on time,

And here he was, before she could call in vain.

Her eyes widened, in expectation of excitement and more.

She could no longer trust herself, to hold back or stay back.

The time was nigh, as was her time; and she had wasted little.

A paler band on his digit, that to her was old news.

Not that she cared either, for what she lost wasn’t lost on her.

She knew too, that she held equal blame for the loss.

Yet she had held on, for what she had left, for what time she had left.

Holding on to the littles, she also wanted to be held,

And he obliged. A welcome change to the hostilities of the recent.

A moment of weakness and he had fallen, another and he was prey.

Saddled upon horses two, he was a tired rider, and timid too.

He had his own road, yet destiny took him to twin destinations,

One a public façade to the private façade of the other.

He was true to neither, at both places an ideal pretender.

In moments lighter, he had committed to a life of together, twice.

Timidity and a lack of temerity were his folly, a fear to face what lay ahead.

And he had held back, hiding behind facades, true only to his fear.

Held back, she did, her feelings for him, for her folly lay, in feeling

For a man, utterly devoid of such emotions.

Gifted once, she was never willing to take herself back,

From denial and abuse and love unrequited.

A life shared was a distant dream, as distant life itself was getting.

She merely wanted her share of his time,

Unfair though it was to her that loved and loved so dear.

To look, love and languish in his company was her destiny.

Cheeks once vibrant now lay wasted and bone adorned.

Glowing they still were from the tears that flowed freely.

He took a kerchief to dab at them. No art could capture the irony

Wrought on her face as she found the initials on the piece of cloth.

A smile as she knew the name they stood for; the other woman.

A hint of the once lovely redness touched her lips, no more a sign of beauty.

Yet to him, it seemed so. For here was a sign of the end to his past folly.

Did he love her once, even if so long ago? We may never know.

What had she seen in him, she that deserved much more, for the beauty that lay

In flesh and beyond? For here was a man lacking all attributes of being one.

And yet had conquered the most womanly, the queenliest of ‘em all.

Perhaps that alone was enough. For her than for him.

As she gasped more than she breathed, the smile grew bigger, as did her tears.

The bliss she wanted all her life was hers to have, but all her life had been to lose.

She had lost in love, lost her love, lost a race she never ran.

She that was hailed a beauty was now a whore to those that lost.

As images of users and abusers flashed past her, she heard her last word.

“Cut!” voiced the Director and she was abandoned.

No more to be coddled and cuddled, she lay wasted, as did her life.

He would now gladly remove the ring from his pocket where it lay hidden.

And wear it proudly, as he thought it deserved to be worn.

No longer was one of the facades necessary and the other he shall bother about later.

As he turned to leave, he had one last look at her, he shall return here no more.

Was it her tears on his face or were they his? Were they those of the glutton,

Pitying the dead goat on his table? Before he fell to commit another folly,

He left the lamb on the sacrificial altar, alone to take its last Journey; and departed

To ascend upon the cross, the crossroads of life that lay before him.

In a Parallel Universe

She stood there, her doe eyes shedding tears,

Gentle rivers flowing under the bridge of her nose,

Breaching the banks from time to time,

She dabbed at ‘em when they did, with soft cotton;

And yet they wreaked havoc in no time again.

She was trembling from head to toe, from all that crying.

Crying, the one thing she wasn’t used to.

Pride, anger, passion and even love, probably; but sorrow, never.

None had in the past thought she could cry so much and so well;

Well, who would’ve?  The Queen of the Nile rarely did have need to,

A raised eyebrow, an indignant stare was all she needed,

The eyes of Isis were impossible to say no to.

Kings and Emperors weren’t a match, and neither was the most celibate hermit;

Conquerors, warriors and heroes lost their lustre to lust.

And yet, she had remained untouched, a cold breeze freezing all but itself.

She had watched all that loved her wither, with a sympathyless smugness,

And yet, here she was crying, and why so, everyone wondered.

With the gentle curls of her hairdo broken up in a frenzy,

Braided locks a rough plumage, of raven on a rain’s night.

Lips that blushed in haute moments, quivering now.

Were they trying to speak things other than her vanity?

Vain she had been, about being the perfect woman, though to what man?

Ah, do not ask me that, I don’t know. Perfect she was to several,

But calling them men would be a crude insult to manhood.

For they were man enough only to capture her,

In paintings and paeans and pictures wrought in stone.

They could twist brush and mould marble to get her neck right,

The right mix of pride and feminine sensuality.

But what that neck was in carnal thirst, oh how could they know?

The veins that blood coursed through, hotter every second;

The neck a climber held onto, his last grip with sanity.

A step lower and he was gone, such treacherous paths,

Paths to be revered as roads of mortal bliss.

Erotic gifts at every turn, none lost in finding another.

Fabrics unsheathed, battles in bed taking nights and our days too.

A temptress and a tigress she was in bed, and I serving the best match,

Or so I hope. The Queen of kings, a woman richest, and not just in gold,

For Steel was my gold; the more tempered the better,

Yet it was her temper that turned me away, from steel and steal.

And so we had spent, winters and summers together.

Alas, the gods envied us, acrimony brewing over our matrimony,

Envy burnt through us, and war parted us.

No longer were the battles in bed, for there now was blood,

Land and sea we fought on, losing more and more of us each time,

And yet it was this us we fought for and this us that kept us going.

While I was winning, I was losing too. Navies I destroyed, and friendships too,

Armies were decimated and armouries emptied, but so was my amor.

Winds that stank of blood brought me sad tidings, making me stop.

Battles and wars are meaningless when the cause is lost, as was mine.

My sole soulmate, the breath of my life, had decided to take hers away.

Swords I had plunged through men came back to haunt me,

And all my shields turning traitor, I had but one thing to do.

So I fell; from fame, from glory, from power and love, upon my sword

Throwing away a life, that had little left to live for.

But all was not done yet, for she still was,

The last moments of a life wasted, were spent well lived,

Her bosom was my succour, her breathing tears, my wine.

And now I lay here, in my own personal wooden cabin,

As the earth is dug to take me in, thoughts flash across my mind.

The one thing, I lived for, the one thing men die for,

One look at her face is all I want at this moment,

But that is denied to me, but there shall be no despair.

That face, hidden to me, by slender fingers of the Nile,

Is hidden away in grief, at my loss. She that cried for nothing,

She that feared nothing, she that did not as much as bat an eyelid

In the most dreadful and terrifying of times, she is now in tears and all for me.

Me that was but another soldier who threw his life away under guise of glory.

Eternal fame is but passing, pales in company of a woman’s tears.

For it is all that a man yearns for, all his life; to be loved, to be wanted.

He fights to love, kills to live and forgets to remember, all for love.

Wave upon wave of bliss and grief mix freely as the Blue Nile touches the Red sea,

I count the seconds I have of seeing daylight, as not many do exist.

The wooden walls close around me, and my boat rocks as though in waves.

A warm palm runs through me, the deep gash on my chest,

The completion of life, the attainment of bliss, all saints talk about.

I know now, it lies not in the thirsty roots of trees or the hungry bones of man,

It lies in knowing, that the life you lived, the life you loved so much,

Meant more to one that was not you; that someone would throw their existence away

Simply because you were no more. Such wisdom along with pain disappears with her touch.

Armours melt and wounds heal, but breathe I shall no more.

A new body, blessed with her final touch is buried,

The old soul still residing within her, wanting nowhere to go.

A lid is placed over my face, with hers being the last sight.

My timbered home is taken six feet under, where it shall await her.

Not long, I am told, when I shall have company and honour

In the halls of greater fathers. Honour I had killed for.

But that too fades, as does my sight, as I wait to have her with me;

That she gave all that she loved, to be with me as I did,

Has made a life of pillage and murder worth living, even if for its final moments.

Legions may die, allegiances may shift, but we shall be remembered.

While envious hapless men potent only in the tongue may blame me

Of abandoning coronation for carnation, I will have my following.

In the annals of Cupid’s sacred lore, we shall be a golden page.

Bards will sing my tale, not as a great soldier or a brilliant orator,

But a lover, lost in love, separated by war, united in death.

Untitled

Passing through worlds of words,
Whither his destination he knew not,
Yet, over letters and strokes he ponders,
Over promises abandoned and oaths long forgotten.
What once was a torrent, now lay dammed;
What once was his passion, now lay dead,
Crippled, choked and broken beyond recognition.
Psalms sung in euphoric moments had gone mute;
Throttled by fists of steel gloved in myriad hues.


Stories of gods felling demons, retold a million times, a million ways.
“Grampa get to the part where fire fights water!
How did they get fire trucks to the field right on time?”
Thus were born a million tales, with every retelling.
Ten headed demon in one, a daughter’s loving father in another.
Stories in paint, given new shades, long after the brush is dropped.
Saffron and green, the bullets galore, beaching creative bodies ashore.
Verses of God and the Devil mixed freely in days yonder.
And subjects captured by cartoonists instead of the other way around.


All this he thought about, his easel, staring;
Eased on it a canvas, with bloodshed, rife.
The instrument of death the right of his hand held,
Yet was it rightly handled, he never did know.
A creator of words, turned destroyer, Damocles sword on his jugular.
Swords to kill words, to save his livelihood and life too.
With every name and description an offense to one and many,
With newer dragons breathing down his neck he grimaced,
At the flock of “is” and “was” being the only non-offending words on his manuscript.

Titleless Again...

Thus was born a bird, on another moonlit night,
Shapely and clear to the sight.
Bearing you in resemblance, I called her a she;
That I could see you in her, a mirage maybe.
Breaking out of her egg, she bid adieu,
More room for her sweet sisters to follow through.
Taking baby steps she walked, marking her road,
Clouding my vision as she rode.
Elegant was her flight, as was your gait,
It was a sight worth watching all night.
Up into the trees, up amidst the leaves,
I watched as I’d watched you on several eves.
One moment in green, the next in black,
Speed was not something she did lack.
Flying off into the lofty heights, I saw in her,
The stars colouring the night azure.
Up and up she winged, not one to hover,
Nowhere to linger; no, not her, never.
It all would’ve ended well, if not for the witch,
The wicked witch Memory, who’d made a switch.
Turning the compass dial on its head,
Making up, down; and life, dead.
The bird had flown; oh it had flown alright,
But it had not flown up as a kite.
Rather as a river, in spate, all across the heartland.
Leading her sisters to drain the egg leaving it red and raw,
Setting pace for them all to cascade along the jaw.
Flying was dripping, and up was down,
The whole clouded vision had been a delusion.
All reflection of trees and stars, mere phantasm,
The reality forbidden to a weeping Adam.