Song of Hope

We sang,
The songs of sadness,
The songs of despondency
A lot as yet!
And we dipped our tarnished time
In our unhappy thoughts!

So useless were those thoughts,
Those unnecessary waverings,
That would only help us to have
Gray hairs and wrinkles on faces!

Now let’s think about happiness
And independence
For the remaining little time!

Preachers visited us
During our irresolute pasts
And many philosophers accompanied.
With a dangerously unanimous resonance
Everyone echoed,
The same thing,
“Life is Perishable”!

These philosophers immersed us
Into desolation,
With their repeated verses,
“Happiness, music and even arts
Are subject to decay”!

Call them fools!
Be happy first
In the reflection of your cherished life!

Be proud of being a human!
A special power lies behind
Every existence
And every life!

Be happy in every phase of life!
Find pleasure,
When a new leaflet takes it birth,
When the morning birds
Sing with the virgin wind,
When the morning mists
Colour the environs, and
When rainbows paint the sky
With colourful symphony.

Be happy in humanness,
In its various emotions,
In angry, in peace,
In jealousy
And in fakery
Because everything is yours!

Be liberated!
Take out the attire of independence
That is kept within yourself
And show off!
Enjoy the beauty of independence!

Be a dreamer sometimes!
Dream immortality!
Life has to flower in you
In its full bloom!
And the beauty of life as well!

My New Poem

Would it pave a new path for me?
Would it be funny, or agonized?
Would it rhyme all the way till end?
Would it be a harvest of my dreams?

I was in grief after finishing the elegy tower,
And was dreamy after the princess’s birthday.
The exam poem made my mind nostalgic,
And the mystery island made it horror-struck.

The lover girl made me so proud, like a master,
As it rhymed from head to toe, though with mistakes.
The rhyming mystery girl made me to boast around,
As it mentioned my friend’s love adventures.

When would the next appear, as in a true flow?
Not with the pretensions, as I am doing now.
Would it be something fallacious, or romantic?
Let it come soon, waiting to see its triumph.

Isolation

Isolation,
With its clinching cold fingers
Clench your heart as not to move
Like a classic fairy tale bee,
Caught in a fictitious spider’s net.

Isolation,
Is like the suffering under a tyrant,
A blend of monotony and inhibition,
Some sort of separation, hurtful, and,
A barrier that blocks your maturity.

A college classroom,
An ordinary one that is set in a peaceful young ambiance,
Where politics smells and flirtatious comments are flown.
A noisy noon after the lunch, fill with gibbering chitchats,
With frivolous teenage songs and with puppy romances.
Amidst these playful parties, one is disinterested, sits apart
Brooding on shattered dreams, hoping for the timer to ring,
Isolated one, it could be you, she, him or me.



Back to your home,
Gazing outside, through your own that special window,
Right there in your own room, with a melancholy mood.
Speaks yourself, smiles alone, and making fanciful stories.
Find ease in thoughts or in virtual journeys through books,
Sensing soliloquies, making sickly strategies like a maniac.
Sing alone, tease yourself and rethinking your own past,
Isolated one, you, but it could be she, him or me.



The pony-tailed girl,
I know her, I think she too knows, but not a familiar one,
The girl, who has silky sort of hair and white sneakers,
With a pair of vanity specs and appealing attire in style.
A jolly type, not my kind, with plentiful admirers around.
She has not seen me among her beaus, as I am a shy one,
Often, I have to pretend as if I am in some grave thoughts.
Isolated one, I am, but it could be you, she or him.

An Island Mystery

Of the several known
Mystery lyrics, which
I had heard and learned a few,
Allan Poe with his rhythmic
Rhymes and
Flannan Isle of Gibson
Are topped.

Here is my story,
Set in a peaceful island village
Surrounded by some discoloured
Fuming waters, foul smelled,
To which the only inward way was
A silver-tanned rusted bridge, iron made,
And both the lightest footsteps, and
The jumbo treads alike had turned
It into violent shakes with
Crackling sounds.



After passing this wayward bridge
I drove my bike further
Through a shattered way
With gutters and all,
As directed by my artist friend
Who dwells somewhere
In one of those
Rustic gloomy ghostly homes
Made by time-eaten
Bricks and clay.

As I moved forward
In those shadow cast evening
With my curious mind
In search of a hermit's house
Where my thoughtful friend resides,
The darkened broken path became
More and more damp-like, and
The greenish fusty trees began to wore
Some puzzling smell and growing dark as well.

In the end of all,
When I reached his dwelling place,
Set in an enclosure
Made of time-worn
Degenerated bricks covered by terracotta,
Dipped in a smell of ancientness,
By throwing open its wooden cave-like door,
Partly disintegrated,
I stepped into the courtyard
Dense with plantains and coco palms,
And with stinking smell of snakes.
From the old perishing house
My friend appeared
By opening an ancient door, about to decay
With his usual hearty smile
And with flashing eyes.



Time ran swiftly
In his closed antique room
Where we discussed the popular things,
As well as the heartfelt tales,
The politics, cinema and literature,
And some of our genuine experiences.
In between this, what I missed to notice
Was a touch of eerie air, that
Made his dwelling place a little bit congested.
The creepy air, and the darkness grown
Together made me to ask
About his experiences with ghosts
And unknown spirits in his
Dreadful dreary den.
His answer made me to shock
As he mentioned certain queer experiences
With an invisible thing, that
Beat him occasionally,
During sleeps or his busy
Writing schedule.

Let me tell you first,
These creepy damned things,
Called ghosts and spirits
Had never made an appearance
In front of me before,
As I have a strong distaste for both.

Soon, I heard a voice,
Rather thump like one, and with a start
When I looked at him, what I saw was
His gleaming glossy eyes, and he said
In a pensive voice,
'You know the old mango tree near?
Where it had happened, that cold blood murder
Of a pregnant girl, Ah! who was
A little comely girl.'

With no delay
And with no further telling of tales,
I took my leave
By grabbing my soaked cap, and
While running out I noticed
His meditative dubious eyes,
Now covered by a pair of specs.
I ran through the open courtyard,
Now wet due to the drizzling rain,
By tramping the weeds and plants
Under my quivering feet,
Towards the closed cave-like door
Of the outer wall, where
I had stopped my sidekick,
My sincere motorbike.

Now at a distance,
After drove my bike through
The similar way,
I looked back with
My eyes protruded, and I saw
In the night,
That old ghostly figure of house,
Stands, by emitting an air of eeriness
And with its genuine touch of ancientness.

A Fine Medley of Poetry

Some sudden temptations are freaky,
Those occasionally make me to write
Like a genuine rush of hopping thoughts
Or like the actualization of dream wishes.
Sometimes I wrote, rhythmically, as a flow,
And at times like a knotted string of words.
But whenever longing for a gush of outpouring,
What I get is the mimicking of known lines.
Sometimes it creates, with unusual clarity
Certain unknown coinages from subconscious
Like a compilation of speckled oval pebbles
Piled up on a blissful shore of waving thoughts.
What thing makes you touched, whatever be
Process them on a pure sheet of white paper
With the genuine tint of heart’s feelings, and
What you get is called ‘a fine medley of poetry’!