Re-visiting my blog

Now when I’ve re-stepped into this blog after an eon’s gap, do I realize that am in the mid of a desert that once was not so deserted. There’s plenty amount of water passed under the bridge of my life ever since, for better, thankfully. There’s a thick layer of rust accumulated over my thinking brain and my writing pen though. For now I do intend to update this space more regularly by trying not to let go off ideas without giving them some kind of a shape here, the way I used to treat them in a distant past. The forms and shapes of the ideas may not be as decent as one or two of my previous writing efforts were, I’d still like them here for something is better than not writing at all.

Hope for an update on this blog very soon.

 

 

Water Cycles

Like that of nature, there is a human emotional water cycle going on in sensitive beings. There are wells within chests that swell upon digging – the deeper the stimulus the more the water awash the eyes. There are sighs that form the rainclouds. Rains are blessings but emotional floodings wreck havoc at times.

If the cracks

Left in the trap doors

Of the dungeon of your being

Are punitive enticements –

Fanning your crave

To be out there in the open –

Then you sure make a tryst

Of a heart, letting the rays

Of a love feel their way in.

The larger scheme to contain

Thus, is all vain.

We had nothing much

Between us,

Except for a seed,

Soiled deep in our chests

It never grew into a shade.

In the universal drought

Of light, the weather took lives

To change.

 

We have nothing much

Between us

Except for a fruit

We are never meant to taste.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cast.

Fill. Condensed of a sound. Reacting to a cosmos. Like crashing bound. Rotate. Circle. Crash. Lift. Back. Slow, softly, cross over, walk over the high bridge, where falling in to cold drops a part of the gossamer or substance. Leading trail. Leaving no trace. Dips in, tender. Arise, floating. Above seeks a sign.

In Prayers

 

 

Namaz is maqbool poetry;

the traits of a considerate Allah

have somehow stalled to trickle

 

to a heart that wouldn’t listen

to the poems I observe

in the night long vigils.

 

Yet when I stand before the Lord

or when I prostrate,

an image gets vivid,

adding to the metaphor,

so much so

to be the theme of the poem.