Story of a Poem

Old man loved poems 
was no secret, that he used to tell
everyone in pomp; was
what I didnt know.
He was all rhyme and rhythm,
a whisper now and a 
bellow's hiss, all in one and 
all too soon.
The lady, but preferred stories,
long and short ones,
with or without middle or ends, while
"once upon a time" often used to ring a bell.
Poetry is gone, mostly unread and hardly heard.
Only story remains and often cries in memory of
those verses unsaid and unread.
Thats all I now have to say, of 
a book thats half read which
no longer has an end that says
then they lived happily ever after...



Published in the online poetry journal High On Poems on 8 Sep 2015.

The Art Of Waiting...

Where Ghosts Still Lurk

Nothing just leaves
Without the residues.
Limbs cut off, leave
Phantom ones;
Itchy, scratchy ghosts of 
Those cleaved off an unsuspecting trunk.

In sleepless nights,
We feel for the ring,
In a finger crossed out in red
From a hand that long left the clasp.
Sense the sweetness of supple lips
Which no longer seek yours for a kiss.

When crows, a murder of them
Caw caw in delirious pitches
In a frantic phantom urge, still
Sneak in and nuzzle into a 
Familiar warmth, a ghost now left

Phantom limbs
Phantom pains
Nothing stays
Nothing just leaves..



Came in High On Poems on 1st may, 2015.

No Mercy

Sever my wings
don't clip them anymore.
Why a lame blindfold, but
gouge them, so I see no more.
Dont ever gag, instead
pull the tongue out.
Have no mercy 'cos
I have none for you
and when you do,
burn me , not my effigy.

Pain..

They say, pain
now is the only saving grace and
should actually be upbeat.
Shows, its not dead yet.
And if its dead?
Oh, we need to cut it off,
even if it is your dad's leg.
The same one, made his poly
lift the cup, eons ago in bare foot.
The same one, he kicked me with
on the day I snaked my way home
head high in the blue clouds.
The same one, but a decayed root
that may pull the tree down
anytime now and the shade it gives too.
Pain, of course is the saving grace and
say grace, its not dead yet.
I now beam when he writhes
cos I know now, its not gone yet.
He may still limp through and 
dust those sepias up himself, of
him holding the cup aloft.
This pain I feel now shows
my heart is not shut
completely on him and 
I dont really bother
even if he kicks me again.  

Estas Tonne..

I love Estas Tonne..:)
The Meditative demeanor, the incense stick in his guitar, the soul searching notes his long slender fingers conjure and the music his guitar plays. Ooohh, its so divine an experience listening to the magic he plays. One more on the rather lengthy ream of bucket list now; to hear him play from close quarters, to melt in those ethereal hymns and at the end of it all, if still regain the composure; to click and capture the Jesus like face..
Its Bliss of the purest kind..:)

Many, One and None

Shot from Pepper House, an art  residency at Fort Kochi.