Umraan da saathi?

Me, not me...

Sometimes,
I am the river
lapping at the banks of silent veins
I also carry some fragrant flowers
that surprise me when their petals dance
and leave me strung on mellow strains
 
Sometimes
I am the rage
of leaping flames and a monster’s ire
that billows & bawls out of my thousand strands
When each cell of me is stung and wounded
and my words roll out like balls of fire.
 
Sometimes
I am the icy dew
That freezes over and forgets to thaw
When throats lump up and eyes sting,
and my words roam abandoned roads,
my breath begins to punch and gnaw.
 
Sometimes
I am the breeze
That wears all seasons, hues, and smells,
I surrender to every moon and sun,
each pore of me changes face  
and each grain of me brings new tales to tell.
 
Sometimes
I am the earth
I love, pray and deliver tree, desert, sea, and mountain
and pluck smiles to sew the torn-up skies
Sometimes I parch, shudder or shrink in fear
But soon I forget and throw my arms to the rain…

Sometimes
I am the tree,
I breed roots and wings together
I find my feet in the heart of the earth
and stick my head out to the skies
and meld into the moods of all weathers.

Sometimes
I am these
more
or somewhat less
and
sometimes…
some times….
I am
None.

Bheeni Bheeni Bhor.... Gulzar/RDB/Asha - that kind of trio

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xBSURSU34BQ

When my words were alive

They would dribble from the skies
like the dew that visits unseen
coiled around a twig of a dream,
they would swing from song to song
of breeze, birds, and streams.

And like rays of a freshly-born sun
they would dart into the arms
of a knowing wait;
and sliding along my bones,
wading through webs & waves of blood
they would cut a road through to me.

Then in some easy swivel of a wand
magic would pour over their pores.
and bathed, burnished and baptized
they'd lash against wilted shores
And soon
the paper would abandon its barren white
and grow stories and songs in its throes..

Words,
when they had the will of my God
found their own life
and breath
without me.

Painting courtesy: cleanfiction.blogspot.com

Because words don't speak, does not mean we don't feel...

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=dheere+dheere+machal&search_type=&aq=5sx&oq=dheere+dheer+

What's cooking

Two poems
on the stove,
half done
and in the throes
of slow simmer
and sometimes…
boiling over
in weary wait
for four herbs and seven spices
of a forgotten faith;
and a pinch of fresh salt
of frozen eyes,
and a feathery pause,
till the moon arrives…

The moon,
says the book,
best be cut right
in a perfect half;
baked to gleaming gold,
and garnished with a star-crossed night.
And then, says Chef,
deep-fry a dream
in the grease called time
add a pinch of desire,
and sauté on full blaze
with a long-soaked prayer.

And then go pluck some rays
from the rapid rising sun
to lace the cup of dew
which the dark saved for the dawn;

And this blend,
says the book,
will soon find its flow
to fulfill the two lone poems,
simmering and half done,
waiting on the stove…

Lull

Groundless
we stand,
like the wind
that hangs
locked in the womb
of an unknown love.
Like the wind
we hang
groundless,
skyless,
frosted in transit
moving nowhere
waiting for the storm
waiting for the storm….
so that the road appears….