The Innocent Dance of N

Señorita, the wonders of artistic wisdom,
Painting her rainbow smiles to exhilarate
Pens performing ceremonial calligraphy,
She catches glimpses of a magical fortune,
To a beautiful tomorrow that she sculpts,
And a relaxing warmth that she keeps close,
Hugging her own adorable days into a portrait,
Still, even today, I see her innocent dance.

Emotional Voice in the East

As an emotional being holding onto a pen,
I might transcribe earthquakes to show
My inner battles against the conflicts of Man,
Or dig deeper and release waters of life
To resurrect many unnamed forlorn souls,
An Eastern voice within starts to resonate.

Today is for Tomorrow

Time’s quality assurance has passed
To never show an identical face,
And as ancient steps continue to rise,
Our fortune we start to embrace.

A night’s cloud may shed a tear,
The moon flooding the Spanish Arch,
Elements of nature to forever amaze
The young souls in their continued march.

I have learnt and I have taught,
The pen clicks to tick the clocks,
At least five years and maybe ten,
A gap to mind as the tick tocks.

In the coming days, in the coming weeks,
Angelic beings descend from our sky,
To foretell the beginning of a lovely date,
But for now, on this couch, I sluggishly lie.

Peaceful Announcement

Americans and Russians were once in alliance,
Found themselves passionately in defiance,
Once again no-man’s land is a tick-tock clock,
Airstrikes and gunshots to defile the flock,
Soldiers volunteering to follow orders,
Abandoning humanity and crossing borders,
They publicly expressed their well-thought strategy,
Not an invasion but an intricate remedy,
A mixture of burning spices for the skin,
To teach them a lesson – oh friends and kin,
I break internally, and externally I detest
The mention of war every bit of me in protest,
You see, I have seen the world,
East and West, warm and cold,
Never have I ever come across
Happiness being built on loss,
Rather, peace and harmony blossom many smiles,
And if you don’t understand, just walk few miles,
You will learn the nature of people
Is to share dreams with other people,
And never have I learnt a thing or two
About ethnic cleansing, the terrorising flu,
Contaminating air, rivers, and politicians,
Corrupting the trans-national corporations,
Feeding wars and starving mothers,
Drowning kids and hanging fathers,
Some sort of a deathmatch game,
As if guns and joysticks are the same,
Listen and take heed ladies and gentlemen,
And appreciate the voluntary service of this pen.

Writers’ Society

Is this the beach where
The sun-kissed air form
A sand to walk on and where
The eyes fish the horizon
From afar, yet closer
Than the writer: that’s one,
And two, you, whom made
The whispering dance
Melodic – a ritual for the ears
To invite a third: the listener,
Sit beside me to sing a poetic
Ode, but back to number two
Since the circumference
Of this circle is two times radius
Times pi. One. Two. Three. Four.
Five times two-pi: around thirty one,
Such is the glamour of
Writers’ circle – no, spherical:
A volumetric evolution,
A colourful blueprint of
The beach ball, an old kid’s
Heaven. Yours and mine,
But is this truly the beach where
The sun-kissed earth form
A rock to climb on and where
The eyes fish the clouds
From afar, yet closer
Than the timer: that’s it! Pens down!

Won’t Write Anymore

The tip of my pencil used to break
And I would sharpen it,
The ink of my pen used to dry out
And I would replace it,
The lined sheet of paper used to fill out
And I would grab some more,
But not today,
Not anymore,
Today –
The pencil is sharp,
The ink is not dry,
The lined paper is blank,
But –
Never will I scribble –
A letter,
Or a word,
Or even a sentence,
Or a mind’s paragraph,
Or a heart’s essay,
No,
Never,
The pencil is still sharp,
The ink is still not dry,
The lined paper is still blank.