Childhood Skids

The days are still young,

The nights still basking in their heat,

The Sun is growing old

And so grows this Earth.

Youth shines in the Spring laden leaves

Youth shines in the written words

Whose ink has dried long ago

Youth shines in the sunset Moon

Youth shines in the clouds driving the night sky dark

Youth shines in the storm borne winds

Youth shines in the pups’ little skittish yawns

And youth shines in the stars’ still younger hearts.

But not even youth is evergreen.

It is leaving slowly,

It is a stealthy thief.

But I challenge the lines I wrote above,

I say, youth never really leaves.

Youth is there when I watch a dry leaf fall

Youth is there when I sip into the immortality

Written down on white paper

Youth is there when I catch the Moon bathing in evening sun

Youth is there when i stand under the dark of the night

Youth is there when I fly in the storm bearing winds

Youth is there when I see the pups’ careless content

Youth is there when the stars bind me with their hearts.

And youth is there when I skid to a fall

And stand up wondering why.

Youth is there when I laugh hysterically

And laugh still some more.

As I write this I am still in my youth

I would grow old and would

Wish one day I hadn’t

That day I would come and sit

And read my own young gibberish words. 

The Kite On The String

Now, the weather was much clearer

Than I could expect it to be.

When I slid the cold glass open

The sky, much more ashen than it could be grey,

Poured down in drizzles,

But it was the wind: drenched at first

And then let loose into a sinister world.

The leaves are just too small enough

For little black birds to nestle;

But at times they seemed to croon

And flap their way to find a warmer refuse -

One that is dark, one that is half in the light.

The wind had business, quite important to attain;

A broken kite was not reported to be seen,

Monsoon, as untimely as it can be,

Gave it one more reason to be free -

It was flying again, fixed to its glass string.

What the eyes see, the pen only hears,

The ink can soak in, and it will never be wet enough.

Tale As Old As Time

Now, what amount of poetic expertise

Would be ample enough - I do not know.

I know, some things are stirring in the distance -

A butterfly and a hundred such crows.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

I can hear the saudade,

Slowly weaving an unknown tune.

The strings are stretched to the horizon

Where the distant stars fret over the sky.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

With every little breath, a little color

And a little scent is added to the picture

Lying not far but not really very close;

It is a mystery soaked in petrichor.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

The warm blood likes it a little cold -

The abridged paranoia of an unborn storm,

The illustrated melancholy of the still clean clouds,

The synesthetic anxiety of the unionised skies,

The corrosive mania of the nearly condensed vapor -

And all that is pure but far too evil.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has a tale to tell.

It is enigmatic, but restrained to its core,

It crawls across the skin and it lies still still.

Too rich in volume, it takes up all the space

Inside and out - a regardless animation.

Listen to the wind, and listen closely,

The wind has told its tale.

Odd Oddities

Time is not a tale, not a written story,

It is a flow in a river, a current in a sea.

Time has no branches, no trunk with a bark,

It is vaster than Yggdrasil, and as deep as the Earth.

Time does not listen, does not also see,

It is within the senses, count them more or just six.

Time is a collage, a puzzle in a maze,

It is quieter than a facade, glittering in a snake.

Time is a glimpse, a dank copper plate,

It is brighter than history, for history is a dream.

Listless In The Sun

The unkindest of the six, they say.

And so Winter leaves

Leaving misty evenings in its wake.

Thick blankets now tucked back

Into their early yearly boxes.

The Sun is now late to set,

But its helium core still burning hot

- or hotter still.

And so Winter leaves

Leaving sweaty armpits in its wake.

The unkindest of the six, and it will always be.