of a bygone era in Nepal

Of their time, the goal was set by dissident idealism
Cold air inside the darkness, makeshift home,
The winter birds in their cold cages,
Peering out at bare naked trees of ashen,
Ground level feeding under neon strobe
Where filled Maruthi taxis and fancy dress suits jingle
Turnstile iciness against the ancient land of Himalayas.

This is where children dream,
dirt and cardboard
Cushioning their hunger with cold and fierce eyes,
Holding them close, kissing their thinning red lips,
And the concrete humming low, echoing,
Hungry beasts marching toward their grief
Like a serenade of giants rising out of the fiery ash

They rise not for the hordes of sleep-tattered children,
They rise for the noise made of coldness, their heated
Hands wrapped in ice with the reaping of the unkind
Upon their breath. They’ll seek the cultivators of gloom,
The progenitors of war and the ravenous well-to-do
So there might be relief for the misery-born folds
Sleeping near death’s ragged claws.
Soon the beasts of winter will clap their fury
From end to end of the piercing streets
With only the names of greed upon their lips.

Alas

Weeping, wounded to the core
I go down the street
Puzzled, without solution
With the sadness of Floretino
And Majnun.

Rethinking
Infinite impossibilities
With the rhythm of a clock

Resolved

to watch carefully
how a person
drawn so near
could retreat
to an unattainable distance

Our last chance

If we do not act now
we will never again be able to find freedom's favour
to fill the emptiness surrounding us

if we do not act now
we will never be able to kiss again, or make love
or do any of the things that testify to our being free

we will end up puking flattery and gossip,
trembling our days away in submission, compromise and fear
worrying about what the neighbours are doing
living like squealing mice

venture out to night's supermarket only to find food
swarming damp dark gutters
in the deep dungeons
where our soul is locked up

Afternoon blue

fading into
shifting greys of
dusk

coming to 'the end, in journey with Her

Wandering had seduced naive me with her stunning looks and remarkable features, taken me to explore depths I had never known of;taken my had and taken me across the seas through the arid plains between the hills to beautiful valleys and shown me the summits and the dark dangerous depth that lies ahead below the snow capped peaks.

How I never sow the thorns in her rose and never realised that I was bewitched by the devil's daughter. Unbeknownst to me I had wandered and entered the shrine where millions had passed on through never knowing that I am but a lone voyager who travelled with eyes and ears closed.

I was worshipping at her alter to her beauty till my last breath had passed and I was no more; as I had known myself.

and I heard these words

O Pilgrims, thou art where, thou art where?
The Beloved is neigh, come hither, come hither.
Thy beloved is thy neighbor, behind the wall
Lost in the desert, you are seeking and you fall;
If that lovely faceless face you once see
Pilgrim and shrine and house you know are all thee.
From house to house, you sought for proof
Yet never ascended up to the roof.
If it is the house of soul you seek
In the mirror see the face that’s meek.
If you’ve been to the garden, where is your bunch?
And where your soulful pearl if at sea you lunch.
With all this pain where is your gain?
The only veil, yourself, remain.
Hidden treasure chest, buried in soil
Why let dark clouds full moon spoil?
King of the World, to you will show
Magical shapes, in spirit you grow.

dead man waiting: a Tragedy

my father passed away on Saturday, or probably on Sunday.
I'm not sure as I was not there.
But he was cremated for sure on Monday.
father was waiting for a long time after his death.
He wouldn't have allowed it if he was alive.
after his end he wanted it to be 'the end' as quickly as possible rather than rotting around & stipulated in his last wish to be cremated strictly within 12 hours.
he should have known better for a self taught man who grew up on the road that your wishes are seldom fulfilled in real world, and, to expect them to be satisfied when your at nether world would just be too much of an asking.
The delay was owing to the confusion over his last place of rest.
he had planned well ahead and done the necessary to own a six feet after his death in the cemetery nearby home.
it was uncharacteristically far sighted for a man whose profession was to sell lands but never managed to own an inch for himself.
Anyway, everybody else who had an influence over his dead body wanted him to be buried in Colombo -7, where the posh were living and well to do were buried.
the necessary clearance were hard to come by as it was a weekend.
and the municipal authorities were determined not to give in even an inch to nobody; certainly not after they are dead death.
due to all this, the dead man, lying innocently without the uncertainty that 'all would be fine', with a smile in his face, sleeping his last sleep at the mortuary in the government hospital, grew to become a sort of a small problem.
and the problem was portrayed out of proportion by the relatives who found great concern for the man after his death; the honour of the family itself apparently was at stake now.
when i got to hear about dead man waiting, i realized there is not an ending of problems even after death.
hwat a Tragedy the life is.

On reading

It is said reading is the gate of great learning.
Whenever you go to a house, fist you go I thorough the gate.
Therefore the gate is a sign that you have reached the house. Going through this gate, you enter the house and meet with the host.
Reading is the gate to attainment of learning and understanding of reality. Therefore, reading is the gate, not the house. When you see the gate, do not think it is the house. You have to go through the gate to get to the house, which is inside, behind it.
Since reading is a gate, when you read books do not mistake it with understanding. This misconception has made many people remain ignorant of the reality no matter how much they study or how many words they know...

A Question between our breath; can LOVE SURVIVE a relationSHIP?

While having a late evening walk with eyes begging for a sight, a remarkable generosity of nature blessed my poor eyes.
Confirming to typical tropical conditions the pre-monsoon late evening showers arrived at a distance.
But before the gloom, dark and the thunder afar arrived across the plains, there was this ineffable beauty of a double rainbow, fourteen layers of colors on top of each other, across the horizon.
Empty though my stomach was, my mind filled with the question, Can love survive a relationship?
It occurred to me by sheer chance that doesn't the question amount to asking whether a rainbow can survive a rain. The signs of one in its fathomless interminable beauty resulting in much needed refreshing rain though eventually will erase the beauty that is a rainbow, undoubtedly follows natures command for needed fertility. To know that, is to know the reality in its innumerable successive manifestations, is to know the 'truth of the situation' as 'it' unfolds between our breath.

(To A_i_y)
As your delicate finger tips
Strums the strings of
the Veena…
…cries from supple sorrow
In a desolate dark blue sky
…………far away
Shines a lonesome star
Time to time
Heart desires
Anticipates
Hopes

Infertile barren earth
Yearns fresh
Flowing
Springs

Time to time
Heart ruffles
Longs for
Everlasting comfort

In a bush full of thorns
Blossoms and dangles a flower

U are
The dark dash of pain
The quenches my heart
(The Veena)

You may not know
How the strings
May yearn for the touch of your delicateness;
But the dry arid letters
Typed full of silly typeface
Must be menacingly familiar to you
Fromn the outset
My initial
I, my name, me
Many a times
Must have bothered sensitive emotionality
Through your laptop screen
As you ignore me politely
Laughing from within at my irrationality
When you read this stupidity
I am overwhelmed with your evasive embrace
And, my heart filled with shame
Delete move to recycle bin…

Of their time, the goal was set by dissident idealism
Cold air inside the darkness, makeshift home,
The winter birds in their towering cage,
Peering out at bare naked trees of ashen,
Ground level feeding under neon strobe
Where filled Maruthi taxis and fancy dress suits jingle
Turnstile iciness against the ancient land of Himalayas.

This is where children dream, dirt and cardboard
Cushioning their hunger with cold and fierce eyes,
Holding them close, kissing their thinning red lips,
And the concrete humming low, echoing,
Hungry beasts marching toward their grief
Like a serenade of giants rising out of the fiery ash;
Marx, Lenin and Mao reaching up in fury
With bright redness, thunder, and lightning.

They rise not for the hordes of sleep-tattered children,
They rise for the noise made of coldness, their heated
Hands wrapped in lava with the reaping of the unkind
Upon their breath. They’ll seek the cultivators of gloom,
The progenitors of war and the ravenous well-to-do
So there might be relief for the misery-born folds
Sleeping near death’s ragged claws.
Soon the beasts of winter will clap their fury
From end to end of the piercing streets
With only the names of greed upon their lips.