POEMS: Presently Old, Déjà vu, Singled Out, The World of Forgetfulness, Harvesters, One Big Sport & My Friend


The bud’s blossom is past glossy,
Time passing has folded its shiver.
Age wither and dry up the rosy
In certain preparation for shivah.

The past left without all of its,
As the present live any place else.
And now, always alone like this;
How then can the old ever bless?

Dryness of thirst spoke its waste
As all bare feet thorns had hurt.
Peacefully alone, wait for fate
With memories in a bodily hut.

When time has consumed its old
As water passes under the bridge;
This route for all, floods any hold
And water must pass under the bridge.


They always return like it’s shown,
Somehow better, on their very own.

When they were nothing, they knew.
And as they were begotten, they threw.

Just like such was predestined,
Man’s priorities shifts ascertained.

It was seen and again it will be,
Like again repeats all tides at sea.

They’ve always forgotten man feeds
Just like water kills and still it breeds.


Found out amidst the threshing stones,
Sort out of the cupboard of bones.
Where the situation was doctored
Fell out that one not to be mastered.

Revenge consumes like any fire
And depends on sentimental air.
An action sought to set any aside
Is vengeful if reason and sense coincide.

When anybody is singled out
The stone-casters dance about,
Exposing ignorance and malice;
Ironically with the drummer’s piece.


Amazing how easily we forgot
The cold as soon as it’s again hot,
Or the raw feel of our thirst
As soon as we had water first.

Pain, only as long as it linger;
Ends when joy points a finger.
The many promises we had sworn
Are as soon not again our own.

The personal stories we told
Long before we got this old,
Or plans we drew up and made
Before we realized what we said.

The friendship’s wasted hugs
As quickly, is all stale and bugs.
That shoulder we so cried on
We now see and as quickly run.

Those hands that shook ours
We now reach out to from towers,
As soon as we forgot again;
It’s dry, but again it will rain.


Whistling by the lined woody pine;
The only one who doesn’t see me mad.
I finally see that which all this time
Had been there, glad to see me sad.

Constant change can make it possible
For my senses’ to see and finally hear,
The breath and living of man’s trouble;
Like the sounds of reason ever there.

Bodily quests had blunted all the men;
Had made our sharp seasons cut less.
And we reap when we sow and then
Make worldly riches more aimless.


How easily the same are the different,
The serious life trends and fun learnt.
Common norms evolve, made as nurtured;
Incorporated as accepted and featured.

The giant loom that is our society
Is loomed with its pretence of piety.
A course is unset as it is assumed,
Thus the winner is just only presumed.

In their sameness we see a shortcoming;
Of macro life as against the sporting.
Like we may never ever put to its sort,
We find life is one big contact sport.


Again and again it’s replayed,
Assistance not even repaid.
Acquaintance that made an Us,
Not maintained with new status.

But I heard your smile
Come across another mile.
I saw your heart and felt
Your mind like mine, melt.

I’m in harmony with you
And I perceive this as true.
You’re my friend come pain,
Or still over and over again.