Senescence

The sagging flesh aches as the slightest of breeze
Nears to strum my skin,
So I flinch at the sight of leaves
Passionately brushing past each other, foreseeing
An impending agony.
As the crammed, fluffy clouds descend
To rest their worn bodies on my shoulder
I plead them to leave mine for I no longer can carry them.
Keeping up my pace with the hands of clock
Which never tires, I am knackered
Knackered enough to be shaded by an eternal exhaustion.
The leaking efficiency of my eyes and brain to communicate
Drips and puts out the embers of elation
Dimly lit.
To quench the thirst , I sip in
Few drops of remembrance , only to agonize
My already sore soul.
From framing the nuances of nature
On a square sheet of canvas, with the most coordinating shades
To cursing my inability to discern
The hue of the sky that plays peek-a-boo
With the voluminous clouds
From summoning the strongest of winds
To stab my supercilious skin
To not being at ease with the most humble zephyr
I’ve come a long way.
From dreading each atom with the wrath of my roar
To leaning against a speckled wall in my den
Longing to be served
I scuffle each day with my own self to decide
Whether to hold the grains of life fleeting from my fist
Or to just let it go.
As senescence sweeps in with audacity
Proclaiming its ascendance over my body
I feel ‘aging’ getting unmasked .

The rise and fall of the sun lose their meanings
For there is nothing to mark the inception or termination of.
Eyeballs rolling between the fathomless ends of sky
Seem to resonate with the incomprehensible
Abundance of hours which gush in.
Long hours of reclination throttles me
Makes me feel crippled, incompetent
And how distasteful it is to witness
The process of your own wilting.
I see the moon waning, thinning every day
Even the thinnest crescent
And I try to hold together the constellation
Of stars, connecting each of them
But fail
For I see the stars falling one by one too
People murmuring wishes into it
Not knowing how much the ‘ shooting star ‘ had wished
To stay in its constellation forever.
Rubbing the infant skin of a newly arrived
I sense the amalgamation of the star dust
Which had come off a star
That fell out from my constellation last night
While I see my wrinkles slowly crumbling back
To gleaming star dust
Bit by bit
Grain by grain
Everyday.
As I fantasize the springtide
My pragmatic mind tells me that in life
It’s winter that follows spring
And I know I set about on a linear path
For my journey
So there is no getting back.
Trembling in the biting wind
Every passing second
I just wait to succumb under the doleful winter sky.

Can poems written to be won, ever win?

As I scan through my Instagram feed
I come across posts bartering poems for shoutouts.
They read, “ The best entry shall receive a shoutout from our side”.
But I want to know, “ Can poems written to be won, ever win? “
For when I write, I write to be relieved
Of the obstinate gibber stone that squats
On my chest for long
I write to commune with my
Caged canary’s mellifluous but ignored song.
When the world sleeps and I
Wake up to suffer, I hold the pen
I hold the pen to let the words
Strangulating my diaphragm meander
Onto the paper, through the nib
As the pen wriggles on the sheet,
I hear a lullaby being crooned that rocks me to sleep.
They say, you need to be a poetry first
To scribble one.
But I doubt, am too plain
A poetry to be adored.
Am not always the dripping beauty
Of blossoms of mahogany in a spring
Or the gratification that a
Doting company is expected to bring.
You might not find me in the
Shades of smudged colours on chapped lips
Stenching of unfaithful men
Cursing, yet pleading and yelling for fidelity
Or lost between convoluted neurons
Trying to figure out why my mind
Doesn’t let sunshine to slither in.
Most of the time I’m just the rhythm
Of the clinking of my mother’s bangles
Or the abiding tears which refuse to be held back
When I embrace her, for its been long
Since she was last held.
Or may be I am the dust laden
Forgotten, abandoned cardboard box
And the reclusive, forlorn one
Out of a pair of socks.
I don’t know, whether being drenched
In the orange light of the morning sky
And smiling to let go of statements
That I know are a lie
Or repeatedly reminiscing the hurdles
That I’ve so gracefully overcome, to tell myself
That I am capable to be loved, by not you
Not them, but my own self,
Matter to you or not
But they mean the world to me
And I write only on things
That matter to me.
And I feel that my words easily
Carve their way out to the farthest corners
Of the hearts and souls of people and even writers
For I’ve heard that poets and poetesses
Have naked souls.
But I have never written to win
For I don’t know what it takes
For a poem to win.
And I want to know, “ Can poems written to be won, ever win? “

I Wish

When you grieve for the waning moon
I wish, I could allure you with the galaxy of stars
Till the full moon day
And drench you in the song of hope
Loud enough, that you don’t hear
What others say.

When I dread seeing the sun setting
I wish, you could tell me
That it sets to rise the next morning
And clasp my cold hands
With your warm ones
To succour me to pull through the appalling evening.

When disquietude strangles you
And your eyelids oscillate between uncertainties
As you crave for slumber to creep
I wish I could croon a lullaby
Praying from the core of my heart
That could possibly rock you to sleep.

When you see the stone not cracking
Despite multiple strikes
And I bogging down with despair
I wish you could caress my aching body
Stoking the dying fire of patience
And brace me for the little more pain that I have to bear.

When I sense the lump in your throat growing
Your vision getting blurred by the film of tears
While you breathe unusually deep
I wish I could give you enough warmth
So that your melancholies meander out
And tell you that you will not be called weak if you weep.

When I stand wide eyed
Clad in the cloak of darkness
Frantically searching for light
I wish you could take it off
And pull me out with zest
To be soaked in the abundance of sunlight.

When you are drained out of verve
Feeling forsaken and detested
Thinking that you should try no more
I wish I could inoculate hope drop by drop every day
Loving you enough, shaking you back into life
And tell you that there still are people you need to live for.

In the cosmos, like debris and rubbles
Notwithstanding our identities
If we could stand for each other
May be
We could be a lot happier.

Cerebral Jaunts

Leafing through the erudite sheets
Blissfully sniffing biblichor
Tempted to relish in the stupor
Pint by pint I quaff the printed liquor.
Leaping into a different world
An eerie road I stride
Sometimes as a delinquent lass
Sometimes as an evasive bride.
Gulping potions of passion
Daring to face the wrath of dragon
How astute it feels
To hurl at kins the literary jargon!
Empathy runs in the veins
Tears often cascade down the cheeks
Involuntary grins deck up the face
Heart prompts before the protagonist speaks.
Certain enticing pages
Shackle the responsive brain
Failing to get over them
I get back to them again and again.
And how it feels to highlight phrases
And utter them with the needed style
Letting each word seep through skin
Making them sacred dogmas for a while.
Losing bookmarks in the mean
Failing to resist dog earing pages
Reading them for the umpteenth time
I can’t stop cribbing over the wrinkles in stages.

It is a relaxing jaunt
A jaunt from forwards to epilogues
Carrying just that one motive
To squeeze every drop of expressions and dialogues.
And how to forget the pleasure
Of counting the pages left
As the pages dwindle towards the end
The heart weeps in the sorrow of being left bereft.
‘She could have stayed stronger
Or he could have acted smarter’
These pop ups never fail to urge
To reach and question the author.
And scanning through the last leaf
Staring at the back cover
Rejoicing the end of a tale
It’s time to drown in the hangover.
Awashed in mystic indulgence
Calmness fondles my mind
Heart races to find out
Whether ‘twas a journey or an elixir I just left behind.
After every tireless voyage
I become more supple like clay
Permissible to be subtly moulded
In the way the wordsmith does say.
After adding a book to the pile
I find a newer version of mine
With a different set of verses to use
And my visage disgorging a different shine.
So I have vowed to devote my every second
To quench my silly soul’s greed
Not of money or of land
But of enough books to read!