Random rumination of a scribbling poet

Can I ever express?

Can I ever say?

murmurs the inner voice

The random ruminations

struggling details

endless musings

thoughts ceaseless

turbulent apprehensions

intense emotions

words falling way apart

when the ink of life flows like the Ganges….


the arteries suffocate

what hath the social environ done

strangling wishes in the cage

flutters the bird a last time

before she forgets her own desire

how then would the heart speak

after being buried in soil nine feet deep

why then the soul screams

in silence when neither the world hears nor


Is it the solitude that echoes

and relishes the scathing pain

the lump in choked throat

or the blood of a slit vein…

the smile of the sad heart

or a laugh lame

how would the heart start

singing its own tale?

nay, it doesn’t glorify

nor intend to sermon

Tis the lonesome want of a

scribbling poet

Ya! listen comrade

lend a moment ,close your eyes

hear my soul’s tale

as drenches the parched heart

in desirous rain!

“My Life ain’t a stage “

Endlessly my heart cried
eyes searching frantically in vain
“where art thou”
behind the curtain of life
is anything true or is all disdain?
My life ain’t a stage
neither I a performer to enact or flaunt
in mystical attire as perceived everyone
..I ,a mere soul
wish to be a lotus
blooming in the mud
admiring the sparkling moon afar
from the altar…
Allow me to be my real self
I neither wish to be a actor
nor my life a theatre…
Spare me O! world
from the pangs of hypocrisy
from the rings of falsity
let me break away from the glitter of gold and
tinkling of coins
I’m a mere soul
elated amidst nature
blissfully admiring eternal creation
I live for love and affection.


I have lost my pen

its nib – golden

once scribbled ceaselessly

while the world retired

to the cushion of comfort every night

the quill loved to brush against the papyrus…


leaking on blank pages

the painful emotions

which were witness of sordid transitions


yet as a powerful weapon

narrating every encounter thus illegal…


where is the indite

where’s the instrument

the sword -that sliced reality

spear- which pierced the raw veins

dagger – which wounded the cold heart

as a potion for lovers

and deadly poison

for hypocrites

lost somewhere

… help me ,find my pen

Tis’ lost somewhere

in the desert.



what should I gift thee,
a token of love wrapped
in silk
a kiss shall vanish
in the zephyr,
a rose will lose its colour
lacy pack of chocolates
soon get savoured in hours,
an attire would wrap
but soon will the thread get unleashed

what should I gift thee…
which valuable jewel?
a diamond, gold, ruby or emerald
they lose charm
in glittering aura of thou…
The stones will fall apart…
what should I gift thee
A book, which
can be treasured for years…
..oh no, it shall be stacked in the shelf
dust will be its companion…
A perfume shall fizz out in days
every gift is mortal…
Unlike the soul of mine and thee
which remains immortal…

O ! then let me pluck few moments
from the cosmic air
of universe,
bedeck them with flowers of love
scent with my songs of splendor…
tune in music with my chords
I would gift thee
ceaseless, priceless , immortal

The Twinkle


skips the pulse , one breath I lose

a moment of your thought

when my eyelids gaze the blue

searching for the brightest star

its twinkle reminds me of you…

amidst the constellation

a unique stellar assemble

come closer ! I whisper,

as I capture Thee

in the quiet lake of my iris

to bathe in amor

the lotus petals seal until

the aurora pierces

the dark firmament and falls on the bud

about to blossom.

Oxford Handset nay, am God’s clay !



Oh! am  god’s clay

soft , tender, smooth

yet can be brittle and tough at times

nay, I ain’t hail

from the breed

of proud ,haughty misnomers

who sparsely realize a drop

of tear worth…

neither they hath seen the

gory of dead or

the dreaded hunger

yet epitomize

words ..larger than life

social and palpable

..they have mugged the

Oxford handset

decks which every word as treasure

alas! never could their heart get drench

in the tragic rain of worries under the


rain coat of superficial fashion..

The delicate quill


photocredit: google images

the delicate quill scribbles
lore of sordid life
amidst the society of racial protagonists and authoritarians
few drops emerge on the paper
red scarlet, yeah ! they are grievous tears
fallen by tormented excruciation.
the words sharp, pierce the autocratic system
which hath remained despotic since ages and years
..will the ink paint the page
and eyes of hypocrites in true colour
wiping away squalid tales
and etching a prognostic message
for mankind and humans…