An epitaph obliged

Here rests herself, a narrative.
Subdued before she could give
To reason with life another laughter
Aforesaid woman sleeps alone here.

Under the juniper on a hill solitary
Mourned still by this forlorn prairie
In aftersongs of high wind rhymers
And pouring pale dead that blanket her.

All that mother of afflatus left above
Are torn apart rumors of half love
and flashbacks of sapphire eyes in truth-
Once felt by many unheard-of youth.

Whatever the Fates had to string
For those who lack a seraphic ring.
Cinder in my eyes or fingertip’s gall
Are not the sorest of them all.

The evening perishes, I yet inscribe
An unsigned work sans a critic’s jibe.
Words remain hard to engrave in rain
While I enshroud my tone, in vain.

Glass work

Wearing a stain one less

fluxing,

signing in unison

under sheets of observance

in poorly dreamt nights.

The kettle song, just listen

Mama’s words let smitten;

Till see(it)through.

But conditional vows as such

you may sneeze endearingly

and watch ‘em

like lilting fear get

tinted with the sketchiness.

Take a bow, Schindler

A personal experience relapsing a personal favourite. Go on Liam Neeson fans, loathe me for impersonating him.

Landslides and Moodswings

As my careworn eyes meet

A quiet few balconies

On an even quieter side street,

My talltales, they shorten;

To the skyline retreat.

As a led astray gush of wind

My neckline sets to greet,

A blank piece of paper and

Endless opportunities

Stir beneath my fingers’ heat.

To move them now is such   

Slight a deed, indeed.

I won’t care for in morning;

This shepherd, that nymph,

And all wretched couplings,

That in moon’s pale stretch lies

A Rome till this ceiling

And a draped windowpane

Could still make a heart wring;

That a finger-painted sky

And the night’s velvety scent

As much cajoles my writing,

As probable a meteor rock is

To crash in a desire spring.

From yon crooked oak tree

To this glass of milk,

The paperballs belonging to me

Often land in that empty plot

To which one has no key;

Often hold some far-off tales

My pen fails to agree.

No passion flower, oak sprouts

No Echoes to repeat after

Such a winding soliloquy.

So in this turbid pool

I, myself, stoop to see.

A poem-maker subverts,

Again seeks bed’s embrace

To unlearn the secrets

I spent a lifespan to chase.

Prep school, one such place;

Approved only after leaving it,

Stabbing its entire rat race.

And in sodden roots of nature

Found my solace.

For only in past participles

My admiration has a face.

Sod's Law

Heart-shaped lessons from my parents,
Like pills for dreamless insomniacs,
I took a mouthful
And ended up making friends
They never approved of.

Galileo's Daughter

Moonlit the passenger seat,
My unconcern again resigns to
The dim-out of a frail hairpin;
The complaint if I ever listen.

The games you grew up playing
When block my view,
I single out and discover that
Breaking a nail isn’t overrated.

Till fences we watch scroll by
For their sake and for ours.
Theirs, for they disbelieve;
Ours, for we fall down as one

When in mist by your house
“Alright then” I pronounce,
A cinder past this implosion,
A star your eyelids rub out.