Seasons of the heart

Can one man be blamed for all?

For the autumn, for the winter

And for fall

These Days

These days I mostly think

Am I such a bad person?

For all that she says and thinks

Could there be a valid reason?

Was I inconsiderate?

In all my dealings

Was it that I might have hurt?

More than just a few feelings

Answers meet a few questions

And I gasp for breath

Then behave upon seeing her

Like we have never met

And she calls to tell me

That it isn’t my fault

But then she writes again

To tell me, she was wrong

The Demise

There are no answers to the heart’s fatal demise

No showing up for the funeral too

The heart is dead

So are you

So go back to that grave world of yours

Go back and relax

To me he has been dead

Since long time back

And the recurring doubt that remains

Is why did he leave this note hangin-in

With a smiley drawn over it

All in black

Could it be that he was really sad?

Vision of you

You are late
But everyone is looking at you
You are not trying to impress
No, not at all
It’s not you.
That’s my vision of you

You are shy
But you smile
And then slowly dissolve in the crowd
Where you don’t gel
Well, well
It’s not you
That’s my vision of you

You shake the air out of your hair
And that’s probably enough to tell
The weather will change
Sometime soon
You won’t agree I know
It’s not you
That’s my vision of you

At the gates of Emerald

Another day another time
With a little music and lots of wine
We shall sit at the gates of emerald
And whine and whine.

Life could have been more than these rusty gates
Only if it had started before and ended a little late
We could have done much
Much more than those straight and simple ways

Now that the time has curled back to a U
Sitting here is the same old me and sitting there is the same old you
As a mere coincidence both finding solace in the cool breeze
That shall carry some day smells of forgotten time that we once blew…

the other side
always blue
jack just wish he flew
jack had no feathers but
he had his awesome thoughts
so he thought and thought
sometimes he wrote most times he forgot
and that day came when he could think no more
trapped in his window he could see no more think no more
and then he went inside
indoors he started to reside
after a few year he returned but without remembrance
he had to describe his childhood left some friends
the trees, the breeze and that surrounding flow
but he didn't recognise any of them he did not know
and all was lost to the moment jack gave up
thoughts that he couldn't obviously see had by now shaped up
it had become a picture of another universe
staring blankly at a girl that just lost her purse
she smiled wondrously at the landscaped picture
and ran to match with her pastel color
she drew it to the precise
to show daddy the world outside
and there was jack amazed at the little child
telling her the painting is the spitting image of god's mind

Well I think it's fine, building jumbo planes. Or taking a ride on a cosmic train. Switch on summer from a slot machine. Yes, get what you want to if you want, 'cause you can get anything. I know we've come a long way, We're changing day to day, But tell me, where do the children play? Well you roll on roads over fresh green grass. For your lorry loads pumping petrol gas. And you make them long, and you make them tough. But they just go on and on, and it seems that you can't get off. Oh, I know we've come a long way, We're changing day to day, But tell me, where do the children play? Well you've cracked the sky, scrapers fill the air. But will you keep on building higher 'til there's no more room up there? Will you make us laugh, will you make us cry? Will you tell us when to live, will you tell us when to die? I know we've come a long way, We're changing day to day, But tell me, where do the children play? - Cat Stevens

Lost

In east Tehran or as far as Rome
Lonely heart will find this poem

Like a gentle breeze
That on a quaint evening finds a motionless tree

Like a reckless rain drop
That visits Bloomington, meets a parched summer crop

Like a man running fifteen minutes late
Only to wondrously turn up 5 minutes before the date

A lonely heart will find this poem like this
To spend a few seconds when he ceases to miss..

Poem for some other day

i dont like this poem too much
it gives away a bit too much
like who i am and who i wish to be
what is it some day that i wish to see
it hides nothing at all
like a life that has come to a total halt
exposing me in front of all the glare
and all i do is stand and stare
for i havent learnt yet
how to smile or react
it happens and keeps happening
a little water above the head and i begin grappling
all i hope is to fly in sky, open and flat
not sure why they say i need to learn to swim before that

Spontaniety

spontaniety
and that's only me
one self, too many
one that you shall never see
rest assured
cuz it's the one that i cant be
obscure wishes into the sun
like the paper exposed and burn
i let all of it into the summer
the only place the winter could find a cover
no one searces
no one reaches
i shout
but no one hears
and i lay alone drowned in fears
of passing by undiscovered
but guess its okay...

The River
No one asks the river.
Is she a taker or the giver?
Arrow darted. Or the quiver?
The just betrayed. Or the lover?
She flows on her own. To the destiny long and alone.
There is peace for her but it’s the sea. Who is rough, mean.
And does not know what love is..

I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man

I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you

The difference in Iraq and Iran

But I know Jesus and I talk to God

And I remember this from when I was young

Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us

And the greatest is love

- Alan Jackson

Kerela!

In the lap of nature
Away from man and his wooden-plastic furniture

Amidst the rarest of rare things
I am winning back part of my forgotten upbringing

Trees everywhere screaming out my name
If you can call it that there goes, my one minute fame

Sky's down and ground is no where to be found
Paragliding into my mind, is the echo of my very sound

Right here is the life I wanted, I always thought
It is the creamy part of the otherwise sour milky spot –

It's Kerela facing the ocean, bluest of blue
Just so you don't forget, you can call it heaven too!

‘Life’
There is something about Life
That Socrates forgot to describe
And Plato missed it too
I wonder if they both ever knew
Life could be some place else
Somewhere split not, between time and tense
Breath of fresh air when you have given up
Or that stranger smile across the coffee cup
A bouquet of roses you got
And all those moments that you forgot
Birthday cake you waited for two years in one
That bleeding skin after an off balanced run
Words you could never spell
Emotions you almost always felt
For no rhyme or reason
Love gained and lost in just one season
A lifetime affair with a liar called Life
Loves you like a mistress, cheats you like a wife…

Tuesdays searching

I am confused
As battered as bruised
There is no hope that takes home
Only salt mixed well in foam
And what spares is that which can escape
Going easy on, of course by mistake
And dreams they do have an end
There’s much morning takes away, than it ever lend
I still manage a smile across that face of cry
Can’t hide much but at least I try
Realize there is nothing that can satisfy the taking
After giving it all they still come Tuesdays searching

Old young man

Some people live their entire lives
Figuring out life
What do I know?
I am just an old young man
With a paper and a pen in my hand
But I shout
And they feel I sing life!
I move
And they think I dance life!
But if I knew life
Had I figured it
Would I dance or
Would I ever shout?
Or would I simply tell them
It just cannot be simply told
Unlike most who think they know
I claim not
And nothing is in my grasp
Only a song
And a dance
Call it life
Or just call me
Very simply
Young and old

2nd handed poems

2nd handed poems pierce my heart..
2nd handed poems don't make it any easy..
2nd handed poems escape the mind..
2nd handed poems come where they shouldn't be seen..
2nd handed poems are what life is..
Trying hard to be what it can be..

Don't ask..

Don't ask..
just take my hand.
The journey will be gruesome..
Battered, you just take my hand.
Leave behind all of yours and me..
But keep what can't be.
Standalone and take my hand..

Just when you think
You have clinched the fate..
You realise..
There was left a little space..

Always left..
Isn't it one of the most mystical ways..
Somehow you seem to always caught unawares..