Here we stand naked

Here we stand naked,
with our wares on display,
few ashamed, many expectant,
as toys in a grand play;

we are judged and rated,
few relished, many discarded,
what cruelty this atrocity,
a race on, to be awarded;

not hidden exposed in total,
beauty or the flaws obscure,
yet for some, beautiful all naked,
they the true connoisseur,

some don’t relish such scrutiny,
truly beautiful in their brutish mutiny.

Cliff’s edge

I sit at the cliff’s edge,

a mere push will do,

all that knowledge,

failed me true;

I was afraid at that height,

yet there was a brain rush,

tempted to jump out of sight,

aching a long lost crush;

the misty freezing hilltop calls,

thick green trees and bushes,

gushing water of the white falls,

flowing water and pushing fishes;

the beauty poured numbing senses,

arrested in a borderless world without fences. 

Oh how to match

Oh, how to match such verbose grandeur,
from what armoury can I the words borrow,
to publish a poem true how much have I to suffer,
most certain this line will end with sorrow,
what have I to offer, what beauty to match the song of a sparrow.

Do my simple words their standards fail to suffice,
true, I too judge faulty grammar as below par,
simplicity not a fault that would crumble my edifice,
someday not far away I will go daringly far,
I concede that inside words sweet honey is mixed careless tar.

In its entirety not one work satisfies me,
yet inside are verses precious than gems,
my ramblings truer than her verses we see,
why nought for me and she printed emblems,
world looses, not I who keeps scribbling to while away my boredoms.

My subjects wrong not dwelling on love or pain,
nor do I speak of nature and its infinite beauty,
I rather dabble with solitude in a lighter vein,
with petty considerations I’ve breached poet’s duty,
what loftier subject can I labour upon than my own soul sooty.

Wherefrom springs such deep harsh anger sore,
when I cannot pick one from the many to be in print,
not flowers but thorns in them I see more and more,
am I prosaic with little metaphors, imagery and subtle hint,
I under estimate the reader and so clarify disposing the lint.

Is the fact that I am a thief the reason for such bother,
I steal form and more from others as this from skylark,
or am I in the wrong place, this blog that does smother,
Why print? I seek recognition from the mouths of a shark,
to convince that I didn’t waste my time trying to climb up this bark.

Daring subject this, dazzling direct, not so subtle,
I have sung and hung, raved and ranted for what?
What I hope to accomplish with verses so brittle?
join beggars’ club and called a poet self taught,
unlike the melodies of cuckoo my simple verses have evils fraught.

I am no Keats, Yeats or Shelley
nor am I Frost, Eliot or Wordsworth
but I do have a creative pang in my belly,
and my rhymes can warm any hearth,
and someday shall earn in gentle hearts the widest of berth.

The muse is partial and haunts me with absence,
but with or without her I shall write,
at times she guides me with bright incandescence,
at such times glory hangs, a wondrous sight,
in verses seen, but never in entirety of my work does beauty bite.

The muse my love, passion and heartthrob,
that girls with beauty divine can’t compete,
there was a girl that left me and I did sob,
was before creative fire my entire being permeate,
my work wheat and chaff but who will separate the golden wheat.

If somehow my prayers are answered,
and for print I am asked to select a few,
what will I chose and for what reasons absurd,
for me the smoke means as much as the dew,
for they are mine and me alone that created them true.

Perhaps I must prepare myself for future,
creating beauty at its purest with endearing verses,
mustn’t rush to put words on paper premature,
to till the land, until found the promised land of Moses,
beware of beauty mixed with dirt as direct result of my former curses.

The sun has risen, the sun has set and has risen again,
and all that beauty of nature at its best lost to me,
all this time rhyming like a man possessed without a gain,
if you can’t lighten my load, listen to me, then please let me be,
someday have prowess to find yearnings of all men and set them free.

I’ve never ventured further than where I am now,
will there be folks who will come with me this far ahead,
Will they tire of length and abandon before the final bow,
will this be read and admired or be mixed with garbage shed,
my fingers tired, but mind afresh to spew more of the words to be wed.

I can go on and on but am sure these words won’t be printed,
I am yet an apprentice that might never amass skills of a master,
using my meagre skills and eager soul, no coin is to be minted,
so I end my slow simple ramblings in the world growing faster,
I shall be back with verses more beautiful than mortal words can muster

I am an artist

I am an artist that draws on the widest of canvass,
with colours bright and bold, blue, yellow and orange,
I paint from life, true and raw that none surpass,

I do not follow but lead the forefront of colourful change,
in choice of subjects, vision and style, unique I am,
my heart decides course of my fingers and its range,

beauty becomes ugly and ugly beauty in brush strokes firm,
I draw all but not her, she was beauty with me, ugly when gone,
at times my brushes don’t stop with time, they are a bursted dam,

overflowing splashes of colours or part empty spaces undrawn,
despite leading change, don’t paint modern but sketches simple do,
to connect with several souls at once, even a layman sad and torn,

complaint that my colours simple and mundane with nothing to woo,
don’t interfere with me for my works roar with beauty and are true. 

A tired maiden

A tired maiden, soulful, ravishing and eloquent,

in plain distress, sat and brooded on high hills,

seen her cheery self prance here far too frequent,

dangerously perched on cliff, not for cheap thrills;

lost in grief over the demise of a kindly pet dog,

never seen men mourn departed family so intense,

what thoughtful words to soothe and lift the fog,

she’ll tear any fake tears or shallow pretence;

spell bound as witnessed the beauty in grief,

not shedding a tear, not lamenting, sitting quiet,

shrunken and pale like a withered autumn leaf,

such worry harsh, mix pain and joy, balanced diet;

what made such love and care for a lost pet,

yet none for me who bared all, the day we met. 

I have roamed unclothed

I have roamed unclothed in your streets,

my little well, my world, my hometown, 

high or low, you’ve recorded all my heartbeats,

as a little boy here I’ve been dressed in a gown;

no nature’s beauty, no city’s wonders, nothing proud,

you small are apt size for me novice to handle,

I know only you, so on your virtues can’t be loud,

at times I long to escape from you and light a candle;

I’ve glimpsed shades of magic of other places,

sometimes in a quiet, calm picturesque village ,

or in modern hectic cities with no time to tie shoelaces,

for comfortable that you are, still feel like a cage;

in you everyone is a friend from milkman to big shot,

I want to move, but be here, in distress you are my last resort.

The day is bright

The day is bright, sunny and perfect,

the squirrels scurry and the cuckoos sing 

as I sit beneath a tree to write with effect,

a perfect poem eternal and beautiful can I bring;

but how with imperfect hands and mind,

what magical prayer can I summon, 

what streets to loiter and what words to find

to grasp a mysterious beauty uncommon;

but it has been done by a few masters,

did their brain and hands move in cohesion, 

were they perfect that their mind fosters

beauty at whim without needing a revision;

Oh, only if it were thus, they too were mortals

and would have had to toil for beauty’s morsels.

Felt on my face

Felt on my face a calming gentle breeze,

a mild drizzle from an overcast sky,

all worries put in to a deep freeze,

the mind drifting in to a non alcoholic high;

What is life that we treasure and cling to

but a sum of events leading steadily to death,

days like this so joyous but for who?

for likes of me without a care in this earth;

the light is soft and luring in its dimness,

very few people out here on the street,

the beauty of the day very few witness,

for most are locked in fear of nature’s treat;

What if all days were like this?

a mad converse with nature’s quiz.