Reminiscent

Sometimes,
I recall the days,
When the sky was brighter
Omnipresent symphony
On faces countless,
Ebullience was real.

Future didn't exist
Still, hopes were higher
Sun actually shined,
And every scenery
Was another reality.

I do miss and reminisce
Those days when there wasn't
a past to remember.
But in this sorrow,
I'm better off and
Better off without those days,
Nor to return would I wish.
For in this sorrow,
I shall dwell and perish.

Do Cicadas Cry?

Under the hottest sun,
Silence,
Far and wide.
Among the cool winds of north,
There's a cry. I think it's a cry.
It emits from the trees but why,
Do Cicadas cry?

Is it a cry of sadness,
Or pain of some unknown kind.
Is it a cry to convey a message,
Or is it even a cry?

Why today?
Why now?
Do they know I'm listening,
That I can hear them cry?
Is it an omen uncomprehended,
That they want me to know?
What happens when they cry?

I know I won't notice it
Ever again. The cry will just
Blend into the noise.
Sound of life.
So I walk past all of it,
Nonchalantly leaving the cry,
Unreplied.

The cry became a sound unnoticed,
The sound fades away
As a noise of nigh.
And then I even forget,
Do Cicadas cry?

When I walked past the cicadas,
When I walked past their cry.

Fallen Leaf - A Haiku

A sullen breeze once-
broke but the tree still wants
to see--It's Fallen Leaf 

Into the Rain

Through those mirrors of the world,
Countless windows to the dreams;
A metaphor to life and death,
Fallen from nowhere and-
Towards nowhere it seems.

When the white clouds turn dark,
They're not good nor evil, you see;
A misunderstood concept, that is
You are not who you are, when
You choose something else to be.

I'll close my eyes when these
Drops of skies fall over me;
I'll forget who I am,
If I be - I will forget
To exist and I shall quit
To resist, if there ever was,
My forgotten being.

To find me, if there's need be
I'll be at the edge of this world;
At the very shore of my
consciousness and sea.

If I were to transform into:
A grain of sand on a beach,
A swirl of breeze passing the trees;
Into a speck of bright warm sunlight,
A hum of sound on the street.
And into the rain when I'll leave,
Without a sigh,
Into the Rain as I --
I will die happily.

The World of Paper

Where do I stand,
It's all white.
Sometimes lined,
Many-a-times just plain.
But it's a wonder as it is,
Others don't seem to notice;
And nobody does ever concur,
that their beloved, evermore
world is made of paper.

Vulnerable to fire,
Susceptible to rain
And still keeper of all.
It stands on a whim,
will fall if base gets taper.
Gradually it's tearing,
No matter how greater,
But still, I shall not amend,
After all, it's a world of paper.
Thence I ask myself,
Where do I stand?

Out of the Window

One day,
Sometime around noon,
Something behind the
transparent glaze,
Something inadvertently,
Caught my variable gaze.

Far beyond that rocky road,
Further beyond that unlit
stern black lamppost.
Was a distinct place,
A peculiar vicinity,
A strange indenture and
an odd blank space.

Not that anyone hadn't lived there,
Nor that it was nobody's home.
It just looked to everyone solid,
But beneath that, 'twas all foam.

There that place stood which
some called the 'world', behind
that layer of thin air, behind
that transparent framed glass.

Even through the nightfall,
It seemed far from the still
rocky road;
And farther from the lightened
lamppost.
But as still it may be--
I pulled the blinds of the window
'Cause I didn't like the world.
But I sure do hope that
That place still exists today.
Away from my sight,
Out of the window.

A Scenic Cliché

A Range of mountains,
Covered by a sheet of snow, which
runs down like an angel spreading its wings, of
which I'm sure, you do have seen before.

And alas! No wonder,
there is a river that
emerges from the bottom
of the underworld which
is unheard of, uncalled for,
but still, not unknown.

Oh, I still wonder,
if the heavens know,
how much I flout the platitudes,
how much I despise the banalities.
But pinched under utter sarcasm,
I find myself admiring the beauty of
A Scenic Cliche

Snow - A Haiku

White like nothing before;
so they tell, but I wonder,
Had I seen the snow?

A Broken Sword

A dilemma.
Shining blackness. To the heart.
Made the world. Red-colored.
In my hands it lie, silent.
Like a bouquet.
Slanting to the heart.
Resembling a whole.
But broken -- in a way.

Carried down a path.
No critique. No dissent.
Just reflecting a dim-lit light.
Seemingly harmless.
Dreadfully deceiving.

Blunt on a side, perhaps.
Lost its grip.
Its anachronous;
Ephemerally eternal.
Possession of a swordsmen.
Articulate and silvern.
But broken fires it lay.

Temporary Identity

When I'm not me,
When I'm somebody,
Wandering in the skies,
Nostalgically.

Clearing the heavens,
Selecting the stars,
For the sole reason of,
Absolute nullity.

Walking with some,
Talking with others,
With complete absence of,
Insignificant personality.

No hopes, no dreams,
As state of mind of,
No assiduity,
Speaking the words,
Mutely.

Disturbance is never a cause,
It is the consequence of the
cognitive process to barricade attention.
Speaking figuratively.

So how do you define the feel, when
Hundreds of leaves of the Maple trees
lined up in the fall, on the street.
The state of mind, unconsciously.

A great art makes you think,
Supposedly.
Trying to make your eyes blink,
Obnoxiously.

No reiterate, no repetition,
No retelling of once told old story,
After all, it's all chaos around,
Starting randomly, ending bizarrely.

And there it lies,
At the brink of pattern
which follows all through randomness.
Creating cosmos, creating certainty.

So this is the irony:
Incongruity between what might be
expected and what occurs actually.
Reshaping the past, ironically.

Making of reality unexpectedly,
but nothing is likely, satirically.
With no cherry on top,
brings you despair, happily.

The sudden realization, deplorably,
The instant loss of intellect, woefully.
The closure of eyes, epical regretfully,
When I'm me, not somebody.

Obscurities

Here I stand, staring blankly,
At your pleasant world,
At your delightful cities,
Of which I thank the gods grandly,
For creating a world,
Without Obscurities.

I don't see a diminishing light
waving towards me from horizon each day,
I don't hear any swash of tides
singing a melancholy to me and my dismay.

I don't see the love in the air
or the blooming of cherry blossoms in spring,
I could just hear a boisterous blare
when the angels from heavens sing.

I couldn't perceive the call of the wild
or a silent whisper in my ear;
Though I stand in a gloomy night,
Nothing grips me, let alone fear.

How can I embrace the light?
When darkness is my only past,
When I've been vague all my life,
How in this lucidity can I last?

Behind, creepy shadows lie,
In front, a world that has gone dim;
Below, a dying hollow earth,
Above, a sky that is gray and grim.

I'm not a riddle, not a conundrum,
Not full of sureties;
All I am is an insignificant, nameless
speck of my own obscurities.