A brighter shade of blue

Blue we were, a brighter shade of blue
Young, restless, lonely... but with a crew
Evenings endless to fill, not a thing to do
Rumours like cigarette smoke float, from God knows who.
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Laughter there was, there was fear
Anxiety there was, so was cheer
Swear words flowed easy, reddening earth & sky
High Hopes played on loop, deep... deep into the night.
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These walls these fields these stars they knew
For long had they from boys, men drew
Whatever else they may be, this much was true
These guys... were a brighter shade of blue.
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2016/04/a-brighter-shade-of-blue.html]

Song of the open road

Can you hear it too, this song quite old?
Its tune too clear for cubicles to hold
Long days at work, evenings stuck to a chair
The music... it's louder now, but at a screen I must stare.
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Swipe... 'cause there are stories yet to be told,
Misty mornings, mystery houses, chaa-singharaa in the cold
Swipe... 'cause of extra duties beware one must be,
Like brooks & birds, for once, glide without a care.
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This song is false, so don't get sold
The 'practical' me whispers
But there's mountains & forests & oceans
The wise man counters
You sure you don't have a weekend to spare?
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If you hear it... by now you do, let restless shoes lead the way
Live and dream and sing forever the song of the open road.
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.in/2015/12/song-of-open-road.html]

For those

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For those that are soaked in grime, sweat and blood,

The cause in them does trust, as indeed it must

They are the undaunted shelters, the very bridges to deliverance

Final hopes for a rescue, through forests impassable and dense.

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Here is the limelight now but they, strange men, seek not its glory

Yes, they, they must practice, practice and write a grand new story

The wise understand their greatness, the fools they look away

Men of honour, men of grit, far beyond what befits a poem to say.

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[Some well-intentioned but mildly corny lines written around Rahul Dravid's retirement from ODI cricket. Batsman extraordinaire, team-man exemplary and a gentleman unlike any other, he has been a true inspiration in every sphere of life and a tour-de-force for Indian cricket.

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Incidentally also my 400th blog post. Many thanks to the 50 readers still subscribed to my blog. It took a lot longer for me to get to this 400th post than I had expected. It is my laziness that robs me of the will-power to type out my thoughts but it is also my laziness that defines my thoughts. Forgive me for this paradoxical flaw. I promise to do better.]

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/11/for-those.html]

The Doors

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Of life and love and lust they spoke,

In mystic music 'n' poetic streams,

Fear and hurt found their niche,

Framing magic melodic dreams

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The question still stands open then

What to make of fate's crazy mores?

No answer for that one yet,

No one knows for sure

Me? I am just happy...

I got to see The Doors!

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(Wednesday, 2nd November 2011, Lupos Heartbreak Hotel, Providence RI:

It'd be a joke to say that I had always wanted to experience this. I loved the music of The Doors but heck, Jim Morrison was already dead by 1971, 13 years before I was even born. The 1960s and 1970s may have been a great time to be around but I personally am extremely happy to have been born in the 1980s, to have appreciated the world before the advent of Internet & Facebook and also be young enough to appreciate the world after. One hell of a lucky generation we are to have been born on the cusp of such a revolutionary technological leap. So this was out of the blue, an accidentally heard old-school radio advert of the surviving Doors men getting together to work their spell in a small but completely packed B-status performance arena, notably below par as compared to their glory days, and only 20 miles from where I was. It was, to use that nauseatingly overused but in this case perfectly applicable word, 'surreal'! This was a dream that I hadn't even dreamed of!)

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/11/doors.html]

Anew

Image by ViaMoi via Flickr

"A new beginning is due!" says the wise radio weatherman,

Yet for all I can see, the gloom of winter still does stand;

The wind is cold and breathless, each tree bare and wan

The sun for sure is not smiling, or helping anyone's tan.

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Dark clouds on the prowl I watch as the rain comes dripping down,

It's that kind of grey evening, that they write sad songs around;

If I were the worrying type, my face sure would wear a frown

A thousand morose thoughts would spring, at thunder's rumbling sound.

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What then is, you may ask, my way to beat the blues?

One of these days, I say, the old man's words will ring true;

Melancholy doesn't last forever, even the deepest possible hues

Wake up to brilliant green you will, no telling where winter flew.

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The season of hope, the season of promise, may be biding its time,

Once spring's here you'll see, sadness ain't worth a dime.

While you were Facebooking

Image via CrunchBase

While you were Facebooking, the rain came down,
While you plunged in a stream of pictures, the sea sighed aloud
Lost in the web of viral videos, as the jungle lies unexplored
Ancient ruins have no visitors, yet statuses have 'likes' galore

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Your regular job may be boring, but hey, it pays the bills
Once you are done with the necessary, you still need a rethink
Friends are friends, let's not forget, it's good to keep in touch
But adventure awaits beyond the virtual, at the cost of being 'social'.

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[This is more of a reminder to myself that I should not be spending too much time on FB. But all of you FB addicts out there, feel free to take it personally and act as if insulted]

It can wait...

A dusty end to a long long day, the ride back home through half-way,

So hot and still the evening air, fumes from vehicles seemed easier to bear,

A TV and a fan the primal needs, poor rewards though for daily heroic deeds,

Momentary desires do really suck, stuck as you are between a bus and a truck!

Then comes a gust, a cold cold breeze,

A giant freezer opened to douse peaking unease,

The rains have come a calling, somewhere in close quarters,

The wind just a messiah, of approaching relief waters.

The drops begin to fall, fat, round on roofs, tarps and laces,

Little circles of joy they form on long parched faces,

Rolling drumbeats of redemption play in my helmet's spaces,

Like everything else right then, singing of life's myriad phases.

It can wait, the four walls of safety, while the world is washed over,

It can wait, the call of mundane duties, when the clouds come down closer,

It can wait, fear of the dark, a blaze of lightning exposes all lying in wait,

It can wait, the life ordinary, when Nature sets up another perfect date.

Kite

Surfer of winds, teaser of clouds, the city far below as you raced around,

Battles of wit, battles of might, victories from your past no longer surround, 

What remains of the freedom now... just ripped paper and twirling head, 

Where lies the sky sailor now... with steel wire and entwined thread.

Such is the end, is it, of all adventure in life then?
Good enough reason for stagnating in our home-pen?
The kite was a fool, some say, for wishing to fly with the eagles,
Greater fools are they for their dreams never leave the stables.

[BTW this is post number 300 on my blog since it came into existence on June 17th, 2007. Roughly one follower added for every 10 posts then! The progress should have been better of course but then could've been much much worse too. Thanks to all for the occasional comment that has kept me going on this favoured side-project of mine.]

Ode to my guitar

Stinkin' piece of useless wood, with strings of steel and noisy tones,

Why must one labour thus, for melody from your magic bones,

Your sound's so soothing if into the right hands you fall,

The fingers mortal but the song strummed... not at all.

How long must the wait be, before you play my chosen theme,

What God-awful patience will it take, to live out this cherished dream,

The day the world outside is like a laughable side actor,

The day when my guitar is all I need for heaven 'n' thereafter.

One more for the ages

The urge to make resolutions is hard to ignore

Though the past has seen breaches galore,

The age-old sun rises just the same

Still must we play this pointless game.

This day is different, you see, not like the ones before

It's a new calendar, you fool, right down to the core,

Why then is life unchanged, frame for repetitive frame

Is there self-deception, a mass hypnosis to blame?

Seeing past the frenzy, bringing logic to the fore

Hope's house needs refurbishment, rooftop to the floor,

Slaves to routine we are, no matter how we strain

A stop we need, to hop off this slow moving train.

Worries and fears, only deeper will they bore

Joy and laughter, strictly rationed is their store,

The road retains its mystery, the destination stays unknown

Pause we must to ponder, to paint time in a suitable tone.

Poetry

When leisure is short yet idle thoughts are not,

In haste must a solution be sought;

A complicated age, won't fit in a page,

The invincible must still be fought.

The blade of rhyme flashes again, slicing great adversaries,

A pocket size edition it is, of the most exotic menageries;

Of love, of hate, of inexplicable melancholy, a poet must sing,

Cramped for space, choked for time, yet all emotions must ring.

The daily grind

Back to the wall, spikes through the brain

Work's to be done, no crew, no crane;

Deadlines trample by, crushing out life

The little that's left in these grey cubicles of gripe.

Mounds of papers await the train

The train of enthusiasm, of voluntary pain;

The screen goes off at this moment of strife

Just post-lunch trauma and slothful vice.

A walk to the cooler, is hard to restrain

The only possible cure for this mental sprain;

Then on the way a pretty face smiles,

Shoos out the rains, brings back the rhymes.

Pulsar song

Deep in an Calcutta alley, lies the den of the beast,

Blue is its hue and darkness brings its feast,

Empty roads, desolate bridges

All so neglected, all easy meat.

The timid world has felt itself choke,

On the snarling engine and through the glowering smoke,

Pass as it must, by gently sleeping homes,

Never a trace of peace where the creature roams.

Tram tracks glint in the yellow sodium light,

Potholes await in vain to trap the surging might

The wind is an adversary persistent and curt

The road is a ribbon waiting for the spurt.

A motorcycle but it is to the eyes of the world,

Yet are jealous looks cast, and swear words hurled

What if anything could provoke such animosity?

It's because on a motorbike, you ride away from reality.