A Frog, A Rock in shower, and A Stream of shadows...

It is so good while it lasts,
but nothing remains, when its past...
History leaves its leaves in past,
only stories pass on...

The brief moments seem from an other world,
but you linger ahead,
in same old song of clouds...

Upon the skies,
and amongst the streams of flickering shadows,
some brighten, and go back,
flow past, and you stay,
like a frog, jumping,
from a lone solitary rock to another one...

Never sticking at a rock for more than a while,
knowing - the more you stand,
the more you slip in that shower...

A friend of mine taught me this song,
gave me a moment of shelter,
and here I slipped,
and she is gone...

It is so good while it lasts,
but nothing remains, when its past...
History leaves its leaves in past,
only stories pass on...

Here I linger,
but the story passed me on...

Yet I smile...:)

Confessions of an Agnost Puritan.

Let me not weave a string of woes,
let me not sit aghast at the wash,
let me not at the sight of distress,
let me smile and walk with what's left of smiles...

Let me not meander and wait,
purpose showered and darkened by the silences...

Let me not ask mercy, for God forsees.

Hail Mary, full of Grace,
I chant thy name.
And Holy Father, to thy feet,
I shall bend down,
brush a kiss of devotion
and say, "I sinned, and beg thine forgiveness."

Let me not weep, tears are but forbidden,
ah so is a man's plight.

I have erred, I have lost,
let me not sit,
but become a servant, obedient thine.

For I no longer beg for the glories.
For I no longer long for those treasures of life.

I beg to thee, old Father...
Moses and Judas pray on my stead,
I ask Ye, of only peace,
and thy blessed Hand...

I know myself lack
the ability to sing flowery songs,
and I know, O Lord,
that I can't weave pretty pictures
to make Ye smile.

I am but a servant,
aye, I see this now.

I am your son,
so guide me by thy hand.

Search for Skylark...

The vacant streets emptied of life,
the tiny flicker, teased and now far, gone...

Oh where, where, I ask, to search that distant skylark,
in the boughs darkened with soot of distance,
or on the waters deep with waves of mistrust?

Oh how, how, I ask, is it to reach,
that twig on which fluttered the single leaf,
the branch, dried in winter's wrath,
where lay in peace skylark with its song?

Deliverance, my lame saint, I cry,
deliverance from this quest,
for I was not
one designed to sit and wait,
fiddled is my restless soul, earnest...

If only lied this heart of curiosity,
or in silence, remained in a desolate moor,
if only existence meant slumbers,
in a ship destined to moor,
I, with all grace would embrace silence,
but life is earnest, it is swift,
and I curious, with time do drift...

In these moments where I see myself shiver,
I ask, did I mistake a hailstorm for shower?

Harboured my thoughts, anchored my love,
I pause, and cast the thought lantern on that lonely beach...

Humour, ah destined end,
for now in this moment,
there is nothing that I see...

Down to the old man's play,
resigned and resting,
I humour the Old Saint,
with my lame gait and
humourless speech...

I ask the Lame Saint a question for which he smiles,
I wonder what humour he finds in my trials,
yet I persist, I ask again,
Where is the skylark,
who sang so sweet?

I am met with silence, he chooses to sleep...

Blackbird...

Stoppeth I, my winged dearth of time,
and thou shalt wait for eternity's sway...

Always the smile in heart hath haunted,
and my soul, quick caught its flying wings,
trapped in the palms, with no gate to leave,
the thoughts fluttered, and smile wept
in clutches of my childish act...

Stoppeth I, my winged dearth of time,
and thou shalt smile at my agony's grave,
for I refuse, say no to my distant enemy,
and friend over all this time.

Yes, yes, no more I say, no more,
no more in the years to come, I refuse to cry...

For who is that poet, that earthly soul,
that vagabond of roads, who wept while
time passed by...

Pain, the sweet respite for soul,
to rest, to ponder, to renew...

I stoppeth, the dearth of time,
my wings cut and bruised,
my forgotten cry, now in this emptiness,
I refuse to sit,
I in earnest, ponder,
I in zest, with broken wings,
like a Blackbird, try to fly...

Sand Goblet...

His dreams, the little dunes,
ever wakeful for another storm
rise up and bend down,
little trickling sands of time
passing, meandering the winds,
and the hot wave engulfs the plateau...

There seems silence, and dismay,
and yet, in the unearthly presence
of the angelic spirit of lone black cloud,
I see smoke, dust paved on the block of charcoal,
misted, the granules move, digging a hole yet again,
dune succumb under the duress of the storm,
and the tunnel, deep and dark is dug,
hitherto unknown save to the trained eye,
and a goblet, deep to Hades' vestige forms,
misted, gravels look down,
and that lone traveller afar notices,
a single tear falls...

Coffin.

I live in this oblong room, and this room is my prison. I have heard of many seas, never seen many; I have heard of snow-capped mountains, never climbed any; I have heard of dark, perilous forests, never been to any. I sit in this middle-class household’s urban and well-furnished room. My tasks have been laid out, my escape blocked, and the lock though not on the latch, the spirit suffers in the emotional blockade of society.

I live in this oblong room, where there are pink walls and a dilapidated bed, where the only wilderness is few remnants of cobwebs, and the bed bugs on my sheet. I am a captive of my birth, searching to find all that is heard of, and praised. I have heard lark’s sweet song, but only on Television, and I have travelled to lush green tea estates only a few miles away from my home, but on Television.

I live in this oblong room, with its maze of furniture, torn papers, all thoughts in earnest yet lacking experience of life. I yearn to tell a story, talk of journeys and adventures, aye, I want to live, but am a victim of survival.
My health is sound, and energy yearning, my love for creation intact to admire the marvels, but alas, I live in this oblong room with pink walls and pink curtains and a dying canvas bed. Even this oblong room seems to be dying, it is always cold as a chilly carcass and it is always numbing, and the slumbers troubled.

I live in this oblong room, and my doors are different. I like it alone, as it is my respite from a long forgotten past, and now the way of my life.

I look at this room people call as mine-
I look at those pink walls, the oblique windows, pink curtains, furniture and dried coconut shells.
And then I look at all those torn papers scribbled away under the pressure of my lost ink and lost thoughts, crumbling to dust. Sometimes the light reflects the darkness outside.
Perhaps it is my room that is darker, coffin like. I see no lock, yet I feel bound.
Locked myself inside, I have thoughts of outside world, and often I ponder of mountains and monasteries.

I try to plan, to set out for the journey to find those places only known to me to exist in Television.

Perhaps I am waiting for the time to come, perhaps I am looking for the key to an unlocked door. Perhaps walls are supposed to be pink, perhaps I am waiting for my bed to sink.

Perhaps it is something else.

I live in this oblong room.

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Cold Gaze...

Here stranded, I sit,
nervous due to lack of tact,
worried endless in the day's cold...

Those eyes flicker, ever observant...
'Rest!', I yearn to say, as I now am silent
and you shall see me gone...

Next moment I move, a tilt of my head,
the eyes follow me, and I ask why,
and something inside says, why not...

I say no, but the gaunt image follows...
I say no, but the haunting gaze swallows...

I say no! Enough, confound me no more,
and then I notice a jerk,
I notice from the corner of my eyes,
a jerk, a twist, and an ever diminishing silhouette...

I have accomplished my goal,
the eyes are no longer on me,
and I feel all alone...

Regret, but swallowed as whole...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju