Wet Feet - An Ode to A New Journey...

Leaving, the shores that pleasantly waved goodbye...

Sickness, grief and a tumult of fear,

wilderness, the undergrowth, which was left unchecked...



I did perceive competence,

and now remark, review the damage of misconception...



Waves have hit the shore,

sands wettened, but stay put,

though all thats engraved,is erased...



A little photograph,

a little memory,

a sand castle,

and a few wet feet...



Now castle is gone, sand remains,

empty and bereft of the shape,

which moulding hands had so patiently made...



Now the feet are dry,

and the beach clean,

with no little blister, on its surface to be seen...



Beach was clean, neat,

waves washing it everyday,

a pleasant sight indeed,

but I have left,

no longer in love with the scene...



No longer are my feet wet,

though I am at the sea...



© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Impending Fall...

There is a lone tree,

half its roots coming out of the loose soil in the promontory...

Well it seems to be a powerful one,

a girth as wide and majestic, as would proclaim a kingly feel...



The tree, it is visible,

very close, but a little ahead,

a little beyond the reach,

slowly ebbing away...



The whole dusk, in which it is visible,

a pale shadow, of past and present,

and a pale hue of future...

Smoke rises, it has been doing so,

ever since those very many quakes shook the little place...



The silent stream of water,

now a swamp, then a river,

silent, ghastly silence...

Something terrible has happened,

because though overtly strong and imposing,

it seems there is an overwhelming sea of deathly presence,

a foreboding phenomenon surrounding the tree...



Smoke is not rising,

but it floats sideways...

it doesn't seem to be from a fire,

as fire is life,

and life is an absentee...



I move closer, to get a better look...

The fog, the blanket token of death,

the smoke, rising here and there,

and carried into the east,

where still, lies darkness pervading the whole expanse...



The little stream slithers across the ground,

silently,

water is flowing, ever so slowly,

as though it is still,

and the only crests are my canoe's doing...



Down the upstream course, I travel,

to look at this tree, from which it looks as though

smoke flows into the east...



Now I am near,

and see that veiled monstrous stream,

it ever so gradually pulls down the once mighty roots,

the arteries of the dying tree...



Fog has cleared,

as I have neared the tree,

and what I see is withering leaves,

in the Crimson horizon,

flowing away silently to their fall,

floating away with the Eastern breeze,

and all the majesty seems lost,

rocked by the recent quakes...



All that remains is a dying tree,

with roots in mire,

and leaves taking the darkness' call,

and a sole living witness,

watching the tree take slowly,

the impending fall...



© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Lust for Life...

Be that beast,
be that vicious predator...
Savour, drink,
quench the never-ending thirst...

Greed, its Right!
Want, desire and lust,
the overwhelming want,
the very carnal of your feelings...

Get to their centre,
go to the core,
explore, dig deep,
to find that hidden thirst...

Be that Blood-sucking vampire,
be the Death Angel,
give life The Kiss,
the sensual overwhelming Kiss,
where you teach life,
that it is not the Master,
but you Are.

All your sensuality,
let it dance in the
midst of the unending greed
to suck the life, hidden, out of your time!

Let it roll,
do not wait for those
who keep you waiting for long...
Do not heed those who impede your impulses,
with unappealing conformity...

Be a greedy, thirsty, vicious vampire,
even in the darkest of the hours,
go out, into the darkness,
because you know there,somewhere out there,
lingers the crafty little life...

Waiting to be found,
waiting to be preyed upon...

Be the nasty predator,
who can say,
Yes, I devoured on that stealthy prey
with such greed, that now after all
that is said and done
with my time done,
my hunger is satiated,
and no little piece of grumble
no little amount of thirst,
is left, unfinished...

At your end,
let yourself say,
I was the greediest of all,
thirstiest too,
and I made the best out of my lust for life!
Leaving nothing unfinished...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

On The Plant's Death...

One after another, one after another,
the leaves of the little plant,
I had planted in my garden,
seem to wither...
The little green flesh turns away,
away from where I stand,
it seems the little plant is dying slowly in contempt,
and it pains,
oh yes, it pains very deep...
I have waited long for this plant to grow,
I watered it, but then some said, water is not good,
pour less, I poured lesser,
leaves withered...
Some said, you're pouring less, pour more,
and so did I,
and leaves did not grow at all,this time...

I knew not what to do,
once water was more,
and so was once the fodder, the plant fed upon...

Now, I try to put it back together,
but withered leaves are but withered leaves,
they do not stick back...

I do not know if new leaves will grow again,
I do not know if the plant is going to survive,
a helpless state, I just stand,
looking at it dying,
dying in contempt, crying out,
'you never got it right,
you never did understand!'

I shiver, I shiver at that thought,
at the thought that I was foolish,
foolish enough to love it, but not know how...

The long winter plight has just passed,
and yes, it seems I survived the cold deathly winds,
and the freezing nights of black blankets,
but through the fierce ghastly winds,
my plant half died...

Now, after all this time,
I stand here looking at the plant,
which has decided to look away from me,
even yesterday, yet another leaf fell,
and all I could do was,
wipe a small trickle on my face...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Song for the cantering alleys and the urchins' glee...

Amidst the cantering alleys,
throttled ahead by a desperate need...
The boweys and the chambers, ready,
the ballroom, ahead, rolled carpet,
red as a mystic flame and,
burning interest on the evening's affairs...

Mammoth riches loaded for the moment,
and music or dance, daylight's own fruition...
All chatters and mutters, pitched higher in the
seasonal bloom, while horses neighed at the sight...
And in all the parading urchins,
a widening glee, until the tempest
did rise high from the sea...

Valour sung, knights on the sword's oath,
did spread the carpet, and
hence stopped the froth flow...

Amidst all the cantering alleys,
in the end,
glee prevailed on the urchin faces...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

Prisoner of Rehabilitation...

His navel bruises weren't hurting much,
the scalp and his limbs neither...
His ulcers were all healed,
and the swollen up face was,
getting back to normal...
The purple tinge was fading,
colour coming back to the injured skin...

Mended - those broken down shacks,
rebuilt - all the devastated villages...
All plundered rucksacks - now refilled...

No more epidemic,
no more war,
all bullets drained of the fire,
and all fire of its flame...

Air was still again, and birds were again heard after ages...
And amidst all this,still
in the resurrected society,
in this community of healed individuals,
still there hung an air - scarred...

Scarred where no physical symptoms showed...
Scarred where no reason was left untold...
To that place where it survived, we gave the name heart,
and it still lingers, no matter how time had mitigated,
and still in that place, where it was fed with hurt and loss,
outlived all the medicines and herbs, the scar of hatred...

And out there, lingered the shadow,
which never healed, ready to strike,
at a moment's call...
Somewhere it has remained, untold...

Necessarily needed to heal,
more than the purple bruises on face,
it needed to heal... But still lingered on...

And all that I can do is wonder,
has it healed yet?
Or are we brewing another storm...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju

The Smokey Tavern...

Inside that smokey tavern,
a little off the road, there sat,
a little dwarf with a beard longer
than his limbs, and arms sturdier
than the horns of the meadow's strongest ox...

Here in that tavern, he sat with a mug of ale,
wiping droplets off his long mane,
and beside him a dark man, with
wrinkled pallor and twisted gaze,
smoked on his pipe, casting circles of
poison into that misty haze...

There in the smokey tavern,
where coming and going of all sorts,
took place under the oily lamps and
under the dusty floor, amidst the four hounds' snorts...
Hark! Hark! Ho, behold, there came a
band of colourful lads, wearing merriment upon their face...

Suddenly the tavern turned crimson sprayed,
as the bearded dwarf and the twisted man,
turned their axe and knife upon the band's jugular veins...
All drunken else, spared a minute to watch digressed,
then went back to their ale and the old game of mistrust...

Next morning, the tavern Lord's servant buried those
dead colourful faces, and by evening,again all was smokey,
and the tavern half hidden in that ominous haze...

© Karthik Adithya Singaraju