Monday, September 20, 2010

Him, and Our Duty

A brief story-
About a journey to glory.
Of an humble and unattended birth,
Transcends into a model for the entire earth.
A fight against poverty,
A conflict to depose tyranny,
A struggle for the common man,
Opposed by the notorious, rich and the powerful clan.

The blood demanded food and freedom.
The oppressed voiced through Trotsky, their medium.
Victory was achieved.
Only to be lost to the obscure.
The battle at the expense of blood continues,
Finishing the job is what we have to ensure.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

A Musical Identity Crisis

It was a fine guitar.
My dearest possession.
The tool to escape my life,
The life without any prominence or distinction;
The life, a mere proof of an existing biological function.

The only sense was from the music I understood.
The sounds created by those strings over the wood.
The notes would drown me to that world of imagination.
This was all I had for a fascination.
But it was not long that I lost my only passion.

The afternoon still survives in my memory,
The door bangs open, my uncle standing with a face
That gave away his fury,
His red eyes, the smell of his presence
Corroborated our doubts of his untimely alcoholic indulgence.

My mother screamed out Vociferous,
But the guitar did not stop.
I still don’t know-
If the attempt was prosperous
Or the musical protest was a flop?

The reek came closer,
The fingers played louder and faster.
The dipsomaniac spoke-
My price was settled by the dealer.
Enough to meet the addict’s expenditure.

The Music stopped for the last time.
The guitar was snatched and there ended
The play of notes, so sublime.
My mother would not let me go.
The dirty hands pushed her on the floor.
The sight made the anger in me grow
The addict had to be thrown out of the door.
He walked to my mother and kicked her to cry.
I lifted my guitar to give it a different try.
The guitar played a sound again
But this time it was for no musical gain.
The smash to his head made him fall on my feet.
The blood on the floor did not make me feel guilty any bit.

The Music had ended long back,
Now me and my guitar searched the identity rack.
It was not a weapon to kill,
But an instrument to feel.
And I was teased by everybody as Dumb Bill.
But not a boy of murderous skill.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

A Dream Called Life

A dream called life,
With sparks of fire,
With energy infinite,
And experiments excuisite.

With joy unending,
And love outpouring,
Though grief is a burden-
But it surely will get the curtain.

A new show will begin
High on drama and rich with chances.
Again a lot of solace, and a lot of greivances.
Life is a dream with all these nuances.

None opts for an answer.
None should question good or bad.
Just enjoy the bloom of a flower,
Equallly the pain of being sad.

The unknown unveils in its familiarity.
The known cheats in its solidaririty.

life is a dream!!

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Pleasing for many, Unpleasant for most.......

Look at the sun,
Enjoy the rain,
But do not forget
That they do bring pain.

People without a hut,
Mass in search of food,
What joy may sun or rain bring to them,
When they all suffer the loot?

Its easy for one to enjoy;
With a shed above the head,
With food on the plate,
But who asks the one, who
Regularly struggles for a bread,
And has the footpath for the bed?

We indulge in such pleasure
Not just in our leisure,
But also in our ignorance.