Signed in as:
filler@godaddy.com
" But, wait " Courtesy: Manas Vallabh
Give me a gift tonight,
Of what you think it is,
That is priceless,
In a night of mismatched frequencies;
Will it be a peck?
Or a flying kiss?
Or those feelings are to be rays of the sun,
That shine with your thoughts
and cut across my deck!
There is to belong, within us,
A connection,
And I say this,
That no gem,
Worth an iota,
Comes as first!
Can I put you in the presence
Of a rocking element, worthy of a second,
And you will know,
That I am talking about times of peace?
Believe me, there are no funny lines,
Between what I have been taught,
And what I have learnt as an experience,
When It comes to the greatest creation,
Of certainty and that of a vision!
I hate to spoil it for you when repeated endeavours,
In the absence of proof, raising doubts,
Makes you cross your fingers,
Just to be sure, of an estimate,
In exhibiting a regret, and your remorse,
As you see - the world receives 'the act',
Firstly, with an acceptance,
Regardless of stature,
And then the interpretation,
Changes as a come and go!
That is the power in an act of word,
When a thousand of them change,
Of what has to be said;
Yet, a whisper with a subdued sound,
Remains a secret between us,
Presenting a silence sorted after a buzz,
As a gift hovering upon,
An agreement to be a penultimate contact.
And then, our eyes meet again.
It should be a great evening for a walk,
Until a sundown,
And for all those,
Who sighted me with a hint of slight, on a pretext,
Of their egoistical journeys –
It is in my admittance of breaking it to you,
And quietly putting you at a higher place,
Where you can see for yourself,
In all clarity between what I believed to be you,
And that which is a vivid sense of an imagination;
Now, coming to a factor that changed –
Honesty, which is also a gift,
That which you so clearly think can be misused,
And as you see an abundance of it in me,
Makes you crave in what you lack;
No doubt, a number remains exact,
And a count to ten or less pitted against me,
May be a pick to an end of a period,
But believe me, the smiles I earned for credit are deceptive,
Keeping you at another level in perspective.
Did you forget?
If you did, I should be pleased,
In reminding you,
That it is just not about 'the wait';
You see, there were big loose ends,
To be tied. Nevertheless,
I perform in all the stillness,
Of specific reminiscence to all of it in us,
Along with a hope of you in my future;
With that, the words I had to eat,
For each of it, a flood in other's paisa,
Fell out, bursting and tearing out of my stomach,
And you say, I have earned enough?
Yes, points I may have many,
In all the age of my sunshine,
I see you at a window,
Bestowing grace and elegance,
As if, an abundance has none of it on a tab,
And as far as I see, the story didn’t end –
On one hand, there is desire,
And on the other, a bag of mixed emotions;
But, the contrast sees the light of day,
And you still remind me of a boundary?
Why do you put yourself to test?
For all that of me in recollection –
A past, you so deeply wish to know
And, I surely with no failing doubt,
Will reciprocate, and credit a cause to you;
Forgive me, for I establish again,
In your attempt of an exposure,
Of me, being less worthy? As seen,
Your interest in me, never subsided;
So, we begin, in my understanding,
That there is a clause? I don’t read fine print,
For a want of belief, in belonging to one as fine as you,
And it can be real as of veritable institution.
The time is up, so they say,
I beg to differ but suffer,
A consequence so incredible,
Of falling into a produce,
of a credence to rip apart,
a lack of scarcity in shyness;
A raw sight,
and an indomitable spirit,
In all that you show,
Of body and in mind- have mercy;
We are an audience,
To your sequence,
In length and breadth,
Of ecstasy sitting right in front with
What we know now - a 'wait' doesn’t lie,
And so does, I believe, my expression.
That begets deception,
And in other four dimensional realities,
A thickened glass of a door was hit
With sticks and stones,
And as an outcome –
The shape of an exhibit with,
Prolonged lines, pour into a center of
A flower with petals so uniquely designed,
That it was a mistaken form of unclaimed talent.
And then, I question - how can it be broken with such precision?
My apologies included as a scare in a reverse gear,
And with a conveniently assigned converse of an image,
So perfectly placed, that a number,
Of thoughts passed in a point of stare –
To you, I raise my hand held up high and this concerns,
An issue, deeply rooted as that my request persists
At coming to your intention and that which reveals,
A purpose, in vogue, excluding the absence of a fork,
In a flow of untamed energies and suppressed subsequences.
I encourage you to keep at it –
Your composition in mirth makes a fancy,
Of an existence within a human so lucky,
That I begin to count on an increasingly strong belief,
Pertaining to magical moments around you,
And yet, plead for it not to deviate, and succumb to redundantly exercised sorcery.
I hold up a nomination for you to come to return -
It is that easy and I assure you 'the wait' will still not be over;
The appreciation in a mercurial rise and the depreciation in that class of censure,
At an enclosure, must be kept in sight for great times ahead.
But wait, am I just preaching? Or, am I present in a delightfully converging focal point?
I wait to be a legend of highest capacity as a set up of your belief in my abilities. It is indeed, an incredible moment, for which I could throw caution to the winds, hope that the credit goes to you and we don't fall out of the ceremonies. As I see, there is to present a hand and with it comes a magical wand - run with it or ruin it, at that moment, when sparks begin to fly.
"A start" Courtesy: Manas Vallabh
In all weather,
Think of the river flowing,
In its mode,
Never budging in its route,
And as in its nature, it’s mingling,
With all of that was carried.
And then, the rain brought,
Fervour and excitement,
As an interplay –
Bringing joy,
To the seas and oceans,
When the river joined it all!
Come to think of it, there is greenery,
In a famished world,
When trees, with fruits,
In their ripening - we devour -
“Yum, Yum and Yummy”.
To look for a range when,
Flowers blossom,
In a time of spring and tell,
“I bring colour, I bring colour”,
To all of the gardens in nature,
And claim,
'I ring a “tring, tring”,
When the birds “sing, sing”'.
Don’t forget autumn:
“I am no less; Nevertheless,
I come before winter,
And celebrate the fall colours”.
Winter is no worse:
While we see,
The snowflakes that fell,
For a reason, and tell us all,
“I can drop, I can drop”,
From the skies.
And, it’s a treasure’s worth –
All in a magical and wondrous trick.
There is always sunshine:
As you are, that which welcomes you into my life,
And in whichever season you wish to make an appearance -
That season becomes a favourite,
Keeping away, the rest of the year,
And I may tell a tall story which has a start that goes by
“I will have an excuse not to forget that reasonable year”.
It is not quite obvious, yet!
With a graph of a life event,
And a withholding expression in raging desire –
An equation of a season in selection,
With variables, you and I,
Could be solved with a solution that entails
All of it being in reach of a particular mix.
Now, that is not a three dimensional lie.
“With honours” Courtesy: Manas Vallabh
Born into this wonderful world,
Out of the womb of a mother,
And with a slap on a butt cheek –
I began my beautiful life with a cry.
My parents had joy exploding,
That a child becomes a boon in life and,
Being so little, so delicate – at set go,
Promised themselves to raise me in craft.
Forget about the world,
But unlimited, when I could say the first word-
Amma or Nanna – a sensation,
That was created in their credulous imagination.
I would stop at that,
Alas! Life beckons on creation,
As a point in elevation,
And I am part of being a culprit.
To say,
It rained and it rained hard,
When I was born,
And I was told, I was part of a miracle,
As I was to be a major part in my parent’s life.
Unfortunate, the turn of events,
That they don’t exist anymore,
And I see it as an expression,
With my hand raised to my face,
And it belongs,
Of blowing dust off my fingers,
In that they settled,
On a pyre, I set fire to!
The memory is recurring,
With as much as a thought in deposit,
In exchange of their death in my life,
And I am to consider a transcendence,
In all of the words that come-by my way,
At an absence of sensitivity.
Going back in time,
I was a Scottish lady on stage,
In school, when life was supposedly fair,
For all those who saw me as happy,
And in that moment lived,
An era, hard to forget,
Of my performance which was obligatory,
Of a little boy presenting himself to be a little girl,
As per the wishes of the crowd.
Kudos to my mother,
Who closely focused and made sure,
To have none in offense,
Which I think is a feat,
Of one who is a saviour,
Of all those in favour,
To a life of a boy,
To be in decadence,
Of becoming a man in future.
My father, of being called better
Than of being called less handsome,
Clapped from among the audience.
How I wish I remembered,
The music of a dance that made,
Me so popular and if you wish,
I could enunciate every word,
That was not said on stage,
And me being a “Scottish lady”.
I paint a pretty picture,
For it is my life,
And I remembered to be presented,
As dapper and with a hint of red cheeks,
And pink tidy lips that would utter,
The only dialogue I don’t remember.
The clamour of just my presence,
On stage brought an ovation,
To a crowd delighted,
For a boy was just a boy,
Who agreed to be on that day,
A quintessential Scottish Lady!
My tad bit of personality,
Bellowed in all of humour,
With every other boy envious,
Of carrying out a fancy little riddle,
At a point in time when all
Else was missing in action.
I could elaborate,
But I am a grown man,
Eligible to be married soon,
And I look for a lady,
Who suits a so called fairy tale imagination.
The drama,
Called to be less dishonest,
Got a cheer for a rippling bravado,
In being a form in lady at an age of five,
On a request from my mother,
And a few teachers,
And who dare say –
A boy had it in him,
In admitting to be on the side of feminism,
And for all those girls absent in an all-boys school.
But why a Scottish lady?
On stage in front of a bewildered crowd!
I see life as different,
In the current age –
And I should leave it at that!
I must talk of masculinity,
"The power in being called a man",
But I remember doing it for a mother,
Who wished her boy turned out to be a man
That understood her and a typical circumstance.
At the end of play,
I remember that kiss on my cheek,
From my mother –
Elated and proud.
For now, I cease to be a five-year old boy,
And yes, I ceased to be a ‘Scottish lady’,
The very evening of my performance on stage.
In grand humour and decent times –
That for you, clearly is the power of mother’s love.
And, my father gladly shirked it off his shoulders,
While I had made it with honours!
“Her flying red heart” Courtesy: Manas Vallabh
I fly to unapproved heights and out in an open sky,
When there is no onus on a closed eye,
As if a structured approach would limit,
My desire to catch a second, and chain a time.
I bleed and so I did, at every moment so far,
When all that was felt and fell on ground,
Was a dripping liquid mixing with weightless soil,
And which was that of an undiscovered earth.
The world sipped into an ecstatic effervescence,
I claim to be mine, and none other of that I choose,
And why would I?
My right is reserved over humankind reading a phrase.
I plead and I forgive, I clap and I applaud,
To whomsoever, that has a slight sense of knowledge,
And why wouldn’t I?
You learnt and experienced a phase of life!
That’s when I walked across a bridge built,
As with stoned foundation pillars supporting,
An ancient manner of belief – Walls,
Don’t crash, and most definitely not in our time.
Then came the time when an event caught my attention,
Of a stalled image of a man hitting a wall,
And now standing at a distance, begging for a revival,
In his plea for his familial bond be strengthened.
The image turns and makes itself onto a motion,
Upside down and back into a perfect place,
To see, all the time, the spirit churning in various directions,
Until when I command a spell for it to pause.
My wings took flight to a view of a different sigh,
When my bearing had a deeper meaning to express,
And so deeply I felt for him to feel my desire –
The man in an image was defending his cause.
All of when his opinion finds proof,
That he was on a right of his cause,
And did it make sense? At an expense that he was sure,
How lame my intensity of wanting him was to be in occurrence!
Yet, I believe the bottom line was at an impression in disguise,
To ratify of a person’s integrity that could as easily be questioned,
Because it can be and why not?
A reason undisclosed, favouring a red heart’s intent,
Would cause an inkling of happiness,
Even though for a place,
At a corner, and for that, it needs a signature,
By aid of an apparatus delivering a momentous attribution.
Then, the man fell into his inner consciousness,
In all his manliness, to prove the heart healed,
And with the drop, for the image sent a known miscommunication,
Breaking an illusion of a wall that appeared to have existed.
What else can an image suggest?
In all honesty, of all that can’t be spoken,
And the said discomfort, of a need,
In an appreciative momentum. Could it be stopped?
