logikal’s blog

Just Pigs

If I have the Time

And you tend to list

In other words,

Acquire an inclination

Play Clementine, let’s say

Walk the chalk line

With whiskey

Kiss me-

And say all is fine…

Just get the inclination

Loaded with the lore

And dreams that burst

At the seams

And be tipsy

That rhymes…

With gypsy

You know the rules in this game

We live in places without a name

And we drink and look into the eyes

And dream up new, brand new lies

Witches brew

Mainly you

And you lips pucker and say

Swine

Be mine

Even if it is my poems

It isn’t me…

Eh Piggess?

It began decades back between the explicit songs in those way side tavern radios and clandestine searches for Lady Chatterley’s Lover. A brazen classmate, who targeted the English teacher confided… with tall stories!

We were gangling kids, black tufts on faces and places, we bargained for introductions to the skirted things, there were fights, we made up and hung around… hounding in packs and trying to run ahead of the pack too simultaneously. We were wolverine.

Soon the songs stole our hearts- college examinations, athletics and sports took over- we became ascetics and yearned till they gave in, bit by bit- they too had fights, and surrendered.

We found girls, those succulent fruit shops, the deodorants and the divas merged at times in limited edition explorations, or at the indoor courts games and late night candle lights… we became Spielberg fans in midnight séances, seldom caught in our compensating acts, counterfeiting love since the majority of our souls lay submerged in fudge.

We slowly cancelled our pledges- we found with alacrity, methods of giving up, moving on, gathering no dust, no moss, unopposed, we found intimacy, bodies hardened, the beard now bristled.

License!

It moves sometimes, sometimes it just remains moored as
if in thought

People walk in, people move in on beds of flowers and
tears

Ceremony, the faces of companions that walk out show
relief

Their job done, not too keen to return, memories of the
soul just gone

Torments perhaps, this boat sails the river of
forgetfulness

Me? I watch from the shores, biding my time,

The fare here is like a moth’s dream

In transition, born, then becoming unborn…

In the morning of Time, then noon, then the ship sailed

With it load of embers, graves and silence of the Evening
that we all will face

Do you see that dragonfly perched on the boat’s deck?

All the sunlight and Darkness measure up to nothing on
its thin wings

The boat of have-nots never sounds its horns

Nor does the Captain ever show his face, I imagine He
just has scorn…

A View From The Strand

At a loss for words, we just stare hard- staring into the darkness ahead. We think and begin the dialog, of a silent sparring diligence of wondering, who spills his or her thoughts- a void, a chasm that yawns in drunken stupor.
A naked thought escapes, we grin. It walks past us…
Contact begins. We smile- we touch.
Like always, we do that. We wonder, naively agape.
“What shall we do?” we timidly laugh.
Another wasted moment. More follow.
The river has a tug boat receding downstream.
A poem begins in the murmurs of the wavelets… and the musk in the breeze waves semaphores.

Hey!

It is past time

When words become intimate strokes

Of a painting, an illusion

Spanish thoughts of a conquistador

Or an inquisition

Reaching into recesses

Of a heart, a corridor,

In the backyards

In a winding lane,

Heart lost, a whore torn

With gold and more

A pantomime

Of palms waving,

A star, somewhere sparkling

In a chilly winter night

It is past time

Hey!

So we walked within the wildness,

As the night listened to our words

A lone adventure,

Recalling our former ecstasies, at rest

To see

Heaving to and fro,

Believing we had found our nest

In a time long past?

Hey, I have to ask

Where do I leave you?

When I leave you tonight

Would it be the arbor-

Sipping nectar,

Would you be smiling-

Would you cry-

Or would I just fade away

Into the sunrise

Of this cold Winter day

OBLIVION

-I-

It was time I sought amid my memories

Quantum

A packet of thought, wrapped in oil paper

And sealed, tucked away,

A lost meandering neurotic lark

In a forest where nothing stirred

Like autumn, overcast, slowly drizzling

I tried to say something, my lips stilled,

Crisply held back, watching the sepia bloom hues

I tried then the words cloaked

In sweet ochre glow

And whatever was it that I wanted to say

to the world- it had gone away

Autumn gave way to winter,

The folds inside the labyrinth,

Perhaps the beginning of oblivion

In a wrapper, waiting for eons

Missing, unseen, those myriad unknown

Rows upon rows,

The past unopened

Or forever closed!

-II-

Oblivion

Vision

Sans sight,

A forever night

In a catacomb

Walking memories

Neurons afloat

Sparkling exchanges

Thoughts

Seeking bodies

Lost in transience

The ephemeral’s finale

Music spoke

In a winter of silence

Oblivion!