The Poetic Journey

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The Poetic Journey

There is a fasciation in doing
What we do, it might have been
The most genuine obsession I came upon
An altruism of a neurochemical

Some self-reward mechanism akin to
Meditation, the journey of words
It’s a customer journey of art
Of taking a craft and doing it

For an hour, a year, a lifetime
Musicians practice ten hours a day
But I’m compelled to listen
To the silence and for collisions

To collude with voices, ghosts, poets
To love what you do in gender, exhibition
Without rewards, not for profit
Sharing it freely with a world

Anonymous, not regretting
Borrowing and borrowed
Never really bored, only sitting alone
For hours pouring, peering, patiently

Waiting for the ideas of the soul
That I might do what you do
And become a bit of what you are
The sacred in the mundane

And a mystic in the invisible
Sifting language for a golden moment.



The Prologues are over, they are done
The questioning is a fiction of not accepting
A Life we are given, choices in a fiction
An ultimate Elegance in an imaged land

Surreal are the chapters that made up
Our stages of experience, our stories
Of belief, we were islands of voices
Each playing out our internal narrative

From the inside-out, like a diamond pattern
Of the algorithms of fate, it wasn’t a rumor
It was the feeling of being burried in Jasmine flowers
The weight of walking over newly fallen snow

We lived without external reference
Hoping to reinvent ourselves in some design
But the Sea is so many written words
With vowels that all sound the same

Made of white foam and water molecules
With a rosy-golden rain of the same waves of Light.

Requiem for Everyone


Everything has its own hour
Where loved, treasured, not sold –

becomes our everything for a time
Until ‘nothing can last forever’ becomes
the day, the month, the mysterious year
where fate can unravel in a turn

So be it, looted, betrayed, traded, doomed
Our life is a mystery of cherry perfume

of laughter and fountains, transparent
as the constellations which depict
the cosmic story of individuality
miraculous, dark and the stories

We have always known until they
Happen to us, we encompass everything
Eaten by time’s hunger, under the wing of stars.

Photo Courtesy:

Mapping That Which Brought Forth Honey


It’s breathwork to play with syntax
Like underwater synastry of phrasing
The cadence is a cukoo of metre

I refuse consensus of syllable-count
I’m articulate without parameters
A free-verse bird’s call, a terrible fret

Of the higher forms of expression
A particular stanza, the way the wind blows
Agreeable in a certain slant of light

It’s breathtaking to shape music
And juggle fiction like ethereal plot
The trees, they have a last-chance

Threshold of dispossessing the wind
The poet, purifies language
In ceremony that ponders our hulking innocence

Those parts in us which are still raw
To the core of world-class lyrical topography.