The Pleasure Before and After Poems

What is poetry?
Poetry is the night-magic
Of prayer, the last resort
After reality has hit

It’s the splash of appreciation
For beauty as the eye of
All tenderness and last lyrics
Poetry is the sound device

Of your heart as it
Smiles in metaphors
And transforms in tone
To the pattern of your genius

There is no good or bad poetry
It just exists, like language or
A calligraphy of sense and style
Mood’s personification in

The haiku of lasting resonance
A punctuation of grace
A syntax of serendipity
What is poetry?

It’s the last smile of movement
In alphabets, in the joy
Of laughter for any age
Poetry is what we feel

Before we say it
It’s uncensored melody
With a human voice
It’s the flower on a page

Of what we love in word-play
It’s the gratitude of being able
To see beauty and cherish the sacred
What is poetry which does
Not save nations or people?

Symphony of Silence

I am in need of music that would flower
like salvation for my fretful moments
my fingers tips to be the trembling melodies
of the deep, clear, liquid, universal voice
that is not my own voice, but all voices
for the healing swaying, old and low

i am in need of some song sweet
that echoes the trance of silence’s source
i am in need of peace, after quiet breath
of heart made still, after high blood pressure
i am in need of music that showers forth
crushing all obstacles in rhythm and sleep

for notes transport us into frequency
and everything boils down to frequency and light
balls of light that dance in space-time
a music of freedom, so i am reincarnate
into another form, on another world.

Photography Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Music-115768965

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To Death Are We All Bestirred

All souls of those I loved
Remain translated inside of me
Like a body of literature compact
A bright array of time’s swinging singularities

So many harps hung upon the balconies
All these guitars twanging for
Cheer divine, our star like courses
Comprehend the racing years

In wordless ascension towards our
Own kinds of bliss, mortal hearings
We are garlands of quatrains
Stanzas of the unyielding Almighty’s word

How we endure like spoken flutes
Of alien thresholds, invisible feelings
I am not sure, all spirits of those I treasured
Remain like jewelled ornaments

On the lips of children not my own
They will not take the earth by force
But by the bodies of their subtlety.

Under the Hands of Art

This rapture of the colors shivering
Strikes at the heart of my instinct
I secretly want to join

The future without consequence
To flood forward with the whims
Of imaginations not born yet

To strive, astonished and irreversible
Cutting all sense of abandonment
With the infantile revolt

Of seeking the last freedom
The hidden God within the eye-of-youth
Like a revolution of pure enthusiasm

I secretly want to join
The optimistic hoards of perfect melodies
A specter of notes, proverbs of lost moons

I give myself to quantum fragments
On a green canvas I plant my hunger
As an illusion, that no longer wishes to exist.