p e n n i e s

Pic : Internet

put all your pennies
in your pocket,

and count them often
to know they’ve grown,

walk the happy step
with head held high,

and hear the jingle
of their clinking song,

enjoy the feeling
of this cold comfort,

for they define you
in the world you live,

and when your steps
are close to their end,

you’ll know which songs
really mattered the most.

————————-

Vidur
07Dec17

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b a t o n s

IMG_20170222_091556
pic: self

words
posted
on paper
or an
electronic
screen,

eventually
catch dust
or get lost
amongst
the growing
data heap,

but,
its always
so wonderfully
reassuring
to see,

new names
underneath
meaningful
beautiful
verses,

that’ll keep
adding
new pages
of words
each day,

to the ones
that
already sang
their
hearts song,

and now
happily
rest
beneath.

—————–

Vidur
05Apr17

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m i s t

The clock does not
turn back it’s hands
the best have often
tried and failed,

The winds tickling
the leaves to dance
too disappear onward
without a trace,

The sun and moon
the only tricksters at large
pretending what passes
can always return,

Me, was just a mist
touched by all the above
could neither fight the clock
nor the fleeting breeze,

And pretence was
a sacred mantle
only reserved for those two
celestial visual treats.

———–

Vidur
23Mar17

tunnel of light

tunn.jpg
Photo: Unknown – internet

 

no longer has
any complaints
that it was dark,
no longer asks
how much longer
this will last,
and no longer
do the eyes
search for the
proverbial light,
that marks
its imagined end.

for now
it feels a more
familiar territory,
with possibilities
of explorations
undistracted
unhindered
and undefined,
for now strangely
accustomed to
to the external
darkness,
there seems
to be
alive within,
some silent
guiding light.

for what
had started
as a lonely trek,
through an apparent
fortified encasing
of dark walls,
has slowly
transformed
those limiting
boundaries,
into a blackboard
for random words,
chiselled
onto its stone,
to mark this
passing presence,
in the here
and the now.

paradoxically,

the journey
goes on
no longer
motivated by
the hope
of an end,
or the vision
of a light
nor the pressure
of maintaining
any pace,

it now happens
on its own,
as the makeshift
blackboard,
preserves
each etched word
close to its heart,
and slowly
and willingly,
continues
to run,
out of space.
————–

Vidur
21Mar17

Musings – ‘honesty’

Photo: Self

Strange is the world
where being real means –
learning fifty shades
of honesty,
The further you move
from  what is pure,
there is a perceived increase,
in your apparent sensitivity,

A world which seeks
purity in water, air,
and all metals of worth,
Convenient dilutions
happily maintain –
a sometimes
disturbing balance,
between you, me, and society.

————————–

Vidur
20Mar17

d o t s

unnamed.jpg
The Starry Night- Vincent van Gogh – (Colors modified)

Stories,
could be worded
in artfully crafted
captivating prose,
or strung together
in decorative garlands
of an enchanting
fragrant verse,

Meanings,
could be layered,
visible in light
like a rainbows arc,
or delicately hidden
in the shades of
a lonely, boring
monochromatic
world,

Interpretations,
would be yours
to those few
word strings
which may
seep in,
and find a way
to the deepest
recesses of your
precious heart,

Titles,
given to my writings
are just like loosely
scattered dots,
lay them out
on your canvas
join them
and you’ll know,
what this little
journey of mine
was really all about.

—————-

Vidur
20Mar17

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