Helpless in Orbit

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The mystic’s marvel
a storyteller’s delight
a scientist’s fact
that a poet distorts.
Floating free, yet held
by an invisible force.
A broken, barren surface
holding countless hearts
Appearing, disappearing
without a will of its own,
The illusionary show
of a face that
remains the same
but appears different
in another’s shadow.
The ball that glows
in a borrowed light,
yet seldom complains
of its helpless plight.
The sight that inspires
a memory of the beloved,
it’s presence a must
for the goriest folklore.
From the blade of a knife
drawing blood to feed a desire,
To a tooth or a claw
that turns red on its prey,
From a pen that writes
after a dip in the red
of the heart,
To the tear
that falls quietly
in the solitude of the night,
From the eyes
that see its magic
To the blinds
that shut it out,
The secret liaisons
amongst unnamed shadows,
the meeting of hearts
the passions of the night,
the acts of cowardice
against their own
by those that lurk
with a diminished
damaged internal light,
It has no choice
but to witness it all.
When day breaks
it is banished
out of sight
lest it succumb
to temptation
and let out the secrets
the stories that scream
to see the light of day
but buried in darkness
will never be told.
And the mystic smiles
at the thought of it
for the power
of this helpless form
he alone knows,
What hides in light
within and without,
comes alive
when darkness falls,
And sometimes if
it is in the mood
the magical moon-light
brings to the fore
even that, which tries to hide
in the deepest depths
of the darkest night.


A Snail Story

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They call me slow
To the point of shame
They race ahead
For something more
Shore to shore
Their speed they measure
Against my slide
Their directions many
No compass to guide
A dwindling life
Scattered by their goals
One aim achieved
Another hundred to go
They catch the day
But miss the sun
Their nights are seldom
A dance in the moonlight
From the rain they hide
But on fame they thrive
Trying to outlive
Their limited life
I look at them
The most intelligent
Of all creation
As one by one
They leave me behind
An unheard shout
A humble plea
Don’t you trespass
On this house of mine
I may be slow
Don’t have far to go
I see the sun
And dance in the rain
The nights too
Are bright for me
You carry your brains
I carry my house
You keep your pace
Your make believe race
You search for a home
I was born with mine
In this game of life
To win is to fail
Slow down a little
And an inch sometimes
Can be a mile
But then who knows
I am just a snail.


A Tale of Two


He stands there
motionless, almost lifeless
rooted to the ground
that he was born from
Head held high
so high
even the clouds
seem like a garland
a pearly necklace
around his conical neck
Bathed by the rain
dried by the sun
a scattered coat of green
some visible crevices
the only sign of his age
each highlighted
by the flattering rays of gold
His character rock solid
amidst the myriad visions
of changing colours
reflections and deflections
of the falling light
on the grandeur
of his physical presence
as the sun travels
across the sky
Crowned by the gods
whom he can almost see
holder of the celestial taps
which never run dry
all the trickles collect
around where he stands
to form the blessed
life giving silvery flow.

Into this canvas
of relative stillness
and repetitiveness
almost from nowhere
she suddenly comes
A force of life
mysterious in appearance
for there is really
none to describe
And for once
the eyes fail to see
what the other senses
can strongly feel
Free in her thoughts
with no ties and no bonds
no borders to bind her
no boundaries to define her
Reaching out with her arms
dancing around him
engulfing him in an embrace
from down to his feet
to higher than his crown
teasing him
to join in a step
singing to him
the song of the winds
gently caressing
his coat of green
till the leaves too
join her in her dance
the waters applaud
with a clapping sound
as they try to rope in
the boring rocks.

With her invisible entry
the picture on the canvas
suddenly seems
to come alive
Yet he does not move
and steadfast stands
seemingly ignorant
of this untamed force
but surely
not unaffected
by her soulful presence
Unoffended by his stupor
she continues her play
he follows her movements
as she twirls around
he feels her energy
and within him
he is moved.
Nothing ever changes
in the way they meet
the parting is always
one sided too
he stays
and she disappears
no farewells
and no tears shed
For she knows
when she returns
he’ll still be there
and he knows
that free as she may be
she will be back
it is a strange bond
shared between the two
And some love stories
neither have a beginning
nor a conceivable end
and that’s how it goes
for this one too –
the tale of
the grounded Mountain
and the free flowing Wind.


An Eye Story

Even when both are open,
they cannot see each other,
However there is no space
between the vision either sees,
Their direction is always the same,
The distance is never felt,
unless reflected in a mirror,
But it’s the scope of their vision
which unites them seamlessly.