A Quest on Overdrive … :)

An eccentric rambler on life's lessons and mercies, found and lost… :)


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Nit-Picker’s Ballad

On the loveless shores of dissatisfaction
He wanders, dark and sombre.
She said she loved him, you see.
And he wonders why.

You, the reader, would now smell a skunk.
You don’t? You’re supposed to. There!
Why does he wonder why! Because, you think?
Fine. But why?

He wonders, that’s why.
Now, why he should, does it matter at all?
No, you think? Why not, I ask.

Walking the shores, with promises of love
Given endless dreams, and lustrous hopes
A hand held warm, a heart cosseted gently
Why would he wonder? Why should he?

But then he is that alter ego of everyman
The one that never takes on trust,
The one that fell foul of love
The one who found no love within.

And yet that one, too, is he
That quietly stood, and braved the angst
When she lost her mooring.
Gathered her when she was washed ashore
From a tumultuous voyage, bereft, and battered.
She knew. Though he did not.
Saviour he was not. Survivor, he was.
As was she.

A pause to this tale, here now;
To tell you how love, it creeps upon you.
Perhaps to envelope, perhaps to smother,
But always to fill each pore, till replete it is.
And so it was, with her. She knew.
And so it was, with him. He did not.

So there comes, then, this moment:
Survivor to survivor; the honesty of a heart,
The unfathomable depths of utterance
And the incomprehensible betrayal of the ear.

She confessed. He ran.
In circles, on that loveless shore afore mentioned.
What then? The storyteller is asked.
What then? And you wait with bated breath.
Willing a fairy tale to happen.
Knowing that some things are never to be.

Will he stay?
Will she accept, then?

But ah! The threads, they dissemble, the weave fragmented…
And the spell of the storyteller is broken.
He sighs. His gnarled fingers wrap themselves around his staff.
And on, he plods.

Thinking, dreaming, of what could have been.
Had he stayed.

1 March, 2013
Online, on yet another silly line of thought 🙂

Part II of this ballad, so-called, is here (LINK) – edited to add on 18 Jan, 2015


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Free

The gust of wind that blew
Did not take away the weight
I thought it would.

If anything, I feel heavier
For the storm, that rained on,
Did not cleanse, it only drenched.

Heavy, deep inside, with no hope
Of ever shedding that baggage of grief.

When you lose, shouldn’t you be light?
For you are suddenly free, severed.

Of responsibility, of being bonded.
Of love.

You are that kite, soaring on freed string.
You are that feather, blowing thither, every which way.

YOU are free.

And there is free. Again.
Free of you.
Free to keep you ever, in my heart.
To know sometimes, visit memories.

Free to grieve.

I wonder, though, when
Ever
I will be.
To.

29 January, 2012


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Angst – a Jorio

Bottled emotion spills over
Wild eyes, aflame, errupting
Then sizzling, stinging, hurting
Into icy pearls, unforgiving
17 January, 2012
***
A Jorio is cuboid writing, four lines, four words on each line, on a theme. More explanation on the form, with the previous and debut Jorio here 🙂


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Patches on the ceiling

(This is post is entirely inspired by Arjun, the First Born, my caregiver (along with my parents and Chandrika), who insisted I had to be inspired by my forced inactivity, or rather my debilitating condition (lol), to write something with this title. His wish had come to be assayed thus :P. Happily enough, it is being typed out on his laptop.  )

These many days, past,
Prone, unmoving, almost
Enveloped in a fine mist of pain
I never saw
The patches on the ceiling.

They smoothened in a blur
As I lay on my back
And looked, eyes
Distant with the discomfort
That grew to be a part of me.

I felt, almost proudly, I now wonder,
In retrospect, my whole self
Neatly accomodating to pain.
And how I never demurred, protested
At its intensity. Vain, I certainly am!

Yet now, forced out of this
painful, accomodating complacency,
I sometimes writhe, hurting,
Crossing new thresholds of recovery…
The blur fades, focus sharpens
And I see the ceiling for what it is.

So like me.
Uneven, faint scars of reworked plastering.
Stretches smoothened, especially around corners…

And the patches, Oh yes-
Each one, clear, takng shapes
That make me smile.

And one, that stands out, distinct.
An ode, a toast perhaps
To a certain denizen of the region.
Long, slim, tapered at one end
Softly triangulared at the other
The entire length, pockmarked
With tiny peeling whorls of pain(t)
A shape bubbled out, by the damp.

So like my familiar friend, who visits
Each dusk, as the lamp lights,
To haunt my twilight wall. Our gecko!

And now, you know, I’m glad
I see, and know, those patches on the wall!

5 October, 2011


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In Retrospect

Wallowing in time…
That brings back breaths
Of aeons past-
You prompt. You jolt.
I realize. And regret.
At the brilliant needlepoint
Of pain, accrued, in blue,
Sometimes red.
Bled cold with each pin-prick
In crafting this
Unforgiving image of my undoing,

If only there was time
To go back, before
Meeting unnamed destinies-
Time to undo that intricate
Weave, and weft, and warp
Of pain-
Undo, thread by painful
Thread, all my inconsistenties
My selfishnesses, thrust upon you-

A reprieve- at least, this day
I glimpse anew, that design
Of regret-
Knowing, absorbing,
Seeking and receiving
Your forgiveness.

Framed in acceptance,
Kept aside, with quietude-
Only to peek, when again
I may falter…
To guide, when I may lose
Myself, yet again,
Subjugated by insidious
Webs of duties that tie me down.

To seek strength, knowing
That I shall not, again,
Craft, of myself, another such
Mosaic of regret and pain.

25 September, 2011