Twilight sparks

Words burn

the meek paper.

But papers,

not enough.

 

We kindle fire!

From blazing fire,

words hastily roar.

Thunder. Triangles.

 

Allow us to touch you.

We’ll do our share

like the groan of drums

to set you alight.

 

Let the world catch fire

and stumble on radiance.

From those little sparks

that were stirred by this Twilight.
 

Drunk

With intoxicated eyes

a gleaming tinge He conveys,

of a mysterious thread

constantly breaking this blistering insane.

One more word.

Just one more glance.

Just once more

to be drunk on His eyes again.

 

Meditate

First, her face dissolved with the walls.

Then her hands, she couldn’t feel.

Her feet vanished,

and so did her shoulders.

All that lingered, was her throbbing spine.

Everything else, flawless spacious infinite.

 

 

Poetry

Poetry kills.

Its magic traps us

in its serpentine fragrant passages,

now and again.

Rendering us feeble

before the sweetness that it is.

 

Poet

I'm no poet.

I know not

of metaphors

or alliterations.

 

I’m no poet.

I know not

of rhymes

or repetitions.

 

I am as unschooled as you.

But still, I write.

About you.

 

So, the world assumes I must have,

a favorite poet.

But oh! How do I let them know?

That my poet and poetry are both you?

 

Isha

At Velliangiri foothills, lives

a cheery abode.

 

In there, reside Shiva

and His beautiful consort.
 

A space, little.

Yet, with love it is flooding.

 

A home, unperturbed.

Yet, graciously unsettling.

 

Merging

His is the name, I find myself recite,

every so often.

 

His is the energy, I find myself sip,

every so often.

 

His is the presence, I find myself caress,

every so often.

 

His is the dream, I find myself visit,

every so often.

 

He is the sea, I want to jump into.

He is the womb, I want to crawl back to.

 

Would you know if

my poems are of Shiva?

Or of my Master?

 

Because after that night, for me,

two lines have gently begun to merge.