train of thought
Be still!
Breathe!
this taut rope of a mind
restless
shooting arrows
heavy footed elephants
though swift, straight
time- lapsed thoughts flitting by
along parallel paths
endless time
looks down
from the blue stillness
on the erasable
dot running on time
rushing grasping self
pants forth
flashbacks twists and miracles
compressed magical capsules
so unlike the original
too late
it is the final halt.
© Asha
at the post office
waiting in line
watching as
a handful of dreams float away
like snowflakes light on their feet
confetti meant for the blessed
looking for a place to rest
my tiresome cross,
I choose to wear it
a necklace.
messages enveloped
and stamped
with love and loneliness
are being bagged and boxed somewhere inside.
I wait in line with a few cards
none of which for the one,
looking around, vaguely aware of the music,
at the walls neutral, unaware
of the desperate posters
clinging
at the clock, at my companions
reading meanings, then discarding them,
solemn and silent,
young and old,
ready to charge
to the next available desk
where their souls
are laid to rest
even as I know
that no one waits for mine anymore
here, or across the seas
I am one with all, with my messages
waiting being a habit
that I wear rather well.
©Asha
Life (or death) displaced
last night's rain made a few Halloween decorations of its own,
of the roadside crew's warning signs
orange and black, they lie like bodies in benumbed sodden sleep.
nothing beautiful about it.
the cutout of a paralyzed piece of sky
the bare emaciated limbs stopped in its stretching
amidst the pale whiffs of clouds like slashes of bygone spirits
through the window's arch yet again
become eerie reminders of time standing still.
life is that which stands still.
being the dream that the dead weave
for change is not the constant anymore,
it is inert. like apathy. like death.
constant is that seeming change,
as in a movie, which makes one forget
that it is just a movie.
the heart is in that rush
the tearing off -- to lie down. to be still
like that piece of stubborn sky--
one with it
a day's work and a night's death
all in a day in eternity's book.
sleep, like that piece of sky, is the constant.
the battle between the clamor and the quiet,
when all one wants is the rest.
no one goes anywhere
nothing happens
not even to the busiest changer of changes,
the who is who of jeopardies,
buyers of forever stamps, that song of songs, of irony,
except that one comes to an ugly stop
despite all the sublimation, vocal, visual.
mournful chants, aromatic smoke, tasteful flowers
and sophisticated caskets make good movie
all part of that haste to be still,
exaltation of decay in dirt.
©Asha
The girl with the face like a watercolor painting
stood by the desk in the library.
people seemed to glide through her
as she stood there watching.
through her washed-out eyeson her watery egg-white face
loosely framed by blanched pastel hair
streaming blendingthe woman came with a stack of books
never looking at the girl
stealthily the girl eased into one
flooded the pages
with her clever colorings
negated any great wisdom
lurking in there
and left room for none else to fill in
all thoughts inhibited
every idea saturated.
the woman went away with her books
to read them at leisure probably
she would read nothing but
of the girl.
and the girl laughed soundlessly.
Perfection
for her,
it's all
or nothing,
my friend!
think you're a tattoo
inked deep onto her brain?
unerasable
that if she ever tried to
remove, would leave an ugly scar?
well, for one, she heals pretty fast
wounds disappear as if by magic.
she stays unmarked.
and for another, you are
just a little nonsense written
in sand on a beach
deletable -- effortlessly.
a line of lust, a bit of regard,
quarter of a smile, a hint of a tear,
and a one thirds of a hug,
all just a million symbols
scattered in texts
wired upon waves
amounts to nothing
to her
perfection is one.
a single point.
an earth.
she is the center
of gravity
of levity
where it is balanced
to perfection.
it is a whole life
an intense deluge
your beginning and ending
and everything in between
all for her
just for her.
for her, it's all
or nothing --
and
now
you are nothing .
Part of Me
How can you be a part of me?
You could never let me close.
I am invisible. a denser
shade of the usual decor.
How can i be a part of you
When I am nothing?
but a note that can be written over.
Shall I write to you?
What will I write? I used to write with
Dreams. unused, they dried up, and
they crumble between my thoughts.
I fear they will leave a stain,
if my tears were to fall on them,
that will remain to mock me.
so I smile and say,
but you are a part of me.
Like the stars are,
no warmth that I may touch, but
that I hoped there was. such was your sparkle.
How can I make you a part of me
If you are not real?
a vague melody that
trills to every passing pair of anklets.
i have to write you to make you mine
words will hold you in thrall
mold you in my image,
that keeps shifting in each play of light
and dark.
Are there silvery threads that run from the heavens to
Will they break if we touched them? bleed?
Or make music, soulful and sublime?
How can you be a part of me
If we don't harp on those lines?
and when we are tangled in knots
made by other ties?
Before my thoughts annihilate you,
let me say, you are a part of me
Like the stars are,
no warmth that I would touch, (it might burn) but
that I hope there is. such is your sparkle.
How can I not be a part of you
When I am nothing?
(but a sigh that will not be let
out of one's mind).
Possibilities: Mrs Varkey Poems
A short note about Mrs Varkey:
Just because poems are written about her, please do not assume that she is someone special. At best, mediocre, a fact of which she is aware, but cannot help it, she is all right, but she is shallow too., or prefers to be so. A product of the times when reality TV reigns supreme, and instant celebrities appear and disappear, when "feelings" are there to be aired before millions -- she has absorbed clichés from romances, from romantic poets, from books she read, people she see.... and she loves an intrigue! ;) as for Mr Varkey, what can I say except that he is a boob purveyor? and remember, when you see death, it also means there is, or was, life. :)
Mrs Varkey and the fish
Mrs. Varkey knew she was nothing
out of nothing out of nothing...
Mrs. Varkey looked in the mirror
and saw a face. she tried to
believe it was hers because that is what
everyone did.
Mrs. Varkey didn't want to know
that there was nothing there
that she was nothing out of nothing out of
nothing out of...
So Mrs. Varkey took a pill and walked
and walked.
and suddenly stopped.
as if a turtle had dropped from the skies
onto her head.
Mrs. Varkey had seen the fish.
She was walking along with the river
heard the faint gurgles which she likens
to fish giggling.
But the fish that she saw was dead.
its bottom stuck up like that of a diver's
and it's head was somewhere down under
pale and almost white, its scales worn.
Mrs. Varkey could not take her eyes off
Elated, that is what she was -- so!
there was fish in here!! real ones!
Mrs. Varkey wanted to dance. the possibilities!
"Morbid!" ,said her husband from far,
"your interest in that". but then
he was just a passerby, because that is how
Mrs. Varkey dealt with jarring notes.
She looked in the water hoping to see nothing
out of nothing out of nothing
the dead fish
bobbing again
the replay
vapid
s l u r p
of a
flaccid
wave's
futile
attempts
to
lap up
the sodden
brown banks
the sound of nothing out of nothing,
suck
suck
"ghoulish! what is there to look at so much!",
between her lips, she muttered, staring at him,
"jump! jump in, you passerby!"
and Mr. Varkey jumped right in.nothing into nothing.
and then
there was nothing... but walking.
Mrs Varkey at the circus
Mrs Varkey rubs her knees
they hurt from the high heels
she steps down daintily
down to her seat
"going to join the circus?"
asks Mr Varkey. and snickers
like a sick old horse
retired from the circus.
she waits for the show to begin
silent but
with beating heart
the pageant
glittering
nimble marching army
of dancers
clowns
elephants
tigers
the fanfare
loud like the live beat of a heart
as it should be
blue-green veins
marbling pale skin
glisten
in the neon glaze
of purple light
slithering
over white silk
slinking
swooshing on the floor
hard sinewy body
climbing up
and up
relentlessly agile
Mrs Varkey sits
choking hurting
the beauty! the grace!the strength!
the hard mountains they climbed
to reach this point!
this is real!
crystals in the corner
of her eyes
from the costumes maybe
Mr Varkey munches popcorn
picks apart sticky cotton candy
staring at the boobs
down in the front row
as blazing horses whiz past
taut muscles straddling
heads high
cape flying almost touching
the high-wire pair
on the beastly motorcycle
balancing
Atlas with the skeleton
of the dome open
hanging
tempo rising as trapezers
swing from spare ribs
searching looking
for that something
that Mrs Varkey wanted.
she strains to see high up
beyond and over
if only she could!
side-walk cafe
a certain shade of the eye
and a certain set of the lips in a man
drives Mrs Varkey wild.
and when it all comes together
along with wide, cobbled pavements
a warm breeze that enfolds her
making cool waves in her hair
Mrs Varkey
yearns.
and is desperate not to forget
he who looked at her
but
things are getting blurrier
not that she is old
just that things have a habit of fading away.
not much time has passed even.
just that she has other lives to do.
and the eyes and the hands
were just an outline at times
his smile a vague shimmer
shimmying down her spine.
while Mr Varkey looked around for boobs
that gave him whiplash.
but on a starry summer night
standing on her concrete driveway
when the neighbors' windows are dark
Mrs Varkey lifts her head up to the sky
her heart in her eyes
about to fly
up to the blues
when the wind
sniffs behind her ears
tickling
sending her twirling
like a wound up top.
yearning.
to be that which
was around.
and trying hard not to forget
he who looked at her
with yearning in his eyes
and secret moves
in his hands as he gave them directions
and pointers
as to the layout
of the place
while Mr Varkey lolled about his wine, waited for the waitress to bend over
she drank her wine
to wet her
parched lips.
so Mrs Varkey swayed to the firs
shivered in the cold
on her concrete driveway
felt the tight rope running through her
head to toe
spring-like
tight holding it all together
determined not to forget.
Mrs Varkey and the horse
mrs. Varkey used to be a good girl
when she was miss devassy
she went to church without fail
she sang in the choir
and dutifully said
praise be to Jesus to the vicar
and fluttered her eyes
at the younger priest
and allowed her dimple to show
did not allow any man to touch her
but let her horse freely bounce up the hill
and once it got to the top
it
came
down
slowly
when she married
she allowed that man to touch her
she had tethered her horse to a post
it stood listless for a while
a few half-hearted runs
horse got to the first fence stalled
then stopped
altogether.
it was a brown horse
sleek and shiny
its mane long and silky
muscles rippling smooth
it carried the whole jungle
its wildness
the quiet dark fear
its frenzied hurry
and its wakeful slumber.
forbidden
as it was now
Mrs Varkey did not ride her horse
The horse stayed tethered.
to the same dull pole
which fluttered like
a flag in a patriotic yard.
at night she scaled down Chrysler building
swung from Empire State
point to point
her dress tasting the pavements' breath
swam in the Yamuna
and rode the Sphinx herself a satellite
and the planet the sea
and the sun
moonlit, she sang
wound her hair round
and round the Eiffel
twister-ed up and up
piercing the skies
but
as if there was the Berlin wall
blocking
cliffs
waterfalls
and rainbows
the horse stays tethered
until the wooden post withers
rots and breeds dust.
Cyberlove
These lanes were strange to you once upon a time.
Byte by byte, you walked along, admiring profiles silhouetted against windows,
longing to be invited in, at the same time wary of being introduced.
Vendors on the bylanes. they sell flowers, kisses, teddy bears and songs.
Karma is easily applied so you may rest in peace.
Chats-- naturally. funny, curious, at times intriguing, at others, insulting.
Silent voices wondering what you wore, and what kind of glass you are -- hour glass? specific gravity bottle? upside down vase? or an amphora? or urn?
Everyone being upfront about not looking for love. That they have at home. All they ask for is cyberlove, which has its own set of rules.
Chats -- naturally. smileys and offliners. lines drawn. redrawn. withdrawn.
But the force pulls inward again and again. More lines. wikipedias on the meaning of relationships and love are written.
sighs and shouts are uploaded.
Then, a voice in a particular lane strikes a chord.
Walls crumble as earth-shattering, heaven-creating music is made.
Time is never right, the music will never see the light of the day.
Still, you sing - -two thumping hearts together, hopeful, happy.
A tiny background note of doubt is drowned in the crescendo of excitement.
A heavy drag in the mind like a rock that would not be dislodged
from a flowing stream. A fretful, dark cloud hovering, brooding, frowning.
You try to run to avoid that deluge, delete the history,
but -- the music ... it beckons, lulls ... it is magic. love downloaded.
One fine morning, you enter the lane again looking for one silent voice.
Deserted.
Music has stopped. Sleeping messengers, empty mail boxes, signals stuck on red.
pictures transformed into question marks. ghosts of smileys.
These lanes are strange once more,
strange, yet familiar -- like a place where you once lived,
played and laughed. now, just another movie- set
abandoned, bereft of voices and faces.
But you listen for other voices, in other lanes. You have learned the rules well. just uninstall the unwanted applications.
girls' time out
we girls sit
and smile at each other
she hates coffee but
loves it in here
we women have left the laundry in the washer.
we don't work though.
she is worried her dress might smell
from the sambar she made that morning.
she had showered of course
and shed her mama clothes.
we are girls
in here we unwind
tarts and bettys
cobblers and fosters and charlottes
devil's cockaignes, smart cookies and cupcakes
all go well with coffee.
we girls smile and look
around at the live piercings and
brandings, kisses and squeezings,
at our dead capris and limp linens
losing our thoughts in the dense aromas
of sugar and caffeine, and fruit and cream.
we girls sit and talk
of a million things
eyes straying to the loner with the laptop.
she touches her coffee cup like
it is her rosary. she doesn't drink any.
we girls look at our watches
it isn't time yet to pick up
the kids.we smile --
we are girls for a while more
Linkings
a thought flash by lightspeed another streaming in round and round convoysof thoughts bits and bits floating round and round like planets over the head and up in a plume of smoke rise race forward never a look back snatches of thoughts almost caught almost seen and heard lapsed walking feet legs stretched to skies striding bridging gaps linking thoughts going nowhere everywhere streaks squares of red and so on a coloring book colored blocks gone amok racing heading a wisp of light jumping genres of life through dark and light and walls and corners. the center is the end him through the lens viewer on the screen.
inspired by a short film
M
i
r
r
r
a straight gaze
into my looking glass
glazed eyes
focus off
skewed lines
unwanted tints
a tear in the panel.
he watches,
i know. quick!
cover that wrinkled
bareness, the crooked
symmetry, it's blacks and
whites and blues
the hard transluscence
and pallid uselessness
away from
that prickly glint.
gloss over with a few more
coats of color or
a tilted angle. but
his eyes wander
off focus
lines skewed
crisscrossed and
purplish. red stained
and tints unwanted
a crack in the panel.
she watches,
he knows.
just another
reflection
Tele-vision
they watch her every day
at six p.m.
sometimes they try to wait for her
but things don't always happen
according to plan,
theirs or hers or yours.
most days she is showered
and relaxed after work.
she has a glass of wine and a snack with her
as she settles into that bubble chair.
they love it when she laughs at their jokes
or cries at their pain.
but they wonder if she can hear them
worry about her.like when that jerk
superpoked her in front of the fireplace.
the rug burned that night
for a while they thought she was gone.
such was her color and her eyes.
then he stopped coming and she was back in that chair.
hugging a pillow, nursing her wine.
some days she stares at them so hard
with acid eyes
that they think the lines would dissolve
and merge and mingle.
that barriers of thought and vision
will break and remantle it all.
so they watch her every day
at six p.m.
knowing, seeing, listening.
Club
beat
of the
tulip bud
open up,
slowly
shyly
beat
of the sun
rise slowly
frankly,
beat
of the stars
winking
twinkle twinkle twinkle
beat of
the river
languish
sashay
sway of bodies
beat of breaths
Neptunian
haze of smoke,
greenish blues
purple mists
fruity, flowery
entranced.
apathetic
arrogant
loving living
all-feeling
unfeeling
hypnotic.
beat
of the waves
meeting up
with the moon
slow building
up of madness
and heartbeats.
a far away cry prayer
deep and long mournful
and quiet
beat
of life on again
frenzied moves, whirling,flashing lights, burning rays.
rainbow beats. hungry lips hungrier hands tide-like senses
beat of the heart voice of hips race of planets shooting cometsbeat of a cataract raging rushing not bothered with a happy ending panic mayhem rise of tempo grabbing brains crescent to full brighter and faster stretched bows taut strings tired nerves toxic distrust twisted logic jaded veins goodness confused skeleton gods vampire nightingales suicidal artists bloodied sneaky suns ghostly moons carnal tulips baby witches smirking devils swirling lotus eyes..wax. and wane........hypnotic
beat
of silence. stillness.
death.
beat...
beat of life
born again
beat
of leaves
shake
shiver
tremble
silent
ecstasy.
beat. beat.
beat..........
hypnotic.
Campus Cafeteria
Sprinkles of sunlight filtering through the blinds
playing on the face, whispering in the ears
bouncing , dancing, bringing back other suns,
persistent tapping of a branch on the panes of the mind,
days of smiling eyes and curling tongues of smoke
rising up and up, warm and lingering,
from one's cup of tea, and the other's glowing
cigarette, mingling, twirling, tangling, flying, melting.
Vanishing.
Hands stopping halfway on the table, like birds
poised for flight, to go places, separate, or to build a nest together,
The still energy, of doubts, and hopes, the heavy
sense of futility somewhere in the depths, a load
of laundry never done with.
Sure forever- farewells peep from behind the door, forcing
eyes toward the sun, cutting open window panes
brushing past waving red flags, chattering sparrows,
an inevitable journey toward blind eyes and silent voices.
netmates
no need for hellos
neither for goodbyes
broken backs
dream crumbs
scatter
the city
dead stray dogs
lie helpless
uncaring
about life
or after.
of needs met or
urges set free
should there be a bye
when there was no hello
tapping keyboards
to stay afloat
cells shroud the mind
it was all hypothetical anyway
skewed obtuse
blind visions
contoured
air-bronzed
suctioned and filled
pulled
pushed
stretched
and built anew
and then the cycle
once more
never a hello
nor goodbyes
at birth
at death
a few words
in between
to tide by
arrogant ears
burn in disgust
if you ask for more
sips its wine
cold
dry
it is the city
digging its heels
deeper
and deeper
into its grave
hurrying
worrying to it
aliens have to be kicked out
blackouts and blocks
close the eyes -- keep'em so
from those expert
guilt-makers.
hello? ha!
and why a goodbye?
throw a bone
they run around and between your feet
tail-wagging,
tongue-hanging
kick'em away
almost dead stray dogs
just click that delete thing
kill the bloody bastards.
no matter that they will spawn other groups
with their likes.
once dead they crash helpless
power out
blacked out
never a hello
at birth
nor a goodbye
at death.
Semantic in-tentions
Who knows about the roman tic’s
in- tensions?
true – he lies,
and then lies some more
a lot in fact
with a whole lot of
flavors
with the
fever of fervors
through bytes and pricks
blips and bots
tells tales of
wavelengths and frequencies
mutual aspects
yes, you get hurt
she gets hurt
but his in-tensions!
sentimental the-rapist
he helps you dis-cover your
sub-all- terrain self
come on, he is a roman tic!
a consummate player
with all the accompanying spirits
a fairer tic you wouldn’t find
love all -- advantage all!
explorer of yore
seman-tic colonist
the conveyor belt of taste
that is his tongue
the fountain of all meaning
of existence itself
the vaccine against
all dis-ease
so
do not be sad that
you ain’t special
ain’t every word special?
Each sound?
Oh
you say there are synonyms
interchangeable
and words can be out of context at times?
But girl, imagine!
just try to under-stand
His deep in-tensions!
Do you have any idea?
of how he just hangs in there?
Barely, girl! bare-ly!
www.netpaths.life.in
it's a train station all right
train stations are fun places
to be a not so innocent bystander
ghosts and shadows of lives past
present , and future glide by
here the polyphony of
one's selves and the other
words avoid meanings
layers prefer to remain unpeeled
hide cores of emptiness
wherever whatever whoever
one can get
it doesn't matter as long as
some folks sleep
weaving their own veils
or shrouds as it may be
smells that sizzle and torment
repel and tantalize
a market where souls are sold cheap for no urgent reason
for half-dead needs
and probable fulfilment
wherever whatever whoever
as long as it keeps moving
or has a promise of movement to other worlds
of lusterless wilted listless beings
one set lounge around,
another rush in and out
at some point all leave
and a new set enter.
for historical value or
antropological, someone is
let to stay longer
wherever whatever whoever
no screams nor sighs
not even a whimper at the
silent deaths
they just part
like that ancient ocean
melt away somewhere
while another sneaks in
a miracle
wherever whatever whoever
the only reality now
being death where
they never return
candles and incense
missives and open humbled heart
do not tempt
so the picture has to be moved
to the walls of the dead.
tender webs among one's own selves
disintegrate
sublimation of nothing.
© Asha Bernard
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