A modernist tribute

so much depends
upon

that one rainy
morning

when those white
chickens

came knocking at
my door.

Recipe for a Delicious Disaster

I know this is crazy.
But it is what's keeping me going
In this sporadic blizzard of empty, throbbing aches.
This dose of moronic insanity.

So here's the goddamn recipe.
A pinch of resolve, a dollop of hope, desire to taste.
And yes, while at it, shove that ego down the drain.
Also, this is when you toss in a bowl of belief into the batter.

Now a dash of courage sprinklings,
And a final garnish of spontaneity, to top it all.
Et Voilà! There's your incredible adventure. Let go.
So now you know why it's called a leap of faith.

Ontology of Absurdity

And the most puerile of them all,
The futility of unrequited longing.
It is nothing but a self-destructive journey,
An irresistible exile into the pits of self-imposed torture.

But what path exists without its share of thorns.
What compassion would there be without suffering.
It is only those that have tasted the harsh buds of misfortune
That can cherish happiness in all its blooming transience.

And so, the burning urge to chase after it,
Despite this doomed awareness of short-lived joy, if at all.
But how meaningless this circle of life would otherwise be.
If not for such moments of utter stupidity and passion.

Pipe Dream

The first time
Was just around this corner.
Yes, right here.
Beneath these clouds, a faceless presence.

Your shadow swept upon me
As you walked past, oblivious.
Bathed me in sensations.
And then you were gone before it even started.

In that single instant,
All light was darkness,
In all manner of meaning and being.
Nothing but flesh, blood, and touch.

An obscure journey through fleeting infinity.
Wilderness, dew, moist grass. You.
The smoke diffuses into your absence. Afterwards,
I wept.

Courage

This way or that,
One way or another,
Inside or out, however possible.
It is having no choice but that.

Whatever form, whichever door,
To not think of breakfast tomorrow.
Only of now and here; the impetuous instinct.
Ah deluded ego, shed your futile self-pride.

To lose oneself in someone like a cigarette into hopeless ash.
Irreversible,
Like the permanence of ink blots
On the pages of an unjaded soul.

Chances of getting hurt,
Of getting battered in the storm, notwithstanding.
Picking up lost traces of crushed confidence,
And starting all over again with a trusting smile.

Friend

Like the words of a long forgotten song,
Like the first whiff of the brown pages of an ancient book.
Like the entrancing glow of the candle flicker,
Like the warmth of a tender hug on a cold night.

It doesn't ever matter than you have no clue.
It doesn't matter than you'll never know.
You sat by my side, and together we laughed all my gloom away.
On more than one such lonely evening.

Stories usually have a beginning, a bordered plot.
But you just happened to me, boundless, unquestioning, limitless.
I may not have the luxury of an opportune time to tell you this.
Our story has grown such beautiful wings, my friend.

Each day, we make new memories, and I set them carefully aside.
Each time, in fear of an abrupt ending. Could today be the last?
But even if it is, I cannot hurt for too long, no I cannot.
Because you said that in the end, it'd all be alright.

Writer's Block

The whiteness of the blank page,
Stared softly back at me.
"We miss you", the rustling pages gently whispered.
My thoughts, locked up, as if in a mute cage.

My pen stood poised over the blankness,
As if prepared for its own little ballet performance.
Of twisting twirls, and graceful poised stances.
I could so easily see the blue spectacle, inking itself away in glee.

Words after words, weaving meaning around me.
They gallivanted in front of mine eyes, beseeching, tempting.
I reached out and clasped at them little elusive imps,
Brick wall. Dead end. Fear. Confusion. Insecurity. Call it whatever you will.

"Take me with you", I murmured in deluded reply.
Their unfathomable language was music to my lonely ears.
The music fades into thoughtful silence. I open my eyes and see this poem.
The newly adorned page now gives a final bow in the wordy wind.