An Epistle to a Friend

What I need say
You will not hear
Not today
Nor any other day this year.

And finally when you have time,
You'll look up and say, 'Speak!'
But I'll be gone by then
-Aye, the future doth look bleak.

In Spring Another Fall

An old poem this one, written one full month ago (give or take a few days):

Give in.

Give up.

Let me win

That trivial game.

Let it end

And not be the same.

For I know now to hope

Is to but temp ill luck.

Yes, you've won the other,

And this spring

 I tally up in falls, another.

So now my kite, cut

I must somehow recover.

No ifs, or a but

No reasons to discover.

For

I take my defeat

Quietly,

And Shall utter not a word

Nor make a sound

Except the scratching of the pen,

A thoughts to paper are bound.

Perhaps follow up with

 The tapping of keys
Beseeching you, my dear, please

Give in, let me win
Let it end

For any further without breaking

I cannot bend.

Expectations: Weeds in the Mind's Garden

Expectation.

One simple thing that can ruin one's mood and mess up one's frame of mind if allowed to grow.

Expectations are the weeds of the garden of your mind and your relations with others, they drink deep of the vitality of all the greenery about and when met provide but that feeling of relief and perhaps a little pleasant satisfaction while, on the other hand, when not lived up to, these very same expectations dry out and strangle the roots of one's relations and end turn vistas that once resembled the mythical land of Eden to something more commonly seen in most community parks in places like Dwarka: hard, barren ground with a smattering of greenery here and there.

Not quite the pleasant spot for relaxation anymore now, is it?

To conclude this surprisingly short and vague post: Learn to not expect. As a friend's 'status' read: "Don't expect things to happen. It's better to be surprised than to be disappointed." (paraphrased- the original had way more ellipses and emoticons).

Phoenix

Smoldering, smoking remains-ashes-
Stir, gently touched
By the sunlight- flashes!
From the cold hearth
Rises a flame anew
Witness the rebirth
As dawn breaks through.

Another day, another life.
A brand new chapter,
Now what shall she write?

And while tragically she'll
burn up again tonight
On the morrow will be for her-
Another day, another life.

Terrible Writing: A Rant

Begin Rant.
__

I've written. I've read.

More importantly: I've read what I've written and I fear my prose and poetry have suffered majorly. At least it seems so from the pieces I have chosen to share with the world in recent times. While in some conversations in the virtual realm I tend to surprise even myself with the eloquence of my... speech, if you will, when it comes to writing- sincere, honest writing, I seem to falter. I loose steam halfway through pieces of prose, poetic fragments meant to go together that sound so beautiful, though incomplete, as stand-alone pieces loose their shine, their crisp glory when put together. 

Altogether it seems to be a bad time for writing for me, at least when it comes to anything but the rant. Rants I still manage somehow. Perhaps because they do not demand as much coherence as a proper prose piece would or perhaps because I don't bother stopping to think and hence the sentences just flow together, something that helps the eye glide over the writing with ease despite any minute flaws, or even major ones at times.

Whatever it is, I apologize for having submitted my readers (assuming they ever existed, and that they still do) to this recent trend of posting piece after piece of nonsensical drivel. More importantly, I shall now apologize to myself, then duly thrash said self (mentally, of course) and get my act together.

__
End Rant.

O'er the horizon

A random jumble, cooked up during a Highway Engineering extra class.

Seeking, he sets out over the sandy sea
lured in by it's quiescent face, it's call, claim
of peace and wonders that await.
Yet miles in an endless line,
stretch out both forward and behind
while the bleak, stark beauty
of sun bleached sand threatens to blind
and all the while the thought lies heavy on his mind:
that that which he seeks, he is yet to find.
And she lies far off, across this arid ocean
somewhere yonder o'er the horizon
where the deep blue sky lovingly
caresses the dune sea.
Still out of reach-
yet suddenly so near!
Hands reach out to grasp-
- and fingers but close on empty sands.
Mirage! cruel taunt,
dastardly trickster of the eye;
and still she lies so far away
there where, in turn,
the sun-kissed dunes
softly kiss the sky.