Short story slam week 48, Indians are good folks! - I AM NOT ANOTHER PERSON

A fairy lady beauty spread out a falcon in one hand and stood on the path of dreaming.

I came upon her way and she asked me, “Wait!”  It was awesome, and her eyes are marvelously fixed deep into a location imagined to be a city. Her adoring attitude and beauty supposed to touch love and beauty to steal my heart. And she said, “You all live at places those carry broken modules, blinded with overspreading loneliness. I come here to convince you, life is hopeful, Love is not bubbled out.” It seemed to me, I was just standing before the city gate. And she offered me a falcon that can rule the awkward birds those forgot to establish love in the kingdom, where mirror is money. Trees are there, but flowers are popcorn.

I looked at the bottom, dropped my views, signaled for nothingness. I am not equal to that task.

I woke up and looked for her all around, and it seemed nothing had happened. It is a dreaming balm. I am not another person.

The moon embraces

The night sky. Expectation

Does not turn eyes

Into madness as it is yours,

Not theirs. Learn gladness for all.        

THE CRESCENT MOON

At the sun-set time,

My mind imparts with woes of life,

That begins with surgery

For removing stone

From kidney of my wife,

And after one month

Another surgery to be done

For extracting stone from her gallbladder,

And she bears pain

I grieve to her suffering.

My mind changes time to time,

As if some stones are solid with sadness,

I look at the evening sky,

The crescent moon glancing at me violently,

While it is cool with its black and white smiling,

Whispers of love cannot hold humors,

And we are toys of heavenly purposes.

Many times I tried to explain the situation,

Every time I feel loneliness, with pains for her.

She sits in a chair; I am the man on the doorway,

I cannot make her life comfortable,

Others are sitting at the other side of glass,

Thirty two years of married life move to a risk,

The crescent moon is changeable to a full moon,

We are not changeable like the moon,

Colors of the twilight sky may change to crimson red,

We are not hopeful for changes, again we are hopeful. 

THE CHILIKA LAKE

TheChilika Lake

Water weeds growing

Again and again,

Touch surface line

With land, filled with silence.

 

Electric wires,

Rail lines running

Alongside waters,

Passengers stare in the window,

Sound of train breaks loneliness.

 

That entire scene

Seems to know the serendipity,

And nature’s beauty,

We have the life, and

Its measures under the sun.

THE BLUE IN FOG

The blue in fog

Morning mist peers in loneliness

In quest of life. 

I AM NOT A POET

I am not a poet in poetry survey,

I am in dispute, for writing poetry,

From the avenues of life to center of thought,

I am common of commons on receiving solitude,

As I have nothing to offer -

I cannot offer charms,

I cannot offer dreams,

I cannot offer social justice or support,

I cannot bring hope in my words,

I cannot make resonance in word-rhythm,

I cannot make sweet music on prosody,

I cannot move one in enjoyment, in sense of love,

I cannot make a journey as a little jewel,

That holds the tameness for reading my poem,

Yet I write to hold my acquaintance

With the world that is divine on its love

For what exists on its surface as object,

And I want to learn from every object,

I want to cheer existence of all objects here,

And I want to find my way to word in word,

Those are new to me, and I do not hear earlier,

As everything on this earth

Supremely exists, even in loneliness.