T for trending on micro space and zoning into non deciphered time zones.
T for trench coat.
T for the essential Being of Truth.
That which poetry muses
and repeated itself in the flight of a winged metamorphosis
in that Grand Durbar of the man taking wings,
and kites following suit.
In all, everybody was astounded,
one man laughs in His court,
he then splits sides;
wings appear
they sprout
and take off.
It all goes back to the pain of the Tail
or the Tale of the Paan.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Heroism
Great heroes die unsung
sung are those who live
to be called Heroes.
Some face bravely the
bullets,swords and noose
to die unflinchingly when
death beckons them.
Others escape from
men,beast and animals
to be called heroes.
Let me have only a few
unsung heroes.
sung are those who live
to be called Heroes.
Some face bravely the
bullets,swords and noose
to die unflinchingly when
death beckons them.
Others escape from
men,beast and animals
to be called heroes.
Let me have only a few
unsung heroes.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Stillness
Could I stop the flowing ebb of time
and bring everything to a standstill
maybe then many could see the
harsh face of humanity.
With time they to do move
as fast as as the retreating monsoon
seeing everything as a moving landscape
and yet being unmoved.
This fast pace proves unerring
making reality relative to reality
what they see they turn blind too
what is there to see,they never do.
See they Kaladiescopic images
broken,embittered,battered pieces
as a beautiful creative whole.
Well,let my my sight fail.
Many say Action makes wonders,
inaction blunders,movement thunders
stillness darkness,but poor me questions
What is action what inaction.
and bring everything to a standstill
maybe then many could see the
harsh face of humanity.
With time they to do move
as fast as as the retreating monsoon
seeing everything as a moving landscape
and yet being unmoved.
This fast pace proves unerring
making reality relative to reality
what they see they turn blind too
what is there to see,they never do.
See they Kaladiescopic images
broken,embittered,battered pieces
as a beautiful creative whole.
Well,let my my sight fail.
Many say Action makes wonders,
inaction blunders,movement thunders
stillness darkness,but poor me questions
What is action what inaction.
Saba and Abdul
Poles apart were two of the five in question for this story.Abdul was the only one who could split sides and make paper planes of people.Saba was an unholy monk.The Nizam ruled.
That day the sun beamed at normal range.The crowd had assembled for the morning durbar.Throngs mounted the hills to see what never in dreams thought of.
The children just brought out paper kites to match,or try and reach the winged one.
It was simple.The metamorphosis was an reactive response to the question from a dull artist.Ribs spawned wings.Wings grew from ribs and floated.The idea that floats gained credence.Then two things happened ;one the flight of the body caused a crisis.The kites did ditto.
Fly was what was in each of the mind of onlookers in that open durbar of the Nizam.To witness a span of wings sprouting was promising enough,but to view the flapping and flight of a real person who was just before not known enough was real.The kids matched the energy of the flying wonder.They just brought out the kites and strings.Fly with the skier was the motto and that morning a wonder yonder in blue sky.
The man took off,flew in circles and in oblivious fashion.Up and down, high low left middle or astray.Zoom zoom wah wah.People down there looked up in awe of the man gone boom and high.Abdul stayed calm till the event took a turn for the worse.He thought that the wings were unreal and spawned from a trick of the big boss.That that serpent was the tail of pearl or glimpse of fear were tested by him when he spent time with the maker of dreams.It was beyond his logic to mean his words caused a man to fly and take off random to somewhere.He was not disturbed by this and in tact enjoyed the moment.He takes off,I am that fuel and all is fine.The ruler looks and admires this distraction created by words.The people come out to see for real and true they see.A man flying on a joke.Interesting when seen first,but impressions die down and lethargy strikes in,fly fly for how long.They scattered as they grouped,bored to see antics in the sky of the one who flew and decided that he never was in love with terra firma.But kids had a different idea.They could string kites to match the effort of Abdul.Take off tail on go go go.
It was man versus kite,a bulky body in contrast to paper kites,yet it seemed that the plot was divine.The man decided to go wham to try and disappear.The kites followed suit.
It was unique in that annals of the lost histories of the Nizam. Eiderabad was littered with colourful patterns of tailed paper and a winged compatriot.It was the highlight of an eventful day when bored kids going in circles around celebrated the manner in which he flew.Then there was a lull,the moment all was right.Ok to say the least.Then the man peaked the kites followed the twist and there were a hundred colourful dreams lost.
Kites followed man.Abdul was mobbed and the Nizan courted a meeting of minds.String a kite to follow the risen one was his discourse.Then all the thread was strung to the fair kite very near to the flown person.Cubits and rolls not measured but only flowing to follow the risen mankite.
That day the sun beamed at normal range.The crowd had assembled for the morning durbar.Throngs mounted the hills to see what never in dreams thought of.
The children just brought out paper kites to match,or try and reach the winged one.
It was simple.The metamorphosis was an reactive response to the question from a dull artist.Ribs spawned wings.Wings grew from ribs and floated.The idea that floats gained credence.Then two things happened ;one the flight of the body caused a crisis.The kites did ditto.
Fly was what was in each of the mind of onlookers in that open durbar of the Nizam.To witness a span of wings sprouting was promising enough,but to view the flapping and flight of a real person who was just before not known enough was real.The kids matched the energy of the flying wonder.They just brought out the kites and strings.Fly with the skier was the motto and that morning a wonder yonder in blue sky.
The man took off,flew in circles and in oblivious fashion.Up and down, high low left middle or astray.Zoom zoom wah wah.People down there looked up in awe of the man gone boom and high.Abdul stayed calm till the event took a turn for the worse.He thought that the wings were unreal and spawned from a trick of the big boss.That that serpent was the tail of pearl or glimpse of fear were tested by him when he spent time with the maker of dreams.It was beyond his logic to mean his words caused a man to fly and take off random to somewhere.He was not disturbed by this and in tact enjoyed the moment.He takes off,I am that fuel and all is fine.The ruler looks and admires this distraction created by words.The people come out to see for real and true they see.A man flying on a joke.Interesting when seen first,but impressions die down and lethargy strikes in,fly fly for how long.They scattered as they grouped,bored to see antics in the sky of the one who flew and decided that he never was in love with terra firma.But kids had a different idea.They could string kites to match the effort of Abdul.Take off tail on go go go.
It was man versus kite,a bulky body in contrast to paper kites,yet it seemed that the plot was divine.The man decided to go wham to try and disappear.The kites followed suit.
It was unique in that annals of the lost histories of the Nizam. Eiderabad was littered with colourful patterns of tailed paper and a winged compatriot.It was the highlight of an eventful day when bored kids going in circles around celebrated the manner in which he flew.Then there was a lull,the moment all was right.Ok to say the least.Then the man peaked the kites followed the twist and there were a hundred colourful dreams lost.
Kites followed man.Abdul was mobbed and the Nizan courted a meeting of minds.String a kite to follow the risen one was his discourse.Then all the thread was strung to the fair kite very near to the flown person.Cubits and rolls not measured but only flowing to follow the risen mankite.
Friday, May 2, 2014
The who who Flew
It was a dramatic day by all means.The Sun was shining,the crowd sang peans of the Durbar while the young fellow decided to take off.
Abdul was not a regular because he was traveller.He wrote or told poetry of the wrong kind.
Like
Standing at the crosssroads contemplating,
Seeing is believing.
The deafening motion of moving crowds.
To be mute is peace.
All seemed an illusion a true delusion.
Reason purging itself.
Forces of life ebbing.
The embers glowing.
Riot of colours.
Melancholy of music.
Clay making impressions.
Passions rising,rationale holding.
ART KILLS.
Senseid lost sensibility gone.
Reason treasons.
Stand up to question or all is lost.
Abdul was not a regular because he was traveller.He wrote or told poetry of the wrong kind.
Like
Standing at the crosssroads contemplating,
Seeing is believing.
The deafening motion of moving crowds.
To be mute is peace.
All seemed an illusion a true delusion.
Reason purging itself.
Forces of life ebbing.
The embers glowing.
Riot of colours.
Melancholy of music.
Clay making impressions.
Passions rising,rationale holding.
ART KILLS.
Senseid lost sensibility gone.
Reason treasons.
Stand up to question or all is lost.
Wings that Dream
What happened that day was not short of a dream.
In a for off valley by an open window opening out the frontside of the was peered into by waiting eyes.
Halves in all,open,dreaming.alive,cold and hot.Not the heat of of the Sun but desires of body.The window was open to a sluice.
The station road was a picture of chaos in the eyes of a newcomer.Saba was one.
With the last change in his pockets,Saba had his cuppa of chai at 2:30 in the afternoon.He did smoke his filterless cigarette,brushed up his collar and mouthing a few greetings at his ilk,a philosophical mouthing of expletives at the cusp of traffic circles.
Abdul spoke of now and yonder,that the person one from the crowds could fly was not known to him.
Ribs straightened to form large spans of wing.The body shrinking and the mind bearing weight.
The fruit is an innocent creature.It does not know when ripen, the leaves falling, oblivious yet multiplying and mutating which end with gravity winning.
In a for off valley by an open window opening out the frontside of the was peered into by waiting eyes.
Halves in all,open,dreaming.alive,cold and hot.Not the heat of of the Sun but desires of body.The window was open to a sluice.
The station road was a picture of chaos in the eyes of a newcomer.Saba was one.
With the last change in his pockets,Saba had his cuppa of chai at 2:30 in the afternoon.He did smoke his filterless cigarette,brushed up his collar and mouthing a few greetings at his ilk,a philosophical mouthing of expletives at the cusp of traffic circles.
Abdul spoke of now and yonder,that the person one from the crowds could fly was not known to him.
Ribs straightened to form large spans of wing.The body shrinking and the mind bearing weight.
The fruit is an innocent creature.It does not know when ripen, the leaves falling, oblivious yet multiplying and mutating which end with gravity winning.
THE WINGS THAT DO NOT FLY
Every passing minute Abdul felt the greying cold and prayed for light.Behind him all was warm and dark within the solid black walls.The Sun started to shimmer from the outside.
In silence he thought of about the slaying of the gate keeper and the Nizam's early visit to the dark chambers
His lull disturbed by a shine and the sound of of a door opening.
He heard a loud hiss and light flooded his back.In the west as though the Sun had turned its course.
He also could never believe what his beloved told him was true.
Now he would.He heard that hiss and saw the blinding light.
In silence he thought of about the slaying of the gate keeper and the Nizam's early visit to the dark chambers
His lull disturbed by a shine and the sound of of a door opening.
He heard a loud hiss and light flooded his back.In the west as though the Sun had turned its course.
He also could never believe what his beloved told him was true.
Now he would.He heard that hiss and saw the blinding light.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
That wings that speak
It was that the move.That singular the movement of the thrusts of tide or4 the
That Abdul
Everybody in that crowd was stilled as though the wild west wing blew.The person,a result of Abdul of the bard of his court could make a person fly into eternity.
The wings sprouted from the ribs and grew in proportion to the world of wings to reach a new world.
The wings fawned a dream as they sprouted from the unfortunate life and trysts of natural speech limited and hidden and not which are told to, not allowed by the tides of time.
The life of a idea or the idea of a life.
The Nizam of Eiderabad.
The wings sprouted from the ribs and grew in proportion to the world of wings to reach a new world.
The wings fawned a dream as they sprouted from the unfortunate life and trysts of natural speech limited and hidden and not which are told to, not allowed by the tides of time.
The life of a idea or the idea of a life.
The Nizam of Eiderabad.
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