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Subtle Complexities and Myriad Simplicities by Ashok Subramanian P is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Sonnet #1

I have a way with words,
Is the belief in which I exist,
None the ways explain the chirping birds,
Or the fluttering butterflies that persist,
In my gut, the pit of my navel,
To haunt every personal thought of thee,
Rings like a bell, like a metal ladle,
In a metal vessel rotating free,
My head, the more stable reference frame,
And the cacophony, my ripply thought stream,
You, the pebbles, the one to blame,
The smooth round ones with a wicked gleam,
Clouds the eye, constricts the flow,
To the vast sea,still steady, but slow.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Fear

The greatest fear a man could fathom,
Is becoming the being he ridicules,
He wishes not to put a binding jinx,
And in him to let his fear manifest,
Back then hideous, a warty toad,
The mind sculpted, Its free will,
Like a wild, majestic stallion white,
Unreined now and lumped with earth.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

The Mynah

Prostrate, A single mynah bird,
Harbinger of doom of yore,
I ponder what harm could possibly befall,
A stark naked, unintentional loner.

Human Race

A leotard of stretched tensile emotions,
Clothes the voluptuous form of gruesome whims,
A grotesque remnant sickly blob,
Crawls on the smoothened curves of conscience,
Does a back-flip into the pool of fear,
Leaving a trail of scattered sticky green,
That evolves to the familiar facade,
Of our very own human race.

The Note

I throw a crisp, hundred rupee note,
Right out the french window bright,
It wafts in the air like a paper boat,
On a makeshift muddy stream, A Sprite,
Caresses the bill with an unformed hand,
As it floats downward to kiss the sand!

Timeless, Our father's noble visage,
Shines bright like a star in the northern sky,
Crumply lines and blots successfully deface,
A barrage, of poisoned arrows whoosh by,
The one in the sky now caked with dirt,
With grime and slime, A generous flirt!

I look out of the french window bright,
With not a hint of regret that pricks,
A callous heart unmoved by blight,
Or pain or tears or a miserable trick,
Hope that a drop of honest sweat,
Would glisten and brighten the visage,
The old man in death.

The Pebble

A round pebble against the turbulent flow,
Eroded the sharpness the forest stream,
Nudges the edges like a hand so slow,
Firm in daring, To not effervesce and gleam!