How I wish!

There's winter too, as I've come to learn,
And that there is a tributary or more for every confluence,
That the sun sets, that sunflowers wilt,
And that one day, the heart stops beating for-its-ever.

And yet, deep down, like heat from palms rubbed,
Like the fork that still knows the stream as one,
The frozen summer inside reminisces of the times gone by,
Living beyond, like the yellow of the dead sunflower.

Oh! how I wish I were a raft and not the river,
And that I were merely the sunflower and not the sun,
And how I wish I were merely a snowflake and not the winter,
So I can't see the fleeting, and die, not daily, but just once.

Abandoned

I stand here, in a prison of pack-ice of the forbidden North,
The fingers of their ridges molesting my throbbing bosoms,
As untended lustful men would, to a neglected woman of grace,
A bear saunters, looking for the food that the men left,
It stomps angrily before sliding off a ridge on my starboard,
Another with her cubs walks past on the floe,
Perhaps she knows there is nothing more to forage,
And a pack of walruses bask on the adjacent floe,
Laughing heartily at the travesty of my plight.

Then comes the wind that can go South or North at will,
And it asks me, why so forlorn in this divine kingdom?
I smile, at the irony, for I know she can see, yet,
I am no sloop now, merely flotsam, I say, for my men aren't here,
They've have gone South with the dogs on their sleds.

Ah! you wailer, the wind mocks me,
No elephant ever laments that there isn't a river at hand,
It goes in quest, with its herd to stop only when the river is found,
So should you, my dear sloop, leave the ice if you yearn for the blue seas.

I ask the wind then, what is the elephant and the river you speak of?
Is it a seal or a walrus or a auk of a different kind? 
The wind sighs, I'll tell you of men that you understand then, it says,
When I told a man not to lament for there is no river,
He took my word and dug a well to bring the river home.

The same man brought me here, and left me to rot, I tell the wind,
Can't you see the ice is holding me hostage?
Unlike you, I can't choose the sea, a fjord or a promontory,
Or the elephant's home that you told me of.

The wind shakes its head, what more shall I tell you? it asks,
Tell the ice to find another mate, I say.

It swoops down then on the frigid ice,
Now craving to enter me, not merely molest
Ice, the wind calls, why not seek someone that'll stay,
Why not spare the sloop for the sea?

Why not? Why not you then for a mate? the ice asks,
His carnal smile unsettles the uppish till then wind,
It howls, kicks up a storm and leaves in a jiffy,
And then the ice mocks its bravado and turns its eyes towards me.

I am a sloop, an abandoned piece of driftwood, both,
A dead sanctuary, a mother's empty kitchen and dried bosoms,
All of which shall now satiate the cold fetish of ice,
For as long as the crows' nest stands over the surface,
And until the deep water takes me to her eternal kingdom,
Where men or bears or ice, can't lay their despicable arms on me.

Some Moons Leave Their Skies Forever

Some moons leave their skies forever
Skies that merely pride in their being
But don't care two hoots for the yearning moon

They shroud the skies, in a blanket of gloom,
A blanket of darkness, to the sky hitherto unknown
For the moon didn't just stay, but also brightened

And the skies gasp, for they can't see themselves
They weep, yearn, and at last reconcile
That the sun alone shall reveal all, lo! for a price too high

For not only will he show in hues of red, orange and cyan,
But also scorch and scythe all day, the ruthless ball of fire,
And the skies groan and grind, their mood dire

And when he finally disappears behind the mountains
The skies lament and send a message
As howling winds that can be heard far and near

Oh! moon, return to soothe and anoint, the sun does not,
But lo! the moon doesn't, for she knows not the wailing voice,
As that of her sky, one she knew not as forlorn, but merely conceited.

Where to plunge?

Go on, this is only your first obstacle,
Thus glittered the first drop from the first cut,
And as I coasted along, another landed,
Go on, the next drop said, and please, watch your step,
And then as I strode came the third, the fourth and fifth,
Now gashes, not the mere forgettable streaks,
Deeper, longer, redder and bloodier, as I stood,
March on, they said, like their fathers, and march on I did,
And then came the stabs and spears, to merrily greet,
Wrapping me in jewels of flowing red, as I now could only meander,
There's light at the end of this dark tunnel, so march on,
They said, and in fine red cloak, march on, I did,
The tunnel ended, and then stood a mountain, for me to climb,
The petrified rocks beneath, adorned many trinkets,
With their many masterly strokes, slashed my sole and heels,
March on, o'er the mountains, there's a brilliant light to see,
They said, I marched on, leaving behind roads of red lanes,
In the end I got to the top, and saw the sun rise,
The sun rose and with its long arms coldly pierced me
Even as I hoped it would embrace and help me heal,
A ray for every cut, gash and wound it set off to probe,
Through my many wounds, my soul's skin it began to peel,
Alas! is it to suffer this shrouding, scorching pain, I winced,
Did I come this far, is this what I endeavoured to gain?
And in what stream of roaring pristine waters,
Should I plunge into, my soul, of all the grime, to clean?

Should I go inland?

Should I go inland? So thought the stranded explorer,
No boat seems to moor, by the creaky pier that ,
I've forever stood on, boats that pass by,
Spout salt water, on me, an already salty soul,
Should I seek a boat on the pier and bear the taunts,
Should I  bear the taunts on the pier, for a boat that'll never moor?
So thought the stranded explorer, Should I just go inland?
So no boats may ever spout for their sport,
Salt, on an already salty decaying soul,
For they know not, what it is to drink more,
Than what their mate can return using pails to the sea,
Should I go inland and forsake the pier,
Who too has taken the salty spouts of sea water,
For no fault of its own, and needing no boat,
For merely being there and merely standing for me.

The Bust of a Man

On a raised fine pedestal,
Of fine stone, clothed in exquisite marble,
Bedecked with ceramic beadings,
Carrying a plaque in fine copper,
With words set in gold and diamonds,
And above it all, a forgettable bust,
Of a man that once lived,not anymore,
Only a bust, not his entire form,
Stands forgotten, as in life,
People walk in to admire the lavishness,
Of all that's around, oblivious of the man on it,
And as they depart and more come in,
The man, nay, bust stands, sans hope or ask,
To be loved over the plaque and pomp,
His heart having been burnt and stashed,
Having become all but a breathing bust,
He stands still in death as he did, in life.

Distance

Maybe the sun,
An astronomical unit away,
Warms more than what's close,
And the moon,
Well not that far,
Cools too, and makes the oceans dance,
Maybe distance is the only thing that counts,
In keeping who matter, as our own,
For it is many feet below and between the fruit and the earth,
To nurture, as roots of the tree, sit the seeds once sown.

Crash into me

When, like a gravity-pulled meteorite,
Will you crash into me, my haven, sublime?
My heart yearns to be scarred and burnt,
To throb in the joy of having taken your fall,
Fear not, that you may land and be shattered,
On solid ground, for I've got many a benevolent sea,
And a lot of snow, powdery, fine and gleaming
For you to land painlessly, that I've let thaw,
For the first time, since when they hardened,
Aeons back, when I hardened, voicelessly,
Like a beggar robbed of his hard begged meal,
So land, without the fear of being burnt,
And without the fear of dismemberment my dear,
So I may, in the crater cradle you'll make,
Let you be, and to all, boast an enviable, dear freckle.

The Resurgence

Once a little lad that hadn't grown any more than little,
Pleaded that God carry him away, and in one roll, skittle,
Alas! The potion killed him, but not as he sought,
It spurred on the fighter and put to rest the distraught,
In time, he grew wings, ran in delight, before rising to soar,
He couldn’t any longer, as he could once, himself abhor,
Past, planets, love and life clipped his wings often, tried to make him budge,
Do you not feel wronged? they’d ask, tempting him to jump off the ledge,
Do you not crave the applause of thousands around, as if not, why you pretend?
Of what purpose is your every doing, if only deafening silence remains in the end?
Why not blind and steal the sunshine from those that laboured to dim your light?
Why not wallow if not wield the sword, you are no longer shining bright?
And just when it seemed they had won and had ushered the monster to end his fight,
He saw his wings emerge, wiser and stronger, to carry him over the abyss of fright,
Every endeavour of his, he learnt was, peerlessly, an end in itself,
Without the din, he knew, in his doings, he found his own thriving self,
For one that isn’t insistent on what’s in the glass, life is always full and well,
To such the glass is always full to the brim with countless bounties, he could now tell,
In time, his eyes could sight the ruthless flames that beneath him gloriously burned,
He could mock them and fly high and away, and they’d give chase, like a lover spurned,
When the fire died and past, planets and people found new orbits to move to, in the end,
He exulted for he had none to fight, none to flee, for which his wings he needed to tend.