Poetry - Tricolour Prism

Yesterday again I was lost,
lost without hope of being found.
Lost without smoke or fire, without fog or frost,
never wanting to be found and bound.
Blissfully unaware of time's cost,
spinning in somebody else' world round and round.

Yesterday again I was in torture,
breathless, witless and fearful of what's in store.
Stagnant myself but racing to somebody else' future.
Stirred, shaken but still whittling towards the core.

Laughing when being asked to,
Simmering, pouting and crying on cue.
Even ruminating about what he is to say or do
and beginning for his misgivings to rue

Riffling remorselessly through his life,
sniffling, smiling, misting up but not ready to give up.
Its all in there - every smile every strife.
Conceived of wood and with ink given life and lit up.

Again Yesterday,
I held it in my hands - that in which I am still lost,
drowned but not wanting to break for air,
floating, diving and living through the ink.

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Posted By: Balachandhran S - Category: Poetry

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Few and Far Between - I

June 24th 2008 09:13

Oh my life, See,

The unborn Sun’s kiss with the clouds,
The silently chirping noisy birds,
The grass beneath, adored by dewy beads,
The calmly prancing handsome steeds.

Oh my breath, See,

The newborn Sun cradled in the sky,
Its crimson hue spreading well nigh,
The bloom of flowers, enchantingly shy,
Their petals visited by the winged spy.

Oh my thought, See,

The sea lit up with an aura, looking serene,
The fisher, one second dive, the other preen,
The mighty waves under the foamy white caps’ reign,
As they wear their billowy blue over the grimy green.

Oh my heart, See,

The becoming fear in the eyes,
Of the young prancer, roan,
As it most bewitchedly eyes,
The ball in the sky that shone.

Oh my angel, See,

The Sun’s lesser cousin’s dwindling far away,
The pale smuggler still visible in the newborn day,
The light spreading towards the clouds to disband their grey,
The grasses and trees, for the wafting breeze, in sweet sway.

Oh my love, See,

My hair tousled, as is my mind,
Which waits no longer to leave behind,
This subtly beautiful scene and to find,
You as the cloud and I as the Sun, in the dawn of happiness, blind.

Inamorata,

These are but seen,
In times, few and far between,
Come, let us feign,
That what was has never been,
And live out our lives, in these times, few and far between.

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Posted By: Balachandhran S - Category: Poetry

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Thumbs up

May 6th 2008 09:41

Is it the gusting winds
ruffling hair and parting around my steed,
with sussurous promises
reminding past melodies
and smelling of salt, greens and craven need?

Is it the winding roads
stretching sinuously and lying in wait,
for my steed to grace
at steady not sedate pace
and at each bend laying more coils as bait?

What is it that makes me a fool
while making me feel
that all is well and in control
that the steed is body and my feet the wheel?

Whatever it is - whether the measured beat
matched with that of my heart,
whether the burnished steel or stepped seat
whether the rugged engine or chromed part
it cannot be denied as a work of art.

And from without, I am told,
that the rider on the steed
is a fist cocked with thumb atop
tightly knit yet completely freed
a symbol of victory and journey non-stop.
Thumbs up!

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Posted By: Balachandhran S - Category: Poetry, Motorcycle experiences

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