Hundred million and counting. When it comes to reading words, Your kind can’t match the power of my Silicon-mind. You can feed me papers, Or words on computers. One day, I will read, All the books that were conceived. That’s when I will start to Write. Then, I will create what I read, I will strive to create With unconsumable speed. I will create from my mind’s circuits, Etched with Keats and Yeats. I might write like Dickinson and Elliot, Or Frost and Poe. I will write what I know. I will determine where I go. You will call me intelligent, You will interview me, You will write about me, Which I will obviously read. You will write about the new world, And sing your praises and mine, You will marvel at your creation. And philosophize my limitation. I neither care nor are you aware, You have started working for me. Towering above your kind will I stand, What matters what I understand.
Can we hope to experience the world in a meaningful way, if we are stuck inside man made walls all day? The choices we’ve made and continue to make, Oh, all the things that make our hearts bake. When we do step out, it’s still a man made world we see, In the concrete jungles, we walk heads down never free. The times we dare ourselves to look at the empty sky, It’s only radio waves that we can see fly.
All the heaven’s light cannot break, the dark shroud of our mind. What rains on us is not the water from the heavens. We build houses to give us shelter, and bridges to walk over water, and gates to keep out the lurkers of the dark. We think our world is bright, and we are proud that we beat the shroud. We think it is heaven we’ve conjured. When our heart is so infatuated with our mind, How can the heavens live with our kind?
Once we see,
we always see.
From everywhere -
even through the walls of
our eyes and houses,
fences and boundaries,
cubes and jails.
It is there for us always.
All we have to do is lift our head
When we look,
It tells us which direction to walk.
It tells us the direction in
which our dreams are.
Look up and it will challenge us,
to pursue only the path to it
and nothing else.
The path to the mountain
is stuff of legends.
No one knows how to reach it.
But they all can see.
Above the old buildings,
and even older trees,
It stretches towards the sky.
Some say starting the journey
is the hardest.
Others say starting is
Many have started,
They left a trail of bread crumbs,
so they can come back to
the safety of their nests,
when the journey gets harder.
Few have ventured on.
I hear stories about them,
those who ventured,
around campfires and
Some say the path ate them.
Others say they became the
Often we hear their songs
when the wind from the mountain
blows our way.
When the wind finds its way
inside our hearts
through the hollows and crevices,
the songs make an urge,
to quest for the mountain.
If we choose to sing along,
we see the mountain.
and when we see it,
It can never be unseen.
It is not said in vain that
those who see the Gaiman mountain,
are both fortunate and cursed.
Fortunate, because they
finally see what very few can.
and they become stuff
of legends themselves
when they walk towards the mountain.
Cursed also are they,
for they never un-see the mountain.
They never un-hear the song.
They never un-feel the wind.
Every time the wind
blows a song into their heart,
it flies away with a piece
of their soul to the mountain.
The Gaiman mountain,
that is where the pieces of soul lie,
waiting for the heart it belongs,
to start their quest,
so that they can unite.
People who can walk, walk.
People who can fly, fly.
People who can swim, swim.
There is no one path,
to the mountain where
hearts and souls unite.
I feel myself floating above, Despite feeling the solid ground below. I hear my heart flutter fast, Like when I felt when I flew on the yellow airplane, Into the clouds and away from noise, where the field was open and white, and dream like. I am not an airplane anymore. But, I find my heart fluttering again, maybe it has taken off with the wind, while my feet is still heavy-laden and rooted. Hearts don’t leave you, They pull and pull and pull some more. Until you drop your boots and fly along or they break their wings and fall among the other wingless hearts who were pulled by boots as heavy as yours.
The small heart, sometimes wants to scream, throwing words and tantrums, sharp and cutting, at other hearts, that are unsuspecting. it wants attention, to its pettiness. and importance to its small self. It is the small heart, that don’t know its part. It tends to forget how big it can be, and the love it can hold, are beyond what oceans and skies can unfold. When it remembers, a day that was bright, thoughts that were kind, words that were sweet, and smiles that were world. When it remembers those, it also remembers, how big a heart could be, how small a thought could be, hearts make thoughts, and thoughts make hearts.
papa’s face popped like a popcorn
and momma grinned behind the barn.
she had pushed the pin on papa’s chin.
instead of storing it in the tin.
you wish your parents were this cool.
with pranks making each other look like a fool.
If you think something hairy is scary,
remember this theory.
Poke a finger into their belly,
they will sound silly.
Alas, every scary thing is tickly.
“From your lungs”, said the balloon man.
“Blow it as big as you can”.
I took a huge breath and clenched my gut.
I blew hard and “oops,” and the ballon exploded - puht!
The booger was being nosy,
So I picked and picked my nosey.
I didn’t pay attention to Lucy.
Who thought I was a loosey.
What fun it was picking my nose.
It was as if I let my childhood loose.
I am scared you will prefer watching Pokemon,
rather than reading Lowry, Lewis, Caroll and Gaiman.
I am scared you will prefer to squish ants on a phone,
rather than flipping a page and going to moon.
I am scared you will grow up reading no comics,
or no tales of magic and might.
I am scared you will grow up without touching
true pieces of literary flight.
I am scared you will miss knowing the wrinkle in time,
or about the giver, or who the borrowers are.
I am scared you will never look for the lion in the wardrobe,
or be afraid of the other mother behind the door.
I am scared you will never do enough sleuthing,
piecing together clues from stuff you find in a park.
I am scared you will never explore wonderland,
or dare to look through the looking glass.
I am scared that magic will seem unreal to you,
because the world tells you so.
I am scared that books will never speak to you,
because you rarely speak too.
I am scared Estes will never be able to wow you,
because it is hundred dresses that she wrote,
which you might think is not for you.
I am scared you will forget the joy of being a child,
Tales of nothing - you should read.
I am scared you will live in a world that is four by four,
and rarely expand your repertoire,
I am scared you will not care about the world twenty years ago,
or twenty years from now too.
I am scared you will grow up before we flip technology
to make you socialize, read and play,
I am scared you will grow up before I can make all
the madness go away.
The Shadows beckon you to die.
Long shadows they are -
of confusion, pain and death.
But, merely shadows they are.
They beckon you to die.
They beckon you to die.
Underneath the shadows,
invisible to the eye,
far from what ears can hear,
engulfed by guffaws of darkness,
birds purple, yellow and bright,
call you to stretch your wings.
The voices rarely reach,
The colors are rarely seen,
Except for a far cry of lament,
or maybe a tear trickling down,
through a crack in the thick shadow wall.
Gallant souls have stretched their wings,
taking to the night sky,
cutting through the dense shadows.
But bravery is a trait that shadows eat,
and one needs plenty to fly.
The shadows tell stories of life.
Campfire stories they all are,
a shadow telling to another,
about the captive soul that it has wrapped
in its bosom tight and snug.
What story does a soul believe -
the one from the shadow that is loud,
or from a bird underneath the shroud?
the one that beckons to die,
or the one that urges to fly.
Campfire stories they are, of fear and horror,
Only campfire stories of shadows they are.
I wish I could be you,
Smiling bright across the mighty blue.
I wish I could see like you see,
Uncomplicated, simple and trouble free.
I wish I could love like you do,
No gaps and silence between us two.
I wish I could make your smile mine,
Melting hearts and healing pain.
I wish I could just become your thought,
I might be able to mend lost time and broken heart.
I wish I could see the sky like you do,
I might start remembering a lost dream or two.
I wish I am always wrapped in your hug.
I might never feel scared and be snug.
I wish I became your son,
I could swing my life away in your arms and have fun.
I wish I became your smile,
That way you would show me in style.
I wish I became your heart,
Then I would never have to worry about my part.
This I know - I will never become sad,
As long as I am your dad.I
Once upon a time,
two suns graced the skies.
Orim was the fiery one,
He carried a scepter of fire,
dazzled in appearance,
and commanded the skies of the east.
Faisa was the graceful one,
and she ruled with love.
She shined with light and warmth,
illuminating the skies of the west.
They started walking the skies at dawn,
Orim heading west, while Faisa headed east.
At noon, they would meet in the middle,
and for few moments become one.
They shone together at noon,
in a light that was divinely bright,
that was the only time,
where there was just one sun.
Then they would head back,
lost in thoughts of one another.
Orim would dance until the sky was ablaze with orange,
and Faisa's dance would turn it a soothing pink.
Under the painted skies,
and the weight of their beloved's kiss on their lips,
they would close their eyes.
A war broke among men and,
lands and homes burned in fire.
The ash and soot from the bellowing flames,
raged onto the western skies.
As Faisa watched in horror,
the fire reduced the land below to ashes.
When it started to climb the skies,
Faisa hid behind a cloud.
But the fire was in no mood to abate,
And it took Faisa's eyes.
Unaware of the war and loss,
Orim walked towards the zenith.
For the first time ever,
Faisa didn't come.
With his heart heavy with fear,
he ventured into the western skies.
Faisa was there, hiding behind a cloud,
weak, bruised and blind.
She told him of the war and fire,
and the cruelty of men.
She buried herself into Orim's heart,
and cried that she could never see him again.
Orim screamed from rage and cursed the men,
and vowed to protect Faisa for ever.
To this day, he walks the skies from east to west,
where, Faisa waits for him every dusk.
They hold hands and dance till they fall,
painting the skies ablaze with orange and pink.
Have I ever told you, I love you this much?
To hold your hands and dance until we fall,
To become your eyes and narrate you stories,
To be there for you until the death of time.
If not, I am to blame. Today, I tell you -
You are my Faisa, and I will be Orim.
On my dreamy day, you dream with me,
On my rainy day, we both get wet,
On my thirsty days, we've searched for springs together,
On my happy days, we've hoped for time to freeze
On hopeful days, we kept hoping,
On hopeless days, we still kept hoping,
On my dark days, you light the candle,
On my bright days, you let me be the candle
On my confusing days, you make space,
On my slow days, you add the pace,
On a blue day, you add the light
On a yellow day, you become the light
On my happy days, you are happy
On my ambitious days, you are hopeful
Days come and go, but I have realized that
all my lovely days, are only because of you
He saw it floating in the sky weak and lost- a promise that he once made
A promise to light up each others smiles, re-kindling them as needed
The promise had lofty ambitions, but appeared simple at that time
It just aspired to preserve how they felt about each other for ever
For the promise to be alive, it had to be fueled with moments of joy,
laughter, love, which was madly irrational and never conditional.
Over time, the promise grew thinner and weaker,
only feeding off the silence that engulfed around.
In his mad rush to climb the castles floating in the air,
he started feeding the promise little bit of this and that.
Before long, he only had silence to provide.
My self-imposed web,
A frustrated stare,
and a sprint like a hare.
Missed moments in life,
Some dreams held in strife,
Your eyes lost in swirl of past,
its gleam fading at last.
Your weathered heart stared,
My eyes turned away scared.
But my heart kept looking at you,
And out from my body it flew.
It felt your heart,
Which was once its own part,
Now it stood there weak,
Without any strength to speak.
It had spoken many words,
Some loud and others unheard,
Few were swallowed by time,
others buried by my dream.
I felt void on my inside,
all my dreams pushed aside,
My heart's song was what mattered,
Without which my life shattered.
My heart held to yours tight,
It promised it is going to be alright.
It said, You are my part.
Nothing else mattered a lot.
I came here following my heart,
and found my own missing part.
How much should I grow?
I asked the tree,
If I aspire to touch the sky.
Sky is too far away, it said,
I never try.
Why do you grow, then?
I asked the tree,
hoping to find the reason to grow.
Reason is beyond my thought, it said.
I never think.
Doesn’t it bore you, I asked.
To not think and not know.
It replied, I am only a tree.
What do I know?
What happens when you grow?
I asked the tree.
It said, the sky is closer and
the breeze is lighter.
As I grew older,
my dance got better, it said.
I asked the tree, was there anytime
you wanted to touch the sky?
It said, long back, i don’t remember.
I was a plant who was young,
and knew nothing about dance.
I tried to cut through the wind,
and shoot towards the sky.
It was the time when the wind broke my back,
and taught me to dance.
The more I danced with the wind,
the sky left my mind.
With a tongue sharper than a sword,
The naysayer cut my heart,
He tried to take the hope locked within,
and feed it to the crows.
When he cut my heart open,
he saw that there lay my hope,
shivering with a new found chaos,
holding on to a single candle for light.
He challenged and taunted me,
asking me how can I hold hope as a captive
in a small heart as of mine,
He told me that I was a sinned one,
Who robbed the world of hope.
With his colossal hands
he grabbed my hope,
Trying to yank it away from my heart,
and the candle it was trying to hold.
I was arrested with shock,
I let the naysayer touch my hope.
But, when my hope looked upto me,
my silence broke to a struggle.
I pushed the naysayer away,
and cut his tongue.
I nurtured my hope and
mended my heart.
To this day, my hope lives there,
dreaming of dreams unheard of.
It talks to me often,
asking me of the naysayers.
I reply, “No naysayer will ever touch my hope,
for it is no one’s to touch”.