Cats

“So that is that” replied the cat,
We sit alone and mew.
She looks so bored, I sit ignored
we don’t know what to do.

It all began a while ago
On this accursed night.
I sat by her, and tried to purr
And croon, in pale moonlight.

She looked at me, so ruefully,
and said, “I want some fish
A salmon steamed, or caviar creamed.
Some quaint exotic dish.”

I was so hurt, I looked aghast
At her great deceit
For here I sit, romantically,
And she just wants to eat!

I was so torn, I was so rent,
And quite heartbroken too
I looked at her, and mournfully
Let out a poignant mew.

She looked at me, disgustedly,
And said, “You foolish twit,
I asked you for a bit of fish,
Why can’t you go get it?!”

I tried to kiss and make up,
I kissed her furry paw.
She looked at me so viciously,
And punched me in the jaw.

“I ask you for a little thing,
You inefficient cad.
And yet you won’t give it to me
My god, you drive me mad!”

T’was then I knew that my love life
It had a little glitch.
‘Cos though she was a cat, I swear
She could be such a bitch!

I walked away, in dull dismay,
Tonight was not my night.
‘Cos she was rude, and I was screwed
There were no fish in sight.

And so you see, my feline friends,
That Love’s not good for you.
The woe and pain, drives you insane
Just like the women do.

By Maurice and me.
This is the new one with changes by Maurice. It's wriiten almost completely by him anyway, so whatever he says goes.

Home

I sit in my crammed balcony,
The birds sing in short trills
Or caw.
It is calm,
Except for the constant clamor from a construction site in the distance.
Another morning dawns,
And there’s a chill in the air.
I watch the sun rise from the unknown –
A yellow – orange orb wreathed in clouds.
I breathe to take in the fresh smell of the morning and a kitchen already busy.
Thoughts of a new photographs slip into my mind.
And then, a harsh word from behinds jerks me out of my reverie.

There’s a cold that woolens cannot warm,
An anxiety that doesn’t seem to leave,
A heaviness in the chest that cannot be explained,
Regrets for the past and a future already known.
Regrets that don’t change a thing, but don’t leave.
Sadness at inadequacy,
Of what was but isn’t anymore.
Thoughts of efforts not made, and of lethargy that swells.
Days of awkward meetings, awkward smiles, and quiet disappointments.
I look at the church, and think of what the night would have been.
The moonlight and the stars.
I look around me,
Bare walls, and softness that doesn’t comfort very much.

I look at our photograph, and I smile.
Remembering how you hated to be photographed at all.
How you liked this photograph once, but don’t like it anymore.
I never understood why.
I look at the little parcel of cloth, wrapping something as if it were sacred.
And I’m scared of the scent that might fade.
I fear the memories won’t burn even when I want to remember.
But will remain as dying embers.
I’m not trying to escape into your presence,
The effort will still be mine,
The lack of which haunts me now.
But there was something when you were here,
Content of happiness.
And now, I want so much to run away,
Run to you,
When I know I cannot.

You still feel so much like Home…

* I’d like to thank Saptarshi. The last few lines are from his poem “Home is where…”
I realise it's pointless to mention, but the last line although published by Saptrashi first, is still my own. I've said it too many times before.

In black and white.

*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.

Time stopped;
Frozen.
As if trapped in amber:
Immobile; like a little insect.
She looked at me, and smiled.

Then, the music began to play.
It was some orchestra, playing some classical piece, by some great composer or the other.
The music was very faint and coy;
As if not to invade my privacy.
Reduced to barely a whisper, it died out.
She looked at me, and smiled.

I could see the play of light on the wooden walls.
Glimmering;
Shimmering;
While the fireplace roared.
The pale, silver moonlight tricked in, and merged with the golden glow.
A portrait of an admiral on the wall;
Looking regal and haughty - expecting me to admire him.
I paid no attention.
She looked at me, and smiled.

Our hostess introduced her to me.
A friend, she said, a very close friend.
Our hostess’s voice, usually so nasal and annoying, didn’t seem to bother me.
She looked at me, and smiled.

I looked at her,
Smiled,
And left the room.
I was too afraid to say hello.

By Maurice [otherwise known as The Psycho Guy] and me. You can find his version here.

Love in the sunshine

Butterflies mating in April.

*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.

Reaching for the sky

*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.

My baby Christmas tree.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Spirit

Playing with Photoshop.

*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.

They're out there...

I think every word has a soul. I’m not sure, but I think it does. Every word I speak on this mildly cold winter evening will be there long after I’m dead and gone. [While I write this, I begin to think that I should really start thinking before I speak from now on] I think it matches the physics theory which says that energy can’t be created or destroyed. It only changes form. So my words with their little souls will be there always. It doesn’t matter what form they might be in or were in.

They will always be there.

And after I’ve said them, thinkingly or unthinkingly they leave me with their own little souls and travel through the world that is sadly ignorant of their presence. But maybe that’s a good thing, like Gandalf says about the Hobbits. Maybe if they knew that my words with their little fragile souls are there, they’d be out to destroy them. As if they were germs of a deadly disease called knowledge. Ignorance has such a grip. Conformity to ignorance is so natural now. What if the word with the little soul pulls them out of their dark ignorance with its light? What if it makes them think? It isn’t just one word. There are so many, but so fragile.

But sometimes I just think they’re scared of my words. Scared to break away from society, from ignorance that has become so natural. And when you say that you don’t know, they pass you a knowing smile. You always know they do.

And each word, with its little soul is part of my soul. And even though I speak the words and they leave into the world, my soul doesn’t deplete itself, but in some way is richer. It wasn’t there before and although it leaves me, it leaves something behind. Like a sparkling magic that makes me better than before. And even when I’ll have nothing more to say one day, their sparkling magic will remain, even though it might dim – for what has been.

And they know they have to go, have to travel from me, for they have already left their mark on me – their sparkling magic. They go, from me, to you. And they wait there in the corner till you are ready. If you could you would probably bury them alive, so as to remain in your comfortable ignorance. And maybe if you try hard enough you’ll bury them in that corner. But they’ll still be there. And when you say that you don’t know, they pass you a knowing smile. You always know they do. Every smile they throw at you will bring you closer to me. Even when I’m not there. And then, maybe one day, you’ll be unable to ignore them anymore, and you’ll speak them too. They’ll leave their sparkling magic on you and live and travel on.

I know they will live on.

This piece was inspired by Saptarshi’s “Little souls of mine’, and partly by Piglet and Lady Lazarus who I'm reminded of when I wrote this.

I lie in my dark bed.
Rum, warmth, taste of oak.
I’m tipsy,
Pink Floyd
I sing aloud.
I scratch myself.
I feel the pain.
I am alive.
No one cares.
I send him a message,
No reply.

I get out of bed.
Put on a mask.
Plastic smile.
No one notices anything out of the ordinary.

Blood, sex, weed, magic

A glimpse, magic, sparks glow.
Smiles flash by, wild laughter, life flows.
Neon lights, skin, hips sway.
White, black, smoke.

Guitar strings, chords, dark streets
Drugs, speed, weed, sweat, cold.
Up too high, too low, world spins, round it goes.
Bubbles, rum, warmth, heaven, gold.

Stars drift apart too far to reach –
Not in dreams though.
Passion, pain, and tears - I grow.
Sugar, spice, wine flows.

Hang in there, hang in there.
It’s just a matter of time till you explode.
Blood, sex, leather and birth control.
To be a rock, and not to roll.

All the world's a stage, and we are but pawns.

The glass chess set stain glass painted by me.

*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.

Beauty's delusion

‘ The problem with beauty is that it’s like being born rich and getting poorer.’
– Joan Collins.

‘You’re beautiful.’ But I don’t really care. One day I will be beautiful to the eye no more.
Will I be beautiful then?

But then, is beauty only what the eye can see?

*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.

Dreams

Dreams are funny things aren’t they?
So what if you dream about something that would normally make you feel very guilty if you had thought about it consciously? Are you supposed to feel guilty because you dreamed about it? Is it something that you actually want which is settled deep in your subconscious so you dream about it? And because it’s in your subconscious and you want it anyway, you should feel guilty about it.
Or is it just something that came by and because it’s a dream it has no parallel with your reality and the person that you are. I mean you don’t control your dreams so well why trouble yourself over it?
Really, what should you do? And believe?

Surviving in stone

*All photographs have been taken on a Cannon PowerShot A85 4.0 Mega Pixel digital camera.