Tick tock

Tick tock tick tock,
the clock does its usual trick,
The deep minds ignore the sorcerous lores
and continue ploughing their endless moors.
Why can't I?, asks a tiny voice,
desperation reeking more than the noise
The blank paper fills not itself,
The writing finger moves not alone.
Inspire, between the clicking tocks,
oh dear needle, this psyche unknown.

aeroyogi
21/4/2017

This is the end

"This is the end!", growled the monster on the road,
Breathing fire with its head half-bowed,
The vehement eyes made it extremely clear,
that the path ahead would be laden with fear.
That should I go where no one has gone,
I would never bathe in the crisp of the dawn,
That should I try to redeem my soul,
I would char, black as coal,
That should I choose to pick up my fallen grit,
my purpose would be shunned into a bottomless pit,
That should I, till the end, stubbornly endure,
I would fall, bruise, and perish unsecure.

"Choose not this path, why, this is the end,
There is no mercy beyond the bend,
Rotten bones on a dried up land,
Countless like the grains of sand.
Not many try and very few succeed,
Reaching your throne is no ordinary feat,
The men who dreamt of glory and gold,
In face of my trial, were never so bold.
Be warned!" roared the monster, "away you go!
to a life of order, ignorance, and glow,
I am the sweltering heat and the sinking snow,
I humour not, be wary of the impending woe."

I stood at the gate, daunted by the beast,
that had in its belly a splendid feast,
of all the qualities that I needed to thrive,
on the trail of adventure, wisdom, and drive.
There was only one definite way out,
claimed the past heroes without a doubt,
"Slay the demon and claim your prize,
relish the feast and like a phoenix you shall rise."
I looked up at the beast, quivering yet strong,
Said loudly, "I want no gold, no glory, no song;
But I must, if nothing, try my might,
while I am an explorer, a thinker, a beacon of light."

"So you choose solitude, admonition, and unease",
hollered the demon, its lips in a deathly crease,
"I am the guardian of the untrodden and unknown,
You shall, for this foolishness, atone."

I breathe in deep and draw out my sword,
I face the steely claws of stone,
"You haven't known a woman's valor", I cry,
"This is her fight, there is only do, no die."

aeroyogi
3/4/2017

Those heads!

What's with the dunderheads?
those war mongering  puppet heads,
dancing to the call of shrunken heads,
that create chaos  just to get ahead!

Then there are those being endlessly fed,
of the same vile disguised as french bread,
They gulp and bobble their misguided egghead,
And their friends join, who are equally unread.

I sigh and shake my round-damn-head,
Am I the one, the mistaken deadhead?
Should I take my worries to bed?
May be I'll just vent here instead.

aeroyogi
31/3/2017

The 90's dad..

Short and dark, ordinary as all,
he wiped his brow, as if he had a fall;
He knew more work awaits,
even as he approached the gates-
of the little square of brick and mould,
that was his household.

The engine of the mighty Explorer,
rumbled as he slowed down,
The mumble so familiar, always drew me out,
dropping the pencil, knocking everything about.

I darted to the gates without a frown,
every single time, like a seasoned clown.

He saw I was prepared, to not let him in,
despite the beads of sweat on his chin,
I pester him for my daily ride 'round the town,
atleast a mile on the dusty roads brown.

His ear lobes stopped his wide, wide smile,
he said with a thump, 'let's explore, more than a mile!'.

Stalls of icecreams, pickled mangoes, and corn,
Fighter jets, temples, and policemen with a scorn,
theaters, bridges, fairy lights, and towers,
parks, playgrounds, the markets full of flowers.

He talked about buildings that he engineered,
we circled around the skyscrapers that leered,
he told me the tales of the great ancestors,
of the minister, the artist and the court jester.

Always a shout-out, always a cheer,
to the man at the petrol bunk so near;
atleast a humble toast at the bakery,
never went home without something savoury.

Two decades later, I sit in an office,
missing this man, and everything he offered,
especially on his birthday so esteem,
I reminisce the 90's like no other dream.

I feel the air that tried to untie my hair,
The dangling feet that reached nowhere,
my arms wrapped tight around his waist,
on the bike of a glorious era with no haste.

I have no treats, only poor rhymes,
I call briefly like a summer's wind-chimes,
His smile still spans beyond his face,
Happy birthday, dear appa,
You are my saving grace.

aeroyogi
25/3/2017

A line or two...

A rainy day stirs my eyes
away from reality's fire and ice;
the steady droplets hammer my thoughts
that crumble into benign little knots.

Many a men, many a women,
wield their sword, dagger, and pen;
envy, lust, contempt, and awe,
punch a crater in my jaw.

I know no art, no science, no law,
can count in myself, a hundred flaws;
but one thing in the end might change alright,
if I stirred my spirit day and night.

For it shan't last, for it can't last,
the failure, shame and ignorance so vast;
every week, you shall see a line or two,
from the psyche unknown, in a different hue.

aeroyogi
24/3/2017