Poetry

Art is born!- Poem

Image result for image of parchment and pen

I breathe emptily
into a blank paper
by the side of
the flickering fire

Dust recedes in my head
Snowflakes melt
into crystal clear water
Clouds collide
Ideas rain in

The night prevails
yet wisdom dawns

The thunder roars
quelling the writer’s block
The lightning frolics
A victory lap on my behalf

The sky is a gleeful witness
to this noisy circus
Gods of the heaven wake
blessings cascade down

The ocean of words
hit me like a
torrential storm

Nib caresses the parchment
Art is born!

This is dedicated to every artist who is conscious of the art all around us, and who diligently adds to it. Your service doesn’t go unnoticed.

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Poetry

Here’s to the hero!- Slam poetry

     Slam Poetry     

HERO :
The main protagonist in a work of fiction
A child is told
That’s true for eyes that only look
But for eyes that don’t just look, but see,
Heroes don’t have to be memorialised under domes
Heroes can be found closer to home.

Schooled with agendas when you can barely walk
So you can master the syllabus of society’s talk
Read. Repeat. Recall. Revise.
To make you forget there’s more
to life than 2+2 = 4.

A victim to the lesson’s deafening noise,
Reduced to the structure’s play toys,
You fall for their ploys
and lose your voice.

But here’s to the hero
Who wages curriculum wars
and resists A+ bars,
Who sees education as a farce
That won’t take him far.
The hero dares ask questions in exams
that only expect answers, rote learnt.

When a shorter skirt and a higher heel
Will be sure to seal the promotional deal,
When a brighter shade of lip gloss
will make you a favourite of the boss,
It’s an easy way up the corporate ladder
The reality of office politics couldn’t be sadder.

But here’s to the hero
Who’ll adorn, true to the identity she bears,
Who is sworn, to resist cubicle nightmares.

When clouds of judgement don’t let you rest
Giving in to pressure may seem best.
When bricks of your mind are tricked in the grind,
Its all too easy to leave yourself behind.
Aligned with others, still confined,
Your instincts blind in a social bind.

But here’s to the hero
who knows you don’t need to feign a lie
to reign in hell,
Who calls the gamers on their fraud,
Says : Away with the facade !

When pain cripples, you succumb and crumble.
Minutes. Seconds. Nanoseconds mumble.
The clock’s chime, to catch up with time :
An impossible feat, even for an Olympic athlete,
Rather than take the heat,
you may meet with defeat.

But here’s to the hero
Who chuckles at the fire because she’s the ocean,
She buckles, she may tire, but she’s always in motion.

Each of us carries a hero within :
In a world that schools you what to think,
Asking questions is rebellion’s first ink !

Who says B can only follow A ?
Not when brush strokes are bigger than
bigoted agendas !
Who said Battles need armours, bullets and loaded guns?
We wage wars with loaded minds and bloodied spines
From the stabs in the back.
Still, we’ve the knack to ask questions.

I’m not talking of the dying embers of a fire humble
But the lightning cracker that precedes the thunder’s rumble.

Here’s to the hero screaming inside of you and me
Empty speeches and classified niches
are not making us heard
So let’s shoot the arrows of the word.
Forgive those who laugh,
Forget those who scoff,
because that’s the very ingredient
Revolutions are made of.

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Life lessons, Myriad Musings

Buried Alive

When I painted the pastoral picture outside my window in pastel shades, I was told to draw diagrams of anatomy and physiology.

When I declared myself with the tunes of country Blues, I was asked to listen for the rhythm of the pulse.

When I strummed the guitar with deft fingers, I was forced to use the dexterity in my hands for careful incision.

So I resorted to the pen that screams stories of “could’ve been” and desires drowned before they were even voiced out, like a lizard’s tail chopped off again before it could grow an inch. As you can guess, that was taken away from me along with the rest.

So I dipped my inky hands into the pool of blood and became a medical practitioner. Yet, I could never understand the logic. If I’m expected to be successful in something I hardly care about, won’t my delightful leisure pursuits make for better professions ?

As I put on my stethoscope, I never cease to wonder how many such painters, musicians and writers were silenced and ladders taken away from these artists as they were climbing half way, leaving them hanging in mid air.

That’s exactly why every time I take my steth to someone’s chest, I tell them to listen keenly to what their hearts beat for.

WordPress Daily Prompt : Pursue

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