Grand Dreams

The drum that called ,
the dance that lured,
the smell that sought,
to blind me.

I march the tune,
happy and more
with clear thoughts and
grand dreams.

Who knew of laundry to wash
or food to cook?

So I see the dream
as it calls what is not.
Yet I dream, yet I hope,
for all is never lost;

Though grand dreams seem too far
too grand they are,
to stray afar.

I stray my path,
to stay my path
and dream on
to stay my path.

Free

A word of joy
benign would it be
No memory of callousness
And still begets mayhem

Cannot dream anymore
for times fly.
rules rule society
and more rules still

comes a time
when alls' wrong that ends wrong
yet the happy do smile

abide not,
but in my heart.

Mirage

Days always stretch when you have nothing to do. On one such day when all the things to be done were too difficult to be done, or too arduous, and all the fun things were already done and not so fun anymore, I decided to take my bike for a ride.
Well, you will always argue that a bike ride is a fun thing and so my previous statement is not true. True. But then there are always exceptions.
So the day was hot as a Chennai day can be. The day being sunday, the roads were fairly free. So the biker (me) is happy.
The nearest free biking zone is ECR and i take it. The miles stretch out in front of me and I know not where I am or where I go. The breeze is warm and the road is free.
I see a lone figure staring at a smoking bike in a lonely stretch of road. Thats how I met the damsel in distress and my armour was definitely shining ....
Ha. Dream on Lazy boy!!

Dodge That

An absolute art form that is often overlooked is traffic dodging.
The art emnates from busy and often cranky roads where nobody follows any rules. Nobody. The most sane member of the traffic community at this juncture would be the biker. Here the car drivers believe they are cyclists and the cyclists believe they are flying microlights in pursuit of a seagull. The drivers higher up in the er, well, noise chain such as truck drivers, think they can follow the circus and believe they are diving maruti 800s....
We have ofcourse forgotten the venerable auto rickshaw drivers. Well, too much has already been written about the auto rickshaw drivers. What can they do? they are not to be held responsible for the folly of forgetting their large er, backsides and thinking that they are as slim from behind as they are from the front.
Hence, the biker in his infinite wisdom will have to continuously find new methods and often find new roads, yes roads, to deal with his dimwitted neighbours on the road.
Imagine for a moment, you are driving peacefully through a less crowded road busily thinking about the day ahead. You are careful to respect the big buses and warily overtake them from the wrong side. But suddenly you feel your hair rise as you are sandwiched between an auto and a car, both of whom want to win the Le Manns series and are practising. What can you do under this situation. Your answer as will any one's will be to fall back and let the ferraris be. But you forget that the great Mr.Bus is right behind you and is quite angry that you have out witted him using such foul tactics.
Now the biker is in his element. The royal escort often falls short of this scale. So thinking, he starts whistling again, goes down one gear and lets beasts eat dust.....

Melody

A song I heard, just beyond the waves.
No voice though.
Just song.

That sound could not be anything alse,
but that cant be a voice, can it?

Through melodies of old,
it flows,
taking my mind with it.

Thoughts beyond dreams,
dreams beyond thoughts.
Ah! Can I dare dream
to find the master of that voice?

Ennui

Sat on the beach with nothing to do.
the waves were a monotony,
the breeze was hot,
the sand was dirty.

Called my friend,
he was busy.
called another,
and so was he.

My plans for the day
never included
making plans for the day.

Then realized,
you wanted to speak.
thoughts spread wings,
and I flew.

But you were busy.

Beyond consolation

I am dripping.
That hope of moving through the ripe fields is gone.
Gone like the hopes of valour, hopes of pride.
There is no other purpose for me now.
I am greatful to the fires that made me strong.
But do not mistake it for fondness.
Yes, I was useful in the end, but then it was the end.
End of an age, end of Innocense.
I had asked for this when I made my move.
An eternity in guilt, an eternity of curse.
Murder is never forgiven, never condoled;
yet I am not to blame.
I am not to blame though I cried for blood.
The blame lies
on the hand that failed to control me,
failed to smother that beast awakened.
Now that the blood has flown,
and the deed is done,
I realize that the fields were only a dream.
A dream of a dream.
Made for the purpose,
trained for the purpose,
used for the purpose.
But who listens to a crying,
drying,
sword?