The Man with the Book

A lady walking with grace and poise,

On a clear autumn night, listening to the winds noise.

She settles down to find some peace,

At a café full of people with the night breeze.

A smile on her lips, eyes that weep.

A little shy, a little nervous too,

Cautious, yet not cold within,

A beauty someone failed to keep.

For someone did not treat her well,

She wonders why open up again,

No man deserves the gracious treasure,

A heart so pure without a measure.

The day brings on her cheerful smile,

From one day to another, a different style.

The night scares her and brings to the fore,

The weight of a past, her wounds too sore.

She lifts her eyes, and morning shines,

A bit of pain in those pretty eyes.

She fears God, but trusts him too,

A little old school, a little new.

As she sat down to find herself,

She looked at a table and the books on the shelf,

She wondered why she couldn't be with someone that night,

Someone to love and treat her right.

Just as she took the chair,

She looked at a man with a coffee beside,

Pretending to read his book,

Saving his wounded pride.

Something happened, she doesn't remember,

A bit of instinct, a bit of surrender,

She felt she had found the one,

But dint know if he was with someone.

She gazes hard, and looks all around,

For a clue about him, for some sort of sign,

Whether he would look at her,

And this was meant by the divine.

Her sores she tries hard to nurse,

The silly damsel, only burns.

For what she seeks to change,

Cannot vanish; but only re-arrange.

She forgets one cannot undo the past,

Nor change her story, or the cast,

Yet one day will come and all would be well,

She would have a happy tale to tell.

So she hopes and prays that day,

That the man with book could be swayed her way.

One couldn't pass her by without another look,

But she is saving her glance, for the one with the book.

She yearns for him to see,

The purity she so carefully hides,

Lovingly would she take your hands,

If lovingly would you be at her side.

She wonders why the man would look at her,

Walk with her till life's sun goes down,

She thinks he deserves much better,

Some pretty lady in an expensive gown.

All around are staring at her,

She shifts and wonders what is wrong,

And just when she is about to leave,

She gets a look from her man beyond.

Just a gaze and she forgets the rest,

Ready to hold him and be the bride,

Then quickly gets up,

Scared of the hurt inside,

Take the chance, or just run away and hide.

Before she leaves and walks away,

The man gets up and asks her to stay,

Between love and fear caught,

Her eyes have tears,

Her heart besought.

Another risk; just more pain,

Or a lifetime of healing,

She doesn't know its name.

She found herself on a clear autumn night,

Amidst the eyes and the fright.

She smiles now beneath the moon,

And tells a story of her lonely walk,

When she had been torn by a crook,

And she met her man with the book.

In the house of God

I was in your house,

And wondered what made it home?

Why, like family, these people flock;

Yet between them, no family talk.

With their heads low,

And their spirits high,

To cleanse been brought,

I wonder, their deeds or thought?

Who knows when you would show up to save us all,

But we should be prepared for you with a glamorous hall,

Deck you with gold and offer you a crown,

And chant your name out, real loud,

Till the cries of the needy drown.

Are you pompous or greedy, or a bit of both?

Sometimes gold, sometimes sacrifice is owed.

So did you create us to worship you and pray,

Or enjoy your creation, the fruits you gave?

It seems you are so much in love with yourself,

That you need statutes and monuments made.

And only then, only to those will you respond,

Who have the feet to enter your house and offerings to bond.

I hear, you are my guide and friend,

But only if I follow your terms and bend,

Pray endlessly, and worship till the end.

As a friend, can I not lovingly call you something new?

To show affection, how the faith grew?

If your rules called rituals are the only path,

I haven’t heard of a shallower friendship,

Nor more ego than a human hath.

If I call you by a name you call yourself not,

Will you damn me then and throw me in hell?

Or have me persecuted here by your guards who dwell.

Is the death of your children all you want?

Your guardians swear to protect and save,

In your name take each other to their grave?

For the worst may befall, if I don’t follow,

Your rules and rituals, the dance so hollow.

The blind support, the coward's call,

Let us murder those who will not bend and fall.

So true and mighty high you are,

To slave your creation like a puppet star.

How are you different then, from the people below?

Nothing but materialistic, shallow and low.

For you we must bleed, till your wants fulfill,

But our fellows should die hungry and ill.

Will you only hear those who think of you day and night?

Or those who acknowledge your shining light?

But what of those who put in faith in what you built?

Caring for others, without a religious will?

Is there no room for people to love;

Without the threat, of heaven and hell above?

Can we not just be and enjoy our days,

Without the self-sacrifice and worship ways?

Can we not love those who call you differently,

Or must we feel with your name only?

Are you mine only if I don’t eat and drink forbidden things,

Each day get you a large offering?

Or do you love as a God should,

Without any wants,  without anything to bring?

I heard in your house, the bells ring loud,

The prayers bring peace to the crowd.

I wonder why my home is too small,

For you to grant peace,

To answer my sincere call.

An Ode To Berlin

A reflection of a visit to Berlin last week:

What cities give and what they take;
Each road and rock of break and make;
Where silence lasts with roaring rage;
And a lasting shadow of a man disgraced.

Where the light outside was dark;
And within the hope of freedom lay.
A place where ideas were murdered;
And obedience paid.

Like the ups and downs of the seasons' sun,
The innocent did not find a sheltering place.
For shelter needs means;
Those, your genes forbade.

So what to look for in a place so rich;
To dig deep and find the dirt;
Or see the shine, the men and women have churned.
What a city tells you, is what you hear;
Whether it broke the people; or had them made. 

The Truth In Our Lies

The poem represents a kaleidoscope of the struggles and strife that go on each day within every individual and makes an attempt to juxtapose them to world events marking similarities or differences in the two: 

There is a moment of truth in all our lies;

A silent hope; in all our cries.

There is some trust in promises we break;

Some faith in homes we make.

There is some anguish in an old tree,

Some chains, a bird sets free.

There is more to us when fears are bold;

Much like a story each one has never told.

There is solemn grace in a broken a smile;

A happier place within a mile;

But who would leave the corner stone;

Of a house full of fears into the unknown.

We seem to run from what is inside;

In the hands of shimmering figures, place our entire lives.

There are decisions one takes once and for all;

Then questions the hour glass as the sand falls.

There is on old man who watches too keen;

The trouble of our souls; the dreams not clean.

His hair turns white; like promises fade;

The world seems a much more horrid place.

A bomb goes off and thousands die,

The Gods on earth make a religious cry.

You wonder will it ever end;

The madness in calling each other friends.