Day 153: Way I Write

I have been asked about how I decide on my poems, on topics to write about, criticality of issues and suggestions that I take while writing. Though I don't always have good answers to these I like to believe that some of the most powerful pieces I write must come from a personal place, about the way I feel. It is human nature to share empathy, to be affected by sometimes just a few and sometimes so many that we don't even know. Whatever be the case, I think my words settle conflicts internally and sometimes, some topics or a momentary feeling wins while others are put on hold. I believe there is no perfect way to write, we just write with an incessant need to be out there in the world, giving comfort and sometimes simply finding solace in what we have written.

Way I Write
The way I feel is the way I write
When everything else has been kept aside
Songs that are written in poetry
And nothing in the world brings you down on your knees

The way I write is never compromised
It is about finding something everyday, to my own surprise
About recollecting the things that sometimes come and go
About letting the world see, just some part of me that shows.

On papers, on pages or whatever it may be
I wrote them so my thoughts could be set free
And here's to some words that don't fade into the night
Because they are born uneven and at any given time

And some who will always find comfort in the few
Of pictures in my head, some scribbles that we drew
The way I feel is still the way I write
I don't even get to pick the fights, I want to fight

But letting myself believe I can dream
Is the hidden way I write poetry, behind the scene

Day 152: Deadlined

This is a familiar concept , something that comes often not just at work but also in real life. Whether it is a time for us to be practical and rational about things, or among times when we are told to be realistic. And between all the heavy lifting we do juggling these words I find moments when we feel that we have deadlined lives. Sometimes knowing that something is expected of you helps, but I would rather not have a constant reminder of that in real lives. Some of the best work we too, or at least I do doesn't come from strict rules, they come from taking a deep breath, thinking and facing something head one. Everything else that fits in a master plan with deadlines are just pieces of our lives we have to go through, for now I write to being this in this routine, as students among other things we are deadlined.

Deadlined
I will not be put into things that fit the sections of my day
That have voices and yet leaves me with so little to say
That lets me think thoughts and not ponder out loud
And then stand somewhere where I can hear my silent shouts

And then in between all the mystery
We will find a reason to pay heed to the story
To be defined by what you do, when needed most
But not rush through it all, as though all is lost.

We are cradled between things we believe
And sometimes sitting far from those which we achieve
We are masterminds and plan makers in our own ways
We are deadlined to meet the end of days

We are free from constant reminders and pop ups to no end
We are far from being who we are, we sometimes pretend
We have deadlined lives till the new one finds its way
We are not drawn with limits, we are unbound, we are limitless today.

Day 151: Fragile Writings

We all need the comfort some days of knowing our writings are  not pieces that are accounted for, and as boxes shipped as fragile to be opened when you read them. The comfort is not to reassure that we are able to get through safe and undamaged, the comfort is in knowing that we did get through. The comfort is in knowing that we have made the trip, we have traversed places in our minds before making a long trip back to wherever we may belong in the minds of those who read them. For now the fragile writings are stronger at the broken places. Life doesn't always follow instructions and we shouldn't expect it to either,we just keep writing anyways

Fragile Writings
We are writing fragile poetry
Read by a few and a fewer who will pay heed
We are transferred from thoughts to pages, one at a time
We have changed many a hands, and many a minds

We are traversed realities on the edge of a page
We are bubble wrapped packages finding our ways
On off chances that we may slip and fall somewhere
We will still find the end of roads at the end of days

To those who have understood words from a few
Who have taken lead in whatever they can do
Who are not afraid of being being broken at places
Who are not walking back, who are not counting paces

In sometime when the world is all caught up
We are rain collecting somewhere in a paper cup
We are instructions on the boxes, we don't know what they say
We are rule books in the world, the one from which life doesn't play

And the fragile writings at the end of this day
We are stronger at places , where we might
                              have been broken some days

Day 150: The Impostor

I think we have all had moments during our graduate studies or any other tough situation where you are forced to ask ourselves that dreaded question do we belong here? This one comes as a personal note during my PhD where I am looking at things around and somehow feel that we are impostors among experts. And though these moments have to be short lived for our own good they are versions of reality checks we don't always need. This one comes from a personal note and from notes and suggestions among those who have felt the same way. It is in between the little insecurities that we still manage to pull ourselves together and do better. Hence this one is dedicated to the impostor who doesn't seem to exactly fit anywhere.

The Impostor
And then in times when all is figured out
When fitting in was the easy part, in between the crowd
And yet finding something that defines your place
Was kept in between things you still had to chase

I was worried about the times I had to find
A little piece of quiet, somewhere in my mind
And take the time to know I make sense to myself
That I didn't need to hold a hand, I needed no help

Let time redecorate places in my head
And let me be guided by what I believe in instead
We are all impostors in someone else's skin
We are making amends, we are finding places to begin

We are latecomers to the show sometimes,
We do not know; what they call as deadlines
But no matter what meaning you may find calling to you
The impostors don't stay in your head, they merely come and go

In between all the times where you struggle hard
Remember we are self made, the best of us are just waiting for a place to start. 

Day 149: Black and White

We are not binary in any way, though I refuse to believe that we have a gray area when it comes to certain things we like to think that we are more attached to these black and whites. We are locked in these phases sometimes, the need to choose between the right and wrong and though we sometimes don't know why, we are drawn to it and by it. I think the end of weeks are a weird place to think about decisions we make, when all you want to do is let some things end and move on to the next one. Our incomplete journeys are about the incessant need to be realized sometimes, somewhere and by someone. Heading out in between the black, the white and gray.

Black and White
Why are some question left in between the gray?
Neither Black, nor white , in between what might and what may
Why are some questions harder to answer on their own?
While those who asked the questions are long gone

We are trapped in between the black and white
Between making decisions where there is none to make
We are frozen in between a relentless fight
Trying to escape some of our biggest mistakes.

We are worth the save, both you are I
We have seen both the right and wrong of many things
We are not here to tell ourselves that we try
We are here with no more reasons than our own free will

Our black and white picture frames,
Our photographs might have faded but still look the same
You are just as you used to be, and I am just myself in my own way
Chances are when we are called to life, we are colored neither black
                                                                 nor white and not even gray.

Day 148: Flashlight Writings

The idea of writing and readings stories by a candle light, or a flashlight inside your blanket is always one that fills you with wonder. It makes you believe that much has not changed between the part of you that wants that excitement of writing or reading even in the darkest of times. I think that part of us never grows old and I switch on this dim flashlight in my room sometimes, when I cannot seem to finish what I started to write. A part of me still flickers as the light moves around as I keep guiding it, I sit down on the floor and not the bed and I scribble sometimes hoping it all fits together. We are flashlight writings at best, we are bright when we need to be, and sometimes we sit quietly when we need it too. Just sitting on the floor and writing some more.

Flashlight Writings
Imagine you lock yourself behind the door,
Sitting with a flashlight on the floor
The drips of the sink tap gets louder as you write
And the pencil on the page registers your fight

We are flashlight writings, we are summaries of none
We are stories with no endings, we have hardly begun
We are the wooden panels on the floor that creaks
We are drips of water that you hear, we are thoughts that leak.

We are flashlights that glow in the dark
We are stationary sometimes and change right where we are
Distinct in our own ways, in tones we get to hear
We write in scribbles more often , and in pages that refuse to adhere

I think of meaning when you read my poetry and my notes,
Some spray painted walls with words everyone seems to know
I think of just that random piece, the one I try to complete
The flashlight in my room fades, and in the darkness I end my piece.

Day 147: Possessions Undefined

I was talking to a friend late in the night and to myself when I kept thinking about this idea of having possessions with meanings, and though they are possessions in our head, they are not owned. They are momentary at best about things that can and cannot be held to ourselves, whether they are meetings with strangers , phone calls that were left incomplete or whether they are interactions we forget and were never ours to keep. In whatever way, these are possessions that are undefined, they are no ones to keep and yet they are something that lingers on in our mind. I wonder how many times we beat ourselves about it, and for whatever matter even the decision of letting go sometimes isn't ours to make. I keep wondering if we could ever decide what we get to carry with us, our little pieces of happiness and sometimes asking ourselves just that same question.

Possessions Undefined
I wonder about what we call ours to keep
Even our mind, our memories from the cracks they slip
What are our possessions at the end of the day?
What do we call as ours and what do we give away?

We are attached to ideas that bleed from the mind
And things we feel we might have felt, that have been left behind
On journeys that we took and memories we got to make
And sometimes we even kept our fondest mistakes.

We are strangers sometimes, never met in real life
And sometimes all I possess is the hope that you keep a smile
Sometimes even the worries we have are not ours to keep
Maybe just the thoughts, when you put your mind to sleep

We are possessions undefined, we don't know it all
We are pieces of papers scattered and sticky notes posted on a wall
We are unclaimed sometimes, neither kept nor let go
And our fondest possessions sometimes, are the things we never show

Day 146: Bring me Morning

We are often biased about times of day, whether some who like getting up early or some who like to stay up late. Some who worry about the wee hours of the night and some who are more worried about starting all of it right. About perfect mornings we want to start our day with no matter when it starts. This notion of a time of day probably also relates to someone who writes about it, the framing of the way he/she decides to write about it and sometimes but oddly enough whether he moves away or towards sleep. For now bring me morning, as the night overcasts the streets, the warm summer breeze blows outside, it is a quiet night or early morning to begin. But I want you to know it starts all over again, bring me morning in a coffee cup, in a cup of tea, in shadows of the night and dreams that eludes me.

Bring me Morning
I think of troubles we all find, at start of days,
In the things that are routine and in between the lists we make
We are burdened sometimes by summer's glare
We are worried about games we play, things that don't give us a scare

I think of those who are always around, who are never on a pause
Who are looking for nothing to change, but still waiting for a cause
Somedays maybe about boxes you dredge and papers you read
And between all the things you follow you will find your lead.

Calm endings to a restless day, or stories about a good night sleep
Or the reasons I ask you to bring me morning, that I get to keep
Bring me sunshine on a plate, my start of days is never complete
Because restless nights are all around me in songs that are on repeat

When you walk to work, wherever it may be
Think of morning, it was meant to become whatever it could be.
Bring me morning this night, no matter what time I write
Bring me the whole world to learn about, till I have my appetite

Day 145: Shared Poetry

I wonder if it is simple in someways to think that poetry even though your own is created by the shared experiences, shared thoughts and shared emotions. These are not random pieces that are born out of thin air, it would be hard to conceive of such a plan. For today I write to this idea of sharing things, I share my writing with so many in some way, and as I write with new topics I draw from them, the reactions that feeds me sometime helps me write. For now I think we create shared poetry, the ones I get to write sometimes. I have moments of epiphany with words and phrases I feel fit perfectly in a line, and so some of the ones that I do remember I get to keep them close, and in poetry I make them just a little bit mine. Keep writing back to me, keep telling me of things that mean something to you, for now let's write simple and share poetry.

Shared Poetry
I leave it all to you today,
The words that are written down in poetry
I let you guide what I get to write someday
In simple words, I will still write from memory

Together we will share a thought,
Like cups of tea that cools down after a while
Together we will finds meaning where we sought
As we decide what to and what not to write.

I come to you as you come to me,
In nothing more than simple poetry
And even if the world seems to look upon us with disbelief
I want us to write with just this need for simplicity

After a while as we wander on our ways
I wrote on and wrote about every single day
Because the "you" are so many who are around, you are with me
A friend, a guide, a nostalgia and sometimes a shared poetry

I will let you guide my words today
For there are too few of them, to tell stories or things we want to say.

Day 144: Dear Dad

Dear Dad, When I write this to you today, I want you to know how much I appreciate the first computer you bought for me, believe it or not it made typing on this one so easy, so I would say "money well spent". When you took my side with no questions asked, it was perfect, because what else is better to fight the world than with someone who thinks you can't be wrong. When the little things came knocking at my doorsteps, and when I would ask myself if the world is fair, you were quick reminders of how it was not and set me straight. In between summer breaks when I just needed ice cream you never questioned my motives for the extra scoop. In between making them our heroes and in between believing that some of them are the best people we can find,I write this one to you dear dad and to all dads who are one of a kind, Happy Father's Day to all of them.

Dear Dad
Dear Dad, it was only yesterday when I was home
Where I was in comfortable places and didn't feel alone
You made it worth coming home, you were biased in your own way
You took my side no matter what, which meant a lot some days

I often thought of myself as a better man, better than whatever I could be
But none of my heroes would check up just to switch off the light before I sleep
I don't look for heroes dad, but I would like you to know that you are one
When I tell my brave stories, the things I learned to learn , you were there when it had begun.

I knew growing up was full of troubled times too
When I fall in for things I couldn't fix and run back to you
And dad, asking you for advice came easy at times
Because I always seemed to know that mom wouldn't take my side

I have learned quite a bit dad, I have grown from time to time
And people say I have been okay and atleast most of that effort was mine
Some days when I come back home I wish the whole world was fair
But you remind me of subtle realities, and of the fact that you are always there.

There are no perfect heroes dad, just some who are more real than most,
But I hope even if I write from so far away, you will always keep this one close.

Day 143: On Some Notes

There will always be enough time to make notes of things, it may not be physical notes or stickies that you get to write and post everywhere. They are not part of something grander at all some days, just musings, thoughts and remains of something that are left behind on a Saturday evening somewhere on your plate. These mental notes have been with us in our memories from a long time whether it is about memories of our favorite toy or things we stared at as kids. "On Some Notes" was this idea of exploring notes we leave to ourselves in the back of our heads, our mental pointers that we take and some that remain with us and some that we miss out on completely. This comes really late in the day because it is supposed to be about the events of the day about the way it has been put together and some of the notes that the day has left behind. Here's to some notes in the back of my head

On Some Notes
On Some notes of the day when the evening is where your day begins
On some tired memories that stored days, the rest that remains unseen
I see time fly by, it plays a number on the jukebox I don't listen to anymore
A slow song reminiscent of home, and I dance I didn't dance before

On some notes the smaller writings are kept right where they are
In the back of the head, written in temporary ink and slightly afar
We get to take the rides we want. even the tired ones are homeward bound
And a walk back home seems like , the quiet moments that make no sound.

I will write to smaller things today, the simpler ones when you get to take a break
Where all the happenings of the day, are kept aside, in your own personal space
I often think of advice as recycled experiences that may or may not work at times
We are rough edges to a poetry, when all you are looking for is a rhyme

On some notes as the day will end, some lunch specials and walks alike
Will feed your memories and imagination still, as you will sit in your head & write
And the mellow endings of the day, the subtle things have all been said
You are meaningful in words that haven't been written, you are part of some notes in my head

Day 142: To Fantasy, with Love

I got in a request to write something about falling in love with the fantasy of someone. The notion that this is more often real in every ones lives. We often idealize who we fall in love with, the things our mind chooses to see the most about what we do, and the things we look for in the back of our head. We are in the state of constant repairs and though we write letters to that perfect fantasy we hope to find in people, we are left with what we started from which was always one of a kind. For this writing I thought of how we could fit a letter in a poem, addressed to Fantasy and with love. For those who love the imperfections, the little knickknacks of people, the constant reminders of who we are are, we still love to build things in our head and here's hoping our fantasy gets to read it instead.

To Fantasy, with Love
I wonder what it would be, to write a letter in poetry,
Think of paragraphs with rhyme, that have somehow been set free
And then when the letters could be written to whoever it maybe
I am surprised that we still write to nothing more that our fantasy

Here's to Fantasy, the you I "think" you are, with all my love
With all the things that are in reference to, all the qualities above
I have taken risks that are both large and small with you
Because after all I gather that loving the fantasy was about a follow through.

We are evening's romance, we are thoughts in our head
The ones we like to build, and some days find broken instead
We idealize the ones we keep, through the best we can find
I am looking for the better pieces of you, so I keep hitting rewind

Here's to the fantasy that we many sometime never find
To the relentless looking up of things and people in our mind
Dear fantasy, dear perfect world I hope you will write back too
As today I write with all the love , to the fantasy, and for you.

Day 141: Eyes Closed

The idea of keeping your eyes closed to actually see something, comes from the notion that to visualize a problem sometimes you have to let go of rigid boundaries and allow yourself to make choices. Let yourself make changes which you may never imagine or see at all. I see a lot of these changes in the people around me , I see that I am able to see these smaller versions of myself everyday which adds up to something better, in efforts I make. "With my eyes closed" touches upon this idea of looking at ourselves with no distractions, no judgement and bearings of our own for that matter. And somehow we learn to notice the little things we might have missed out. I hope this writing is among the more hopeful ones, for those who need it, for some who are having a bad day or for some who just need no reason to share poetry. For a little while today get away from all your engagements and work loads, close your eyes and dream, you are worth the break, you are worth the read any day.

Eyes Closed
I can see colors with my eyes closed,
Dreams that come alive when my mind lets go
We are characters that imagine things, we are built from scratch
And everyday just a little bit is what we have to add

There are things I see everyday, and then some that hide in plane sight
There are things I would let go easy, and a few for which I fight
Some who see me struggle, who see me get up everyday
Have known how much I have built myself, even in every fall as it may

Do we keep our selves on the edge of things, some that are touch & go
Or are we bound to more comfortable ones, the things we better know
We keep our eyes closed and open it doesn't matter at times
Because the important things , that matters most are in the back of our mind

We will learn from the little things, the things that add up everyday
That builds us and creates the version of us, the one we are today
I see hope in places I can't travel, but ones that live on in my mind
Even if there is no address, and even with my eyes closed; they are easy to find

Day 140: Better Aftermath

The idea of aftermath is often followed by a grim overview of something that follows an unfavorable incident. Though it has been associated with that considering the way it has been used, I like to think of aftermaths in the context of what can come out of failures sometimes. I write this because I find friends who are troubled about losing things, whether it is a job, something personal or anything else for that matter. And though the thought of being in troubled times is not uncommon to anyone of us , it is still ones own. Something no one else can truly relate or compare with. I like to think of these events and thinking about the aftermath, what becomes of these once we come out of them. Hence the notion of a better aftermath and I hope you find yours too my dear friends.

Better Aftermath
We are hopes & dreams of a better aftermath,
We are things and reminders of moments that we had.
In between giving up and hoping the best to be,
We are remnants of the day, waiting for the night to set free.

We have all failed from time to time,
We have learned from mistakes & trips we take in our minds.
For the distant road is never too easy to find,
In the aftermath of whatever your day may leave behind.

I wonder if we could fit letters in poetry,
Write as though it is meant just for you and from me.
And when you read it just made sense somehow,
And gave you what you need , even if a little bit for now.

We are building better aftermaths, we will slowly improve,
We will take part in the life and live it just as we used to.
A long time ago when the pieces still fit perfectly, still fine,
We are building better aftermaths, we are writing letters in rhyme.

Day 139: Crazy Ones

I wrote about the idea of being crazy in our own way as a personal note to a friend, and I quickly realized that this applies to almost all of us. In this world where people value being rational, I feel that we are bound to be crazy sometimes, we are bound to make mistakes and follow your heart. These few crazy ones in the world have the power to inspire, to lead, to innovate, to write, to create and in some sense change the way we define them. And it is in this Craziness that we find sanity. We are not bound by promises to anyone else because we made way too many to ourselves which we keep changing to begin with. Our fears are nothing from the outside world they are within and they are sometimes easy to deal with. We are messy in our own way but we know where everything fits and we like to keep it that way. We are wanderers who love the pictures we take and the things we create. We fall in love sometimes with the rush of it, because for now we are hoping someone finds it just as exciting

Crazy Ones
And here's to the crazy ones, who have written to me
To those who have been taken by the world, only to be free
Who believe much of there thoughts wander somewhere else
They are books who have never returned back on their shelves

And I know much has been written about the crazy ones
Those who are tied to the world and would rather be undone
Who have found there corner of sanity amidst this world
Who like to take a chance at things, sometimes give it a whirl

There are no "just rights" in the world, we may refuse to believe the same
We are more than what the world defines us to be, we look for sanity in the insane
I write to thinkers, philosophers and story writers in their comfy chairs
Who have gone out to the world & been themselves on more than just a "dare"

The world is full of those who follow and rarely lead
Be crazy enough to walk the other way, sometimes refuse to pay heed
We are not paintings on the wall, or words that are bound only in our mind
We are the crazy ones, we are free in whatever way you choose craziness to be defined.

Day 138: Romanticized lives

"..Do all things with love, but don't romanticize life like you can't survive without it." This idea of romanticizing sections of our life is not new, whether it is about the way we do our work, whether it is something you expect from the people around you, or sometimes pure romance which you believe has fairy tale endings. I have realized that this is not a new phenomenon, that we have been trying to find what we call "ideal" for a long time now. Our idea of an ideal condition test, an ideal world, a rational decision maker seems to be ever more elusive in theory than a lot that talks about conditional ideals, the things that some things come and go based on other variables. So here's one dedicated to the idea of Romanticized lives, which though awe inspiring may fall just a bit short of ideal endings and are yet one of the most aspiring things worth working towards.

Romanticized lives
Our own selves at best are likes parts of a symphony that plays
That was written on sheet music where it might still decide to stay
For the beauty of the echoes of what was one heard
Is but romanticized in your memory, in your very own words

Did we forget the classics we read sometimes?
And yet hurry back to remember the characters in our mind
We have romanticized a few who capture our fancy for days
And some we have been too real to let go in some ways.

Our endings to the day, or musings of the evening still
When we are captured by a thought, while hoping thoughts could be distilled
We are written down in diaries, in narrations that only few read
And yet we hope we got it all right, we are too busy to pay heed

Don't try for the perfect world, don't try for the ideal in everything around
Because some of the best music are in your nostalgia, as your memory unwound
We will imperfect in our own accord, we are travelers who look for things that don't let you sleep
The romanticized bits and pieces of our lives, the better & bitter ones we get to keep

Day 137: Holes

It is unfair to capture just what is perfect sometimes, though it may be the most obvious thing to do and even the most attractive one. The reason we find neatly arranged books better than rough notes on a pages sometimes. We are conditioned to overlook things which cannot be fixed and yet I feel there is an ounce of inspiration that makes us stronger every time we acknowledge these holes. We are not picture perfect, at least I am not and I think sometimes even on a note that may sound like we are taking perfect shots of this world, I believe this is exactly what we do " we take snapshots" of our mind. For now these holes which I feel make us who we are are like rare books on constant display to the world, we are often glimpsed by many and some will even wait long enough to read.

Holes
Holes in the heart, holes in the soul
I come to grow younger as time grows old
I have reasons to feel that I can take on this day
I have learned to be myself, in my very own way

I know not of the little things under constant repair
They are in the back of my head, where I can't peek or stare
They are worried places, anxious ones, places with no roads
They are rolls in a camera that have been put on hold.

My colored photographs are still, from behind the tripod
I have no reasons to sell anything new, my time has been bought
We are kept in constant motion swirling around some days
Like the milk in my coffee cup that whirls until it stays

There are holes in the stories that we so often write
We are perfectionist with imperfect stories by our side
We are not here to put in repairs and not here to mend,
We are story writer, we are tales some with no beginning & no end

Oh fear not when you glimpse, I am in a glass display
For the holes and imperfections makes me special my own way.

Day 136: Silent Ears

We are all in need of silent ears sometimes, those with whom we share our lives without complexities, without judgement and with no questions asked. These can be strangers on a train, friends and allies. These can be remnants of chats that we once had with people and sometimes we get to play the opposite role. We get to become these wanderers who listen and fade into the soul of others, who are demigods in their own way because I know nothing more powerful than sharing your story to ease something. For wherever you may find such souls, treasure them , value them and most importantly if given a chance be one of them. Here's to the silent ears.

Silent Ears
We are sometimes in awe of those who lend a silent ear
Who have gone through the day, the week with much to endear
Who have sat patiently on road side, on chat boxes or text messages sometimes
And yet managed to listen all the same, even if the world was unkind

We are all in search of these wanderers, those who come from lands of no return
Who have known too much, who have heard of the world
                                            and carry something they can't be unlearned
I have found them when I would sit down to write, in summaries to people I do not know
I write to these wandering ears, as everyone gets to read what I cannot show.

The silent ears sometime finds a way to inspire those who need it the most
Who have played with trysts in destiny and believe future is whatever they chose
I think somewhere where the hero lies, in stories that have been told too loud
The unsung ones were the ones who lay till the end of it all, some who stuck around

In whatever language that I may choose to write, your character remains so bold
The silent ear who listened to it all, are still silent amidst all the stories that are told
I am grateful at times to those who can learn and forget, even better who remember me
Because I am one of these wanderers collecting stories, and setting some thoughts free

Day 135: Dance

Of many things that I cannot do, dancing is one of them. Though I would like to believe that it is a trait that like many other can be learnt easily, I believe I am neither suited nor qualified to make such a tall claim. This diary of poetry, this monologue with myself seems incomplete without stating the obvious that some things in life are appreciated almost as though the music I cannot write, the dance that I cannot dance and the things I cannot change. In short bursts of whatever may come your way however this elusive movement of silhouettes on a stage, in an apartment building or between the lines of a painting, much of it was left to second nature. For now I write to the waltz that needs no language, inspired by the coming home of a few and faded memories too

Dance
Even though we write poetry about memories we store
Or things that come together and as a story we wrote
Or even better a song with lyrics but no sound
That which is but seen by the eyes and but heard out loud

In the shallow rhythm that breathed through the night
We are captured by a music that the soul refuses to fight
For the rest of the world, just like me that cannot dance
I am delighted to have given it a shot, at times I took a chance.

For those who have moved around like lyrics of songs & poetry
Or simply flown with the music and the beats that creates symphony
I have seen them fly with no wings, I have seen them hold each other close
Both dance and music that filled the night in whatever recital they chose

Some will dance behind closed doors, on the road side curb but a few
Some will even choose to learn , and some will make it too
For whatever fancies your heart tonight , for whatever reasons you dance,
In whatever language you feel the flow, just take a bow and a chance

Those who flow into the night, like gentle souls that disappear
And as I write another chapter to a book, this is earmarked away for years.

Day 134: Sun and Rain

Sometimes the simplicity of the topics are held by what inspires you, whether it is a conversation with a friend, a text message, a request or just a view outside your window. We are mellowed and hardened by the same things, we are left contemplating about how we can summarize it and sometimes we are surprised when opposites attract or even survive together. The simple paradoxes seem to be the most beautiful ones, and so as I ponder on the warm sunny day outside and a hint of drizzle of rain, I write to the notion of Sun and Rain as they went and as they came.

Sun and Rain
In the troubles that I find in sun and rain
Is that they don't seem to play well in the sanity of the insane
They come together some days to create rainbows by your side
And yet getting wet in the sun is sometimes worthwhile to write

We are troubled at times like the sun and the rain
We hide the best of us in between the things that cause pain
We are caught up in all the storms that races through our mind
We are out of our homes and travelling this time of time

For many of us who are far from home
We are in places of our mind, where letters can't reach anymore
We like the direct approach, where we can talk back
We are like raincoats on a rainy day , when it was all we had

We are rainbows on a dull morning we can paint a smile,
We are beaches on the shore which you haven't visited in a while
We are long walks on the side of the road we have hitchhiked our ways
We are whatever comes, sun or rain , come as they may.

Day 133: Own Words

I am fascinated by the idea of our own word versus that which we draw upon. The simple understanding is that we create from our own thoughts, the way we bind them and stitch them together must be our own. And though that makes perfect sense I am forced to ask myself sometimes if they are a result of what comes from the outside. Our own words are inspired outlets that lets us integrate them back into the world. So I write to this idea of our own words versus the borrowed self. I hope they lend meaning.

Own Words
The idea was that we would borrow words from time to time,
Some thoughts that have been passed down
                             & some lost in transition for a while
My own words were said out loud in the day
And some of the things were kept aside, the ones we couldn't say

I think of topics to write about in days,
Not knowing my writing are sometimes
                          nothing more than borrowings someways
No we are not counting characters at ends of line,
We are record keepers, and story writers
                          and just poets of simpler times

Your stories today are about the world outside, when it speaks to you
It has been found too loud at times, and sometimes just whispers it way through
Do we write with our own words today, I wonder if we borrow from those outside
Among things we create or stitch together or simply read and write

We are story tellers none the less, we create magic out of simple things
We give powers to the immovable ones, to those in need we give them wings
Whether mine or your whose ever it may be, I get to keep the words whatever maybe
Tonight I keep the borrowed own & some that I get to set free. 

Day 132: Collecting Stories

I have been thinking about stories a lot, finding that amusement at certain times of the day go beyond merely cheering you up in busy times. They are about facing the best and worst in us, they are about finding the little things we don't tell people, our fears that haunt us and our inspirations that guide us. Even if these may be mere comic strips on the side of a page, or archived in neat library books they make you realize the importance of collecting these short giving, musings and stories. I have never found a more apt way to summarize sometimes than to not use a single word while doing so. In my case I am just writing to collecting these anecdotes of memories that remains with you.

Collecting Stories
We are sometimes like pots of honey in a cartoon strip I used to read
Or sliding down the hills outside , hoping we make the fall we didn't need
We are born from wherever maybe, comic strips on the sides of newspapers today
Or a collected version of what used to be, little anecdotes about life put someway

We are collecting stories here, some that may or may not live by
Some that have been translated on a page and some are up for grabs if you try
Scribbling on the side of napkins still, pages with doodles that run through the wall
And our handwriting that covers some scrapbooks and memories that refuse to fade at all

We are characters at best, we are Calvin and Hobbes, we are Winnie the Pooh
We are known for things we have learned and thought, & sometimes for that which we do
Oh wandering heart, my willow tree, my collections of archived books
My neatly folded memories are often in the places where I have rarely looked

We are collecting stories today, the ins and out of what makes them great
And then there are some that are unwritten, waiting to be penned for someone to create
I collect stories from those around, who have walked with me on unknown ground
And there are some stories that like loose pages of a book are waiting to be found.

Day 131: Midday Blues

My writing comes a little late today, a little towards the second half, the other hour of the day. As those who take shelter from the rain and stare outside, some who are sitting and typing away at their offices and labs, in between buildings and places and coffee shops alike. In between these hours and between some productive ones is a time that often feels just a little blue, just a little blah. Though there is passivity in what I feel today, I wish to endear these wee hours in the mid afternoon. The rising challenges that will face a few and some who will lead themselves to more productive endeavors. My midday blues that sing to me and remind me to write poetry

Midday Blues

I write from the middle today, 

Somewhere between the evening, night and day

Somewhere where I can count and find

The hours of the day that are left behind

I write from the couches or lazy sofas in the lab,

Among the coffee breaks and break rooms that we had

We are unchanged by very little, and changed by so much more

And yet we are sticking to our routines as ever before.

There are those will find conversations that they attend

Some will even participate and some who will alleviate

The words that will be spoken will somehow leave your mind

As often as the Midday Blue that never leaves me behind.

I play Jazz records on endless loops, I create music from memory

And for whatever maybe the reason we have chosen what this hour could be

Kick back for a while, spend this time in pursuits where your mind wanders

For me now the blues and hues and the rain, are among thoughts I ponder.

Day 130: Sunday@4.15

There are times in the night when the most obvious topics are the most suitable ones to write about. Whether it is the ticking away of the watch that lay too close to the pillow, the half charged phone plugged into the wall or the rotating fan that seems to be stuck in between a perfect rhythm and being loud. The distinct etching of the night can be found sometimes in these weary hours when the things that needs to be put aside have infact been kept on hold. The tea pots are not boiling evening tea anymore, they are kept for morning's break. The insanity of listening to Clair de Lune at 4.15 recreating morning scenes from Frankie and Johnnie or where the radio calls to the station seems too far fetched to even attempt. We don't need an explanation sometimes and today is just a ode to that free spirited nature of writing I admire so much, here's from my room at 4.15 am on a Sunday morning.

Sunday @ 4.15
Somethings are written at just random times of night or day
4.15 on a Sunday morning, as my part of the world still sleeps & slips away
No studio recordings on wait, no unfinished songs to be heard
They are just lyrics in forms of poetry, just meanings unheard

Sunday @4.15 speaks of ensembles of night and day,
Where the letters were still sealed in the envelopes and never mailed away
When the riddles of the restless night, spoke a language only I could hear
Songs that seem a little more direct than simply music to my ear.

We are shot glasses at the middle of the night, we are quiet kitchens that sleep,
We are closed books and some shut down computers,as we hibernate for a bit
The glare from my window comes from a street light on the street
It is one of the many things tonight, that just like me, refuses to sleep

I have been staring at screens too long, waiting for a sign
Sometimes to answer the questions where is sanity that I can find
No hashtag letters to the world, no poetries tweeted away
Here's to some 4.15(s) in the morning time on a warm Sunday.

Day 129: You Can

The idea today was that there is so much that goes by each day that we feel we are capable of transferring bits and pieces of ourselves away. In the prelude of things we are written subtle, we are written like introductions and then as we grow I find we change our meanings . We are not satisfied with the conformity we face and once in a while we rewrite again. Till that time comes the world will know only a version of us, that which is expected, that which at least in some sense predictable. I argue for the many version that we don't know, there is more to it than what catches the eyes. We are writers who will keep writing till we find the other side . For now I believe you can and so can I

You Can
There's more to me than what meets the eye
And I can stand forever staring as things go by
Nothing else can be on the better side of me
For there's more than you can dream of
                     as you close your eyes to see

There is more than I can and you can write & sing,
Take a flight to places we have dreamed on both wings
And when the younger me would write with no help or aid
I would remember sharing stories as thought they will never fade

Sometimes so often there is more to me than I show
I am making sense of a crazy world, the only way I know how
You can change the outer shell, you can change the way I may look
But I am still the best version of me, in the black and white I took

You can change the war of words & worlds, you can stitch it back again
You are doctors looking for sanity among what the world finds insane
You can kill time on pages you read to yourself, just read them loud
For now just standing on the edge of things, just catch a breath & shout.

Day 128: High low

It is the end of the week and though many have planned the weekend there are a few who have accepted that this is just another day, that the high points and low points don't come and go with Mondays and Fridays on our calendars but are rather chaotic. In the middle of all of this , this realization that our weeks are Topsy-turvy designs that we do not understand is not really painting an exaggerated figure. It is with this anticipation and those who take interest in letting me dig through my sticky notes in my head that I write about this bookended versions of weeks and our versions that we go through in our head.

High Low
They were dressed in black and dressed in white
The ending of week seemed to be dressed just right
And then when all this came tumbling down
The highs and lows of the world were read upside down

The bookends at the end of weeks,
Or dog eared days kept like pages that we hope we will someday read
Simplicity chained in deadlines some days
Or success stories which we got to write again and again

We are put on pause from time to time,
We get handed down to the next week, to the top of a pile
And still I wonder have we settled in,
Or simply celebrating every week as a win

Even if the week seems to be ending today,
The high and low notes have not yet been hit quit yet
They are in between the little keynotes and speeches we make to ourselves
And how we move in a straight line, and stack up our weekends on the shelves

I chose to keep this one simple because I was at a loss of words today when I started out for a writing today and thought I felt like writing something simple, the simplest thoughts were the hardest to come by. To those who have summarized this week today, I wish you a great weekend, and to those who are stuck behind, or sometimes even addicted to it all hope there is always something left behind.

Day 127: Lost Stars

Once in a while the sky will just be clear enough to gaze upon few stars and to wander in the lights that move so slow that we seem to be fascinated by their unchanging self. The truth is what we see are actually remnants of the position the star used to be and is an effect of the light reaching us after a long period of time. Like it or now it makes you think if the entire night sky is merely a nostalgic version of the sky that used to be from millions of years and is only visible right now. And since we don't know for sure where they are or have shifted over so many years, I write to the idea of lost stars, even the ones that have been shooting away. For most of us wishing upon stars will always fill us with hope, the amazement of knowing that something does change with the passing of time while it appears quite the opposite. I am inspired by this idea, these lost stars; as I see the same notion of appearing to be stuck at places though we might have moved on and what we see behind are merely remnants. Here's to lost stars

Lost Stars
We are changing somewhere in time and place,
In the night sky or morning sky, in maps that we chase
Finding dreams that are tied to shooting stars
We have changed much even though we may appear as we are

The sky above on a restless Thursday day or night as it speaks,
Are held like memories and things we will always get to keep
We are lost stars somewhere, but we will shine just the same
We are all built from nothing more than star dust that remained.

I was told stories as a child, of constellations in the sky
How they are meaningful in their own way, they come together some nights
We have learned much from these fellow wanderers even if they travel restlessly
We have all come a far way, hoping and waiting to be set free

Find a new part of the sky, choose and wander around my friend,
We have much to explore and understand, in time we have much to gain
We are wanderers as our counterpart, we are far too many to count
We are lost stars who refuse to come home, we are meant to wander around.

Day 126: Breaking Through

Sometimes the mood of the poetry is set by the time of the day you get to write it, whether it in between the odd hours of the night or the early hours of the day. One of our greatest challenges is to try coming through with something meaningful at the end of it, something that relates to whomsoever we can write to. And for all I know if I can do that I have succeeded in bits and parts with my poetry, it gets me through my day. For yesterday night it came to me in a line "Just human trying to break through some closed doors" . So many times in my head I would think finding perfect days was about knowing the important things to write about. In breaking though to someone and somehow.

Breaking Through
I am the letter I hope to finish some day,
To include you, and everyone else as the pages fade away
I will bring cheer to where it is needed most,
For now I am the only geographer, who seems to be lost

Every morning of this week that goes by,
I think of meeting strangers I don't know, and hoping to see them smile
For no biases today has filled my head,
I need no reason to try hard, to break through to you instead.

I am yesterday at best, hoping some days at end
That a knock outside my door, speaks of you my friend
That a rainy day is sharing but a cup of tea
And repeating whatever brings us together, repeating history

I am solace when you need it the most some days,
I am the road you can't find, when it's the one you need to be somplace
I am broken pieces of the puzzles you claim as yours
Just humans trying to break through some closed doors

Find happiness today as your day ends or starts wherever it may,
For a smile breaks through without a single word, and often finds something to say

Day 125: Soul Suitcases

As we go through the routines a sense of unplanned chaos still fills up the hours. We are still surrounded by the probabilities of the week, the waiting on results at times and sometimes staring endlessly at computer screens for something to change. Over the next one week we would have psychologists , engineers, doctors, teachers and educators among many others who would have changed the world. We would have learned just a little bit more than what we used to and in the grand scheme of things we would have changed very little of ourselves. I remember making an analogy today, about how we can sometimes be like suitcases on a conveyor belt at an airport. We have all traveled and gone through so much, stamped upon, written across and have dents and cracks at places. We have been claimed at gates and we have been lost and found all in the same day and yet we are worth collecting at the end of the trip. Something that makes us wait eagerly. Here's to our restless soul, the suitcases on loop waiting to be collected.

Soul Suitcases
And then the running around, the restless nature of it all,
Were put in line like many others , the baggage claim was stalled
Our claims to a long traveled day at times, that comes to an end
And a long unclaimed walk, in the company of a friend

We are souls in suitcases somehow, we are transported in time & place,
We are memories and even nostalgia, or simply things we can't get out of our head
Have you been been on a long journey for day in and out?
When the tired soul comes home, and looks for a places in between those that lie around.

We are friends with no name sometimes, we are picked up by simply fate,
And yet we keep coming back, we are more often lost than found in our own place.
Today keep your address tags empty, buy a one way ticket to some place you know,
Even if the journey seems long, keep going the extra mile you have been routed to for now

Soul suitcases on a conveyor belt, you are not left on endless retreat,
You are solace of a tired mind; in the middle of the week.
You are eager givings of the day, you are all about finding your way
And no matter what the contents may be, bits of pieces of you will always stay the same.

Day 124: Hitting Restart

Sometimes the most obvious thing to do is to hit restart, and hope something changes about a situation. Todays writing was about these moments which beg to ask the question if we are really ready to hit restart. If we are designed to bring a change even if it is for a little while. Are we ready to create these little bits and pieces of memories or is it important to chain them somehow into what we would later call Nostalgia.  Over the last week I have met many such people from Colorado to Bloomington itself, from here and from far, and in letters and in text messages we share from time to time. Our greatest adventures are often served up to us from those who view us from the outside,those who are able to cherish the simplicity of who and what we are when they come forward to us. For now no one is ready to hit restart, we are not changing the timers on our doors, we are making memories even if for a short while.

Hitting Restart
We are born as a new day, as new something had once been
In trusting those who come to us, even if for short companies
We are broken down into riddles from time to time, puzzles we get to read
We are not looking to be fixed, we are perfect sometimes in whatever we may heed

Where we drawn on contact lists, with spell checks & auto corrects
Where moments lives on napkins, card and telephones, where we don't bother with regrets
Come up to me and listen to the music that plays loud enough,
Where we may not have the best hand, and yet we are too raveled in our own bluff.

Are we ready for the week to hit restart?
To count again quietly right from the start.
To travel somewhere , wherever we may need to be.
For now we are simply finding a way to set ourselves free

No we are not curtailed by the length of what we do and do not write,
Why we have chosen to keep some things on hold as parts of our lives fight
The getting ready for it, seems to question are we hoping for a change
For now we keep the continuous you and me, and some memories that remain.