Thoughts to Words

In the leash on permanence, there is fear.  Fear of loss,  fear of missing out,  fear of attachments,  fear of suffering, fear of losing control. In impermanence, there is acceptance. Acceptance of grief,  acceptance of here and now, acceptance of connections, acceptance of pain and vulnerability, and unleashing the freedom to let go. Zen isn't outside, on the highest mountain peak, or the sun-kissed beach,  it's within the universe. The universe that you are. ©songbriti

I like silence, but not the one before the storm. I like silence, but not the one oppressing opinions. I like silence, but not the one tolerating violence behind closed doors.  I like silence, but not the one giving a parachute to the ego. I like silence, but not the one dividing nations. I like silence, but not the one used as a passive-aggressive tool to punish someone, I like silence, but not the one widening the rift between hearts. I like silence, but not the one forcing a person to stay in the closet. I like silence, but not the one dragging a life to death by suicide. ©songbriti

Politics is power, power of the votes, votes by the people, people for the nation.  Nation is a child, child of the idea, idea by the freedom fighters, fighters for the motherland. Motherland is the pulse, pulse of the democracy, democracy to empower, empower the deserving. ©songbriti

I have known you, but I have not known you at all. We are kites wandering in our own dialects, like limes and lemons. When we're on a tree together, coincidentally, because that's how we meet/met, our eyes talk in monosyllables and awkward nods.    Spring is in the house and it's adequately warm, yet somehow, there are extensions of snow dew  on my palms and yours too. We perform karaoke with tulips,  'The everlasting mixed...' The birds would be happy staying longer. What about our hearts? Can companionship keep them stronger? The sun is in a rush,  to go for the family dinner. Just then, something shakes the tree, and we fall on the ground. Distance doesn't have an opinion on how far or close we are, we do. Our cords are intertwined, but we have parallel skies. I have known you, but I have not known you at all.   ©songbriti

When relationships are bombed, randomly,  a rendition absent in its monologue, smoke stinging you, blood rushing to the head, waterworks gushing down your cheeks, the lid on your mouth is tight and quiet is the contemporary loud. Do you miss finding out reasons? Had you been given space, you still wouldn't talk.  Why would you? Wouldn't you preferably  curl up in a chair larger than life, analyse some old photographs, assent to assumptions? Murmur, "I knew it.", with conviction. Emulate the proud sun crushing itself, leaving yourself in disarray, pulling the walls of the room towards you,  colluding with them  to close in on you  till the delight of the pink sky  misplaces its charm in a closet with no outlets. A goldfinch without a visa  is hitting the windowpane on Christmas Eve,  moving its robust beak, chattering emphatically in a solitary state. 'Tis bitingly cold outside, the glacier inside four walls brings no outsiders into its world....

The soup.  I invited myself to your house because you’d share some with me. I knew it. A sense of the gut, it has seldom been erroneous. A bowl of esoteric wisdom, as empowering as the mountains  beneath the concealed ocean  is on the table. My palate, keen to dictate my movements. The soup tasted differently similar, it was healthier. I got irked. You added an antidote to it. Why was there an antidote in it?  I wanted to extract it out of the soup, I couldn’t. 'Should I drop the bowl?' I hadn't dropped in, to drop out. I drank the soup, all of it. Had I disliked the taste of it? My palate could not finalize a judgement. We had talked about antidotes, you tutored me  and I can make some on my own. I even give it to people in need. I just didn’t want it for myself. Had you mixed a placebo instead, I would not have adored you like I do. The genuineness in your recipe  served me the best. If I settled for anything lesser, my gut would mock me. Somewhere in thi...

The tunnel was blocked and I saw no trace of light, the pain was a shark,  my strength was out of order,  the severity of my condition  was as ambivalent as the future. The misery roared inside, the mountains were oblivious, I greeted them,  described the mythical sunshine and how it worked as a relief spray. They were considerate  to exchange pleasantries. I didn't want help, so condemnation is irrelevant. I was too tired to fight, and who was I against? Myself? My mind? I estimated  the permanence of peace in death  and I slept to be cremated. I was perhaps done  with the rationale  life provided. ©songbriti

Sins percolating the pores of heaven, souteneur of sinners disparaging the nucleus of goodwill, a warped desire fraught with fire in the belly, berating the gardener and the water lilies, symbolizing humility, campaigning for devotion. Nemesis’s modus operandi  on vengeance, wasn’t exceptional. Who's the doppelganger? Who's orginal? Uniqueness dies an ordinary death. Was it even born in the first place? In the fabric of angels  contrasted with demons, grab hold of the grey skin, cast off the monochrome of compartments. Hell is as heavenly as Eden, and Heaven is on top of the power game because who bids for Hell? Providing such a hazy insurance. ©songbriti

If it wasn't for humour,  I would have collapsed  in planets I had never been to  or didn't want to go to.  They say, "You're funny." A compliment? "Thank you!  I take that as an accurate interpretation." Un-funny is feeling caught up in a rigid stiletto of customs, where my wings wonder if the stadium for laughter is passively occupied with a poorly attempted punchline. Seriously, serious is not my aptitude. I mean I did try cracking it like a joke but the ball bounced out of my court. It's like chewing neem leaves early in the morning. The bitterness doesn't go  even when the leaves have fallen into the lap of your stomach. You hunt for some sweetness as the lioness whose claws  have given up on dependence. Do I get a reserved seat  in the Happy-go-lucky department? They wouldn't select me, I can't jump around with dopamine when I want to cry while performing a parody on Trouble's insult comedy. I am funny,  but my sense of humour  ...

The plea was audible, but governments mute, environmentalists on a rally, axes had a ready to cook sally, brokers meddled with the soil, assured trees of mutual benefits. Impelled to be of service and a novice to selfishness  the forest backpacked the family, relocated to a sea, in deep water,  they were out of depth, sinking away with generations, mermaids heard no death throes. Progess leaks of slaughter and anonymous sacrifices, from a private island, a tycoon uploads a post- 'Go Green'. ©songbriti

Apparently, Humour has a 'clandestine' affair with Pain, clandestine- is a hushed opinion, as good as the paparazzi’s interference. The lovers meet secretly but in the open, encircled by cosy zones, and cushions of comfort, sometimes crossing lines, perhaps to touch the horizon, to sing the chorus of their ascension, loud and clear, of the love that has it all. The cookies crumble, but are not heard on purpose, noise gives you the urge to purge and you act in accordance with your health  to protect its wealth. In love,  you may not be  'made for each other', but all that matters  is the unifying power  that you have  when you are together.  ©songbriti

The M.O.R.N.I.N.G in the morning stands for? You find out. Motivational quotes  are mostly sources of instant gratification when you consume it,  it is the summertime rain in your mind, pacifying you, you can dance to its beat and retweet it. Summer, being strong-headed, won't be lenient with heat, you'll sweat, sweat like a human and not a pig, a much-needed break,  you'll NEED, not WANT but NEED. The break is an experiment, the scope for further research you get after the break, is yours rightfully, even assessing the sunlight  without a recess, is up to you. Scientists may draw inspiration  from libraries and laboratories, but they have a unique dream  walking the talk in their revolutionary patents. ©songbriti

Absorbing a thousand and one Arabian nights in fear, my feathery filaments supply oxygen  and sonnets of hope in the bloodstream. The marsh arteries  in my courtyard, compile political convulsions and maritime disputes, contusions sprouting  from partition and bleeding internally. The flamingos legally keep shifting homes, summarizing the winters to their baby cousins  at the summer palace, but I am a refugee and an earning, with ordinary fins  in this extraordinary estuary. Fishermen of Kutch and Sindh ritually have their dignity ripped and boats seized because of me. Borders have sledgehammered  the heritage of my solitude, any considerate Jinni in the sea who can bring me a glimpse of it? ©songbriti

Poetry is the mountain  where I meditate  in the crest  of calmness. Poetry is the rope I grip with hope when fierce tornadoes gobble up the sunshine and there is existential crisis. Poetry is the moonlight arranging a romantic ambience for all my solo dinner dates. Poetry is the universal donor donating a reason  to quarantine myself when a pandemic  is simmering in the air. Poetry is the history left in me, poetry is the reflection of my aspirations, poetry is the backbone of my soul. ©songbriti

Ruminate in mindfulness,  be a transient tourist for the thought, with an eagle's eye see what others can't,  shoot close-up shots, that photographic memory has an inbuilt high definition, but let the imageries not push buttons, operate with the mind of a scientist, and the heart of a poet, in the amphitheatre of a beautiful day, the trials and errors of the performance and the findings are yours, a show was rolling before you knew it and will continue to after your blood and bones  manure the land, while the stage is beneath your toes, compose tunes at this harvest, feathers on your cap will be added, albeit take them not to the future, the orchard is but a walking example, of fruits growing when they have to. ©songbriti

Eating without an appetite, hunger's hosting the stomach. Smiling without eyes being bothered, zygomaticus major muscle lifting courtesy. Talking without attention, the bills of acquaintanceship are on socializing. Sleeping without a dream, heavy exertion pumping adenosine. Dying without a worldly crucification, the draft of a will on grains of sand, the ocean has properties of a detergent. Meanwhile, when the universe is hiking, life is styled by time, it goes on even if there are power outages. ©songbriti

In a world which is so stagnant on temporary, thank you for being permanent, love, gratitude, faith are conduits for transcendence, the accnicc moon of this friendship, has no wishing pond, willingness to stay holds paramount importance, a conscious decision to be or not to be, an open secret behind a shooting star's good luck charm. ©songbriti

Barefoot these trail of ants, they got their backs, boarding a local train, in a metropolitan, hoarding sweat. Hardwork- an organ overworked, Passion- the recent Amazon forest, the esophageal bridge distributing 'provisional permits' to drive from 9 to 5, also sometimes overtime, speeding at zero dreams per hour. A ventilating cigarette purifies sleep in the 1BHK, curtained by a nest of necessities, though the wingless cannot fly, they can climb the highest high. The backpacks of duties are heavier than weighed, the horizon is not going anywhere, when the curtains are raised, they'll get there and beyond. ©songbriti

I could be the emergency candle when flickering dangers dodge you, keep me in a jar, that contained lemon marmalade, you love oranges I know, life is fond of sour lemons instead, culinary arts is so much more than Michelin stars, it hardly is a fair-weather place but in any season on Earth and phase of the Moon,  a firefly pixie is your friend, delve into your spiritual growth, a well-wisher won't push you  into the well when you take refuge, in the dense fog,  tons of silver linings we can craft, an ethereal friend-ship sails and sails, in due course blessed with bountiful harvests. ©songbriti

I fish for the fleshes  of good sunsets, for instance the tangerine ice  that blooms in Antartica, and in the manure saltwater warps their carcasses, my thirst is a camel's reservoir and hunger fed to bones,  I was teleported out of Hamlin but my ache is rented by lease, the menace of plague in doldrums repugnance spat out in cypress logs, a shelf life of honey it has, bees howling in packs, the moon is on an idle saunter, a settlement out in bail, I fish for the fleshes of good sunsets baiting bloodstreams for prospective mutants, monstrous in taste. ©songbriti