A few steps back
The mountain
Ain’t so big
Tag: Poetry
Candle
A soft night where the candle lashes at the ceiling
breaking and making, a hundred veils.
With the quiet flame mirroring every rising step
and every fall, and fleeing razor breeze
a melting darkness and shrinking quiet.
The woman far away
Crimson clouds behind the walls,
Roosting near a crow caws.
Here she weaves her brocade;
The river girl seemed to fade.
Made of gray yarn like the rain
In the lonely room insane.
Meld
Like drawn breath and a weight on ones soul
the pause is heavy and cannot be held.
In the silence I wait, carrying the hot coal
till into life’s swell I meld.
Among others on the stroll,
with nomad hearts so easily quelled,
the toll that will soon cajole
and into the great sleepy waters weld.
In trance none will wish or extol;
so pleasant what once dwelled
in the dreams that stole
the pause of a soul held.
The Dreamer
In the portrait of a mind unsoiled,
freed from tangible sight
Skyward eyes opened embroiled
in her dream alien from contrite.
Thought I, of the dreamer
lost to her dream of no repent,
of what sight might keep her
in an escape so eager, so spent.
While I spied this flight
the tables and dream I study
Careful not to make dreamer alight,
in her eyes I seek prosody.
The memory of the quiet scene
and a dream the only proof
of all that had been
in those days of monsoon.
At The Match
Above the filling clusters of people,
fluttered moths and insects of night
in the revealing rays of stadium light,
who care not for the flight of beetles
when echoed growls follow the rite
and crackles of colored light,
while monsoon brought no evils
only drizzle colored grey against night.
The Sights of Night
Sprung darkness marks light,
when so swift dawns night,
feet echo past light and sight.
The bright might of feline eyes,
out of sight under human skies,
scrutinize under shadowed guise.
The Wait
Drummed fingers sung of thoughts run
of things to come, carbon filled lungs,
premonition of a smoking gun
feet thump to prophecies from bread crumbs.
Empty Hum
Happy is the hermit to whom silence comes
Happy was the empty hum
Dreaming tongues of glistening rivers sung
Crackling the rupture rung
Blustering the world sprung
Hello world!
Hello there! If you’d like to know more about me be sure to check out my writing and poetry, they’ll be an introduction that an bio would be hard pressed to match.
(The address is rijulballal.wordpress.com if you haven’t found it already.)
Rijul Ballal 