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Posts Tagged ‘artist’

Met an old potter today after crossing the forest;
Old enough to lift the clay that was seeing him
For a long time, with water turned vapour now
And holding still to the air that touched it long ago.
And he greets me saying ‘here comes the mad man,
Here comes the one who couldn’t water the clay’.

Only the heart knows the dream it lives and loves,
Amid springs and falls that the river breathes.
Such emptied souls that multiply more emptiness
Such unflinching evenings and darkness around.
The potter, the wheel, the clay and the aged art
All will now shape this soul for sure salvation.

The decadence of those smiles will lure the obscure;
And the mad man will walk to find again the same clay.

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Hold this finger and lead me Oh Time
To that epitome of an unending love.
I will drop every wish that this being
Is burdened while walking over the grass
And tossing among leaves green to brown;
Every lip that lied to see their eyes turn gold,
Every hand that prayed to save its soul so cold.
Balance is a myth, justice rebels against its judge.

If I can stand, I will forever love and paint
The moment the soul longs, and to weave
Through the rivers, the dream for the ocean.
I will someday then reach that island of love,
Come to the shore, throw a pebble with smile
To send ripples to your heart, no matter how far.
It’s blessed to be mad than in reason die unknown.

We will when the time is gone, stand like rock
Among these tides to love more and live forever.

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Petals of roses, petals of crimson hues so ancient
Laid now on these solemn words of this world.
Was I in a dream, or was I well treading through
The feathers and tossed among the wings of angels?
There are now stones thrown on paltry sculptures
And fear reaming through the veins of that victory.
What was the dream? What was the dream?
Shouted the old man on the same crossroad.
If we can pause, if we can breathe the same air
we started our journey, and touch of the breeze.

We fake to whom if not the soul, to gather hope
To face the truth of that dream we love so much.
Our journey can’t be an epitaph over that stone
If not the honest air among the moonlit nights.
Settle O’ soul, there’s so much peace in passion;
There’s the possibility of life when we are gone.
I will write again, take hues from those petals
And hymn though the marble into the sculpture.

Hope is in those eyes that surround us all through.
We will rise again to peace and fall again in love.

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In these desolate hours of an unending night,
I see the moonlit rocks cut into the steps of art.
The steps are in stone, the ones so entrenched
Through the times we lived, in the hours of heart.
Why flicker with fate, why foster nests unknown?
Why tamper the torrid tests of time that moan?

The world we know is gone to sleep, now in dream.
The moments stand altogether stronger in rhyme.
Soul knows no scented evening full of velvet course;
The women, the wine, the literature all look grim.
Freedom, that I seek, is no escape but grow my soul
Into a swan that shall cover the waves of reason.

A distant friend, a beauty almost in faraway land;
Not love, nor treason, but souls that I see in dust,
Make these emotions distant, devoid of the death,
Devoid of barren brazen boasting beats of sound.

I will meet you at some crossroad again and ask,
If it meant sense to have covered with the mask.
Am I insane, induced with engulfing enticed illusion?
Or you were the time that chiseled me into a man?

When I meet you, I will ask!

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Sand and stone flakes join and move fast into the eyes of time.
There is much music, the same ancient air that touched the genius.
I will not talk about the empire of gold that is dead, doesn’t rhyme
To our today, nor will pass to coming times with reason or rehearse.
It’s the same waves that touch the land of immortal art, of infinite
Life that segues through the rocks, through the music cast on stone.

There are percussions of chiseled moments, there is a known gloom,
When you stand before the Chariot of Sun with seven white horses
With wings of life, so ready for the flight and spring of life to bloom.
Sculpted emotions on these stones like a bouquet of eternal roses
Stand through the time, to reach every soul, to guide every journey.

I stand not like a saint but with infant steps, trying to feel the stone,
Feel the flakes, the wind from the sea that fills my vision and my soul.
To hear aloud the songs of my countrymen, touch the fabric of our own.
Like love, art too stands free, only eyes change and feel they hold it all.
If I could stay witness forever and tell this story to all lives that live;
This light that burns our ignorance, and endures more love to give.

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Alone when I stand and see these pages
Of faces with sweat and surging brows
At the crossroad, in the crowd, in hedges
Of crimson cast sky and a brazen desire;
Shadow to shadow neither differs more
Nor instinct succumbs to serene pledges.
Why bother about the river that will flow?
Why stammer when the hymns are low?

Swan to swan will pass on the streak;
For sorrow is like a grounded freak,
At the crossroad, in the crowd, in hedges
Only apparitions and myths of Greek
Stand like a new Troy is about to break.
The shields are dead, the swords wrapped
Now in the creepers of cold memories.

A pasture so green, so greatly laid
Wih a blanket covered in burgeoning blue;
See the corns and grains in gold swaying
For long like hands of the old soulmate.
Not become timber nor dead like glue
That sticks lifeless lips, no hymn will wait.

Let the poets come and all words settle,
The verse is so old but lives forever.
Man to man will meet not in dark battle,
But with eyes of the eternal dreamer.
I am not away, not beside, not far,
Not God on the tower so white and tall,
But in you I reside, I am the dreamer.

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Upon a rock so grey I sit and sander my bones
To stand again erect with a heart full of verse
To play long the desires that I dare to feel.
I am human, so will be deaf in anguished tones,
And blind in the dunes of deserts in traverse.

I am born again and again like a holy gyre
Churning elements that elude and still eager
To find essence in what is undone for ages.
Someday, somewhere when am old and retire,
These verses will leave me not but stand
Like a firm soul among the citadel of rages.

A poet is not a paltered piece like the rest
That flickers away with time, but does inspire
Grungy Genres that have lost faith and admire
History so great and guzzled in our books,
So wrongly written with wrath or unseen fire.
I will look high up to every soldier’s crest,
And with valour shall declare this war over.

My men beleaguered under the blue moon
Will someday find a meaning to live and love.

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