My World

There is joy , there is love, there is compassion, there is colors , there is fulfillment in my world. I like most of us love to be in my own world. The mist , bright sunshine, the hush of falling leaves the distance sound of “silent night and holy night” is my world.

The portraits of colors are stroked in my canvas. There are colors of many different kinds encompassing my whole universe. I am self-contented in my envelop.

The poetic expression goes on and on. Droplets of dew hanging over the tip of the green twig , the yellow rusty dry leaf meandering its way down from the branch , the nightingale’s lonely song is a slice into my world. The element of magic realism may find some resonance in my theme world.

Poetry of Life

The colours of life for me are hued in wonderfully varient shades. The party bagan some day in the mid of 1980's . The eyes wide open with wonderment and amazement . The days were cooler , life was cozy and comfortable. The garden had many flowers with breeze gushing over it. The sweet fragrance overshadowed the whole life. Those were the days with just no commitments and full of fun and frolik.
Days passed by , responsibilities changed . Failures were more than notable successes. Life had its twists and turns. The dark alley of the mind hovering into the uncharted annals of complexity had its toll . The life ahead seemed to be dark and bleak.
As seasons change , so do the courses of life . Hardly do we conceive the future that is waiting in hushed silence , to present us with the precious gifts of life.
A good story , not so well told has its charm of keeping the readers engaged in the premonition of another effort to script the poerty. The poetry of life is a personal song of every individual. We are caged in the world of our own . We all have our untold stories.There may not be takers for that. But trying to push forward one's own story is always a very enchanting experience. You are scripting your life's tales. Its just an act of ponderous reminescence. It has its own tune and melody.It may be rich in rhetoric conveying very little practicality. It may be a process of self discovery. It may be a soliloquy . It is a lifelong serendipity. It may be a torrid love affair. It may be streams of sorrow. It may be self-revolution.It may be a bunch of repeated stupidity.

Whatever it may be , its one's own tale. It is overtly autobiographical. For me , it is the greatest , poetic pause taken in my life .I stand at the shore , watching the birds return to their nest , the boat moored on the banks of the tossing river , the clouds hanging from the distand west . The rain might gush down in torrents , but nothing can deter to make my story being told. I dont expect my friends to listen to my story. I just want you , my dear , my companion to listen to my kind of music.

Hopelessly Practical World

The world where we live in is hopelessly practical. Mostly distraught. There is hardly any space for poetic pause and contemplation. Oh my GOD !!!!

I and WE hardly have the romantic space for recapturing solitude. The collage of our day to day life is just the rush for meeting the days end. Stretching my horizons of imagination I try and try not to succumb to the travails of the mundane. We appreciate poetry and aesthetics just to transcend the dull and sullen forces ozzing from our day to day struggle.

Money craving is a fashion today. You may not have a silken soul , but you ought to possess a spacious apartment. You may not have compassion for the proletariate but you are supposed to drave a car.

I am an outright impractical , hopelessly incorrigible fellow with a non-chalance to the proven order of accepted pathways of livelihood. I muse at the marvel of the multicolured falling leaves that stud the landspace of Noth america in the fall season. I stare at the flaping of the wings of the white swan from amidst the opulent lake. I love to see the cuckoo's nest. I reverberate the sound of the nightingle. I love fiddling with the blades of grass. The dew drop glittering like an effulgent emerald makes my day a happy charm. I literally wrestle and fight against all these tender forces to puff in the race for daily life.



The World that I behold , is the world of my own. May be some happy mongering fellows do get into my fold of ideas. The din , bustle of the overtly fast life is a pain of its own. What is life if full of flair , with us having no time to stand and stare !!