Amore La Words

  Like the world has gone in an endless pause Like the bruises have been ripped open to some veiled cause, The spring jaded and gone and the colours of zeal ebbed away like it never was born. Marooned with the prayers , cozened from the world ambushed within our own piteous selves but even summer flunked to resurrect us from the loop of all the wrong amends. Coveting for the phlegmatic oceans far above the horizons Or flying solo with the mountains, the raphsody of life whisking in,     Frolicking in the darkest hours, transcending in the drizzles- to enliven, to wizen, They are now but dreams, dreams enmeshed in the myriad chaos of a naked virus the plethora of unexplored dreams of delving into the fathomless world have now dried up , even their warmth no more cajole us. Everyday soothing the nerves , calming this hysteria The fear that soars within is too mulish Funny how trapped with this fear we seem like   some insolent pariah. ...

  The mornings these days are a little too calescent The Asters are a little too zestful, chorusing  their songs in muffled voices.  The dusks these days are a little too Solicitous  the auburn petals orchestrating along with the crimson sky in  a little more ecstacy.  The dawns these days are a  little too balmy  the fragile air unfurling it's cinnamon, cider, sandalwood scents driving the deliriousness a little too much.  The little too much raphsody of Feuille Morte leaves is gamboling in the golden laced roads,  the tantalizing sea yawning  with every  brisk breath of nature.  The maples, these days are a little too euphoric,  the tranquilized  mustard,  a little too inpatient to  lunge for the blue,  Kans inviting the divinities all the way through the paths of heaven auspicating the awaited prayers.  The glee of heart and the smiles on pastel lives are a little too prosaic these days The...

 Amidst the turmoil of emotions, the one which squelches is the fear- crippling the bones into frozen blanched ruptures. And yet the unruly convoluted heart becomes meek and jejune as the fear behests it to be, reigning the riots all the way through the blood and burning the flames of agony into the heart, savouring the relics of this desipience. And while we travail to cope with this , this very fear of ours sadistically enjoys the little fiesta of our maiming soul. Deliberately the fear enthralls us and dazzled by it's voodoos ,we dance on it's whims and dog about with desperation to stifle it, instead of confronting these ghoulish awes. The more we conceal and feint this, the more we play 'dumb-charades' with ourselves, pretending to use the,' I AM FINE' mask as our shields , dodging the anxieties to some far off dampened corner of our heart only dilate the fear to the acme. With the last fall, as the last leaf of autumn withers away ,that mask gets busted. A...

~ AMBER BLUE Better said Jughead Jones,” life is not an Agatha Christie novel, it’s a lot messier.” In the labyrinth of lies and among the chaos of sins ,happens the plethora of crimes when blood is no longer an excuse of bond, rather a mere lust, when greed becomes cynical and the hatred is ever more enthralling, when revenge haunts the nights- the darker part of us , that we are not so well acquainted with somehow escort us to the void of darkness. My lust for mysteries started with Agatha Christie’s ‘ MURDER OF RODGER ACKROYD’, then followed ‘ABC MURDERS’ , ‘MURDER IN THE ORIENT EXPRESS’ ,’THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY’ until when I realized I am succumbing to Poirot and Christie for an escape out of this lunatic world which reeks of blood every other day, and this obsession with Poirot and Christie, Marple added, was and even today bring me to the edges and spur up thrill in every inch of my body . Then came the day when I stumbled upon ‘THE SHERLOCK HOMES COMPLIATION OF MYSTRIES’ (...

Poetry is an orphan abundant by the silence and yet it thrives through the odds until it stumbles upon on the pages of a poet. For me, poetry is the manifestation of water and pray tell me why not, for I have seen poetry to reshape itself in the shape of the container in which it is and metaphorical might I sound for what a mind of a poet is if not a vessel of thoughts filled to the brim!  As poetry comes frolicking on your pages, the reek of silent emotions caged within the heart vamoose, plethora of chaos begin- chaos that make the heart skip a beat, chaos that unveil your reflection that you were oblivious about- "chaos that come from the highest happiness or the deepest sorrow." Only a poet shall see the agony of the fallen snow or the sacrifice of the withered leaf, only a poet shall capture the phenomenal rendezvous of the dried petal with the rain, or shall make amends in how the stars rule the night in the ataraxy.  The poetry finds the lost- it finds the last breath ...

 By - Amber Blue Do you ever run your fingers over an old album and unearth yourself on the swings of memories playing on repeat like a sassy radio?  Or Do you ever take a trip down your memory lane only to stumble upon a sudden rendezvous with some expunged bygone memories?  Or do you ever feel the torn out from inside effect when reminiscing them becomes a Herculean task? And aren't these memories the one that paint the blank canvas of your heart with colours your eyes might have forgotten? Yes, the memories then would dog you till you become a mess- a beautiful mess!!  As I seldom perch into the armchair, the sketchy outlines and blurred glimpses of memories dog me and yet there is a grin of surprise calibrated on me as if I am the 'time machine' eloping back to yesterday when those episodes come alive.  I was 8 or 9 and my friend , the only friend and a sister as well, was 6 or 7 and we used to run as if to chase perhaps the fathomless heaven, run till jaded...

 It's going to engulf me....HELP!! Can anyone hear me....please! I almost feel like I can't breathe anymore...help me...PLEASE...save me..! NO NO NO....WHAT ARE YOU DOING? You cannot let this happen to yourself. Come on, be 'NORMAL'. They say be you,so be you. But how can I be you when I am ME...I used to be...the ME I lost while trying to blend in with yous.... I cannot carry on like this anymore. Light....Oh...where's the light? What's this?  My mobile? No, it's square.,feels like a book, the pages feel rough though...like handmade paper....it's my diary!!! What's this urge? This urge to rip apart my diary! How can I do that? It's all in here....the sweet smell of warm summer breeze....the green grass....the radiant sun....the laughs...the giggles.....ME. O her voice sounds so silvery....she seems...happy. Wasn't she the one I made a promise to? A promise to never change. How can I break that? What happened then? What's this light? Wait...

  Dear Biriyani, - BY AMBER BLUE Haven't I told you countless times that do not advance into my dreams so often? But you are deliberately disdaining my words. This desperate stance of yours have spurred up in this lockdown period ever more!! Why?? Why dear Biriyani, don't you get it that it hurts to take a trip down to that memory lane where I was elated to delve into the taste of yours....ahhh!!!  Even reminiscing those days brings an ache to my heart, but you don't seem to bother!! It hurts to think that we have been separated for an indefinite period and all these days ,I have been the vagabond and you the mirage. This pain of separation is indecipherable and you seem to mock my woe. Dear Biriyani, you know not that the acid in my stomach is drying up already without your clairvoyance, the bile in my liver is reluctant to secret itself without the taste of yours, my intestines are having delusions of you, my oesophagus has been mistaking other starch molecules as you!!...

  BY GLADIOLUS AND AMBER BLUE Have you heard them? Heard the bleeding solitude that seems to wait in the forlorn night for her amour? The solitude that over the years has pampered the silences in  an esoteric way are growing wild. Have you heard them? Walking along the soft edges of thy holy earth and embracing the despondent darkness you might as well hear them- you might hear the barbourous silences that are screaming the voices of agony. You might hear those silences that would deluge you from within. Have you heard them now? Have you felt them now? Felt how these silences are but the cacophonies of ages old vexation of that solitude, how these are the unheard pain of  thy solitude. Have you heard the insane giggles of these silences? Have you felt how that this eerie night where silences are going incongruous are not ending anytime soon!?  But the dawn shall knock again and the silences shall turn to melodies again , the euphonies would follow thus and the wrath ...