Pretty! Is she?


vikas chandra

That mirror, is the face of hers
For it tells, the half-truths, she flatters
Where the brink of glamor, splendor blurs
Is it the former that lastly matters?

Yes! Talk to that glass, night and day
Hear the echoes, you like to hear
Or read yourself in the eyes, that say
“Oh! Would you care, to be mine? O’ Dear!”

Aphrodite you, you Venus, and may be more!
Your conceit defines, infinite woman, in you
And those, motley façades, galore
That possess you, through and through

That make-up, how it makes you up, replete
A woman awash, with greasepaints, veiled
Ain’t that you, who treads, the vanity street?
That soulless ship, in fiery seas, never sailed

Her beauty, a craft, to bait, and buy, men’s pride?
Oh! What a busy day, so many chores, to close!
Let the soul of truth, creed of love, decide
Why she chose, the way…

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If sex were to die today!


vikas chandra

If sex were to die today!
Will that love’s creed, go astray?
Which sells, at desire’s cost?
Will that drag, midst hearts, be lost?
Which kindles, the passion’s play
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Will the Cupid, be out of fray?
To forsake, the realm, of hearts
Till that last spark, of love departs
And lingering cinders, sigh away
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Will that love, hold on its sway?
Which was tried, on pledges galore?
Now platonic passion, nothing more
An ordeal of delusion, borne every day?
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Would making love, be passé?
Would bodies, be rendered, empty urns?
With no sign left, of the fury, that burns?
In yearning hearts, now a long-lost melee?
If sex were to die today!

If sex…

View original post 155 more words

Pilgrimage of the atheist


vikas chandra

Was it etched on his heart, or destiny?
To be born a man, creedless to be!
Wasn’t he baptized or circumcised, on His holy lap?
Wasn’t he marked, Adam, Ali! So why did he snap?

The yarn that ties his mind, his heart, his soul to God
Why infidel, he chose to be, did he find the decree flawed?
That dictates a man’s being, from womb to grave
Why, he chose to be unshackled, to not be a, lifelong slave?

Atheist, agnostic, apostate, scorned by, many more names
How cultures chasten heretics! Consign their folly, to shames?
In awe, that disbeliever, gleans, the relics, of his belief
“Robbed myself, off gotten faith, my conviction, ain’t anyone’s thief”

Anguished! Is he? Yes! Yet, cradles that solace, in soul
“Must I be a sinner? So be it! May I not earn, His parole!
Still, dwells within this cynic, a child, who hums…

View original post 178 more words

A Forsaken Bard!


vikas chandra

Who forgot me, are not the ones, who cared
Those who recall, are but the ones, who blared
“You ain’t the one, cherished, on our roster
Neither Keats nor Yeats. Not a bard! An imposter!”

How many miles more, to walk this oblivion?
A castaway, do I dare, cross-over to their dominion?
Who are poets and prosers, not petty imposers, like me!
Whose hearts spew out, the pride of clout and creativity

Never penned a rhyme, that lasted beyond, a day or two
To not be read, so short an age, of a dream, born to rue
How many times, I perused it, shouted out, my hushed heart
The verse that bore, scorn galore, at maker’s hand, now ripped apart

Measure of my joy, every time was she, or more than that!
Then why besieged, my naïve poesy, in this vicious spat
With those, who care to bless, chosen creations…

View original post 188 more words

Will Gracy shout……??


vikas chandra

“Grace! Ain’t she a beauty, at four!” said, Uncle John, next door
That angel, who frisked around, on his heart, in a skimpy frock
“Uncle gives you candies, but you the sweetest one!” he swore
“Come! Let me have a bite of you”, his passion ran amok

Would Grace ever know, what ensued, but “dirty”, yes, it was!
Smirked Uncle John, “Well! What happened! O’ my honey baby!
You loved it too! Had me impassioned!” said with wild guffaws
In a frock amiss, she toddled away, a toy of joy! Broken doll, maybe!

Was that virgin soul, sin-laden? Alas, a maimed tale, of mayhem!
How come, forgot hide-and-seek and tic-tac-toe?
Now she hid from men, and curled her toes, by the sight of them
When mama probed,” What’s wrong?” little woman rejoined, “Don’t know!”

Was she a woman-in-making or a girl-in-breaking or both?
Months after months, splintered and scattered, a…

View original post 209 more words

Divine Commotion


vikas chandra

Mammoth wakes up
That December, the month of lasting cold!
Half-awake, skull-capped, in the lazy sun, that mossy mammoth, in history’s fold
Moss is bristling green, in biting dew, as we know
Not this dull black, as this mammoth has been, over ages; see a very old tired man grow
Compellingly, on the shoulders of his divine debris, above the winters’ snow
A spread of morning pleas, by souls reclining to a distant past
“My great grand mud, many posterity’s blood, so be it, my soul’s daily breakfast”.

Call of faith
The mammoth calls, with an unflagging shout, still five times a day, from his vintage bed
Screeches past that voice, like an arrow thru his sons’ hearts, Caressing blood,
From a quiver rusted
“Come my sons! Rest your restive souls, spent on holy chase, have my cud,
That I burnt into, your divine bread”.

Passion’s plea
With splintered eyes…

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A drop… here and there!


vikas chandra

Where slept that valley, of the grand yore!
There stands today, an ocean bare
Whose crimson tides, now wash ashore
men’s shattered prides, a drop… here and there!

In this God-made realm, every man, a guest
A heart to plough pain, a soul to say a prayer
Who vanquished whom, in prides’ vain contest
Just dripping sutures, a drop… here and there!

How big, could he be, within God’s grace?
A man meant to toil, till the end, to bear
Those labors of love, or a prides’ lost race
Betwixt sweat and blood, a choice to shove, a drop… here and there!

Would struggle, be a creed, some day?
Yes! The one to make, not the one to pare!
When souls discourse, not the prides in fray
Strewn dialogs, of recourse, a drop… here and there!

What lastly decides the end, you know!
Is when, nothing’s left to win or lose, but to…

View original post 206 more words

Anti-Sikh Riots – Till The Last Sikh Burns: 1984 – 31st Oct – Rajiv Gandhi’s Blood Orgy – State Sponsored Sikh Genocide!!


“Blood for blood!” gallons how many, to sate the revenge of an imposed bloodline?
Minions galore, they madly implore, “for every Sikh slain, a rioter earns”
Alas, Indira demolished, Rajiv idolized, another false god, toadies enshrine
To coddle the clan, discerns each yes-man, “Go on brethren! Till the last Sikh burns”

“When a big tree falls, the earth shakes”, alas, a head of state, Rajiv, brazenly bodes
Which duly decodes, “my godly clan, dare not hurt, if hurt, more pain it returns”
Congress henchmen, avengers of Gandhi clan, bolstered now, hit the Delhi roads
“Dynasty our redeemer, let’s celebrate, orgy of carnage, till the last Sikh burns”

Her Punjab escapade, grossly went wrong, Operation Blue Star, Indira’s swan song
Indian ethos outraged, Golden Temple blood-bathed, rendered an object of spurns
Indira slayed, martyred? Or a headstrong lady paid for a misadventure headlong
To the minions’ delight, a martyr forthright, passions ignite, till the last Sikh burns

Aah suddenly! Kerosene comes free, to strew the fire across, at Congress’s cost
Racism reshaped, mothers gang-raped, tots butchered like pigs, a nation’s soul churns
Is Rajiv deep asleep, as his murderers make a clean sweep, a no contest almost?
Crimsoned streets, charred flesh reeks, revenge speaks, and hate governs, till the last Sikh burns

Police knows well, impotence has its rule, in Rajiv’s blood orgy, it became a wiling tool
Felons freed for henchmen’s killing needs, but a Sikh when pleads the cop adjourns
Meticulous means, to mark homes “S”, through voters & ration lists and records of school
Congress-perfected pogrom, Rajiv’s tom-tom, played by turns, till the last Sikh burns

Six decades of decadence, thanks to Congress’s prevalence, its bootlicking to a clan imposed
On the nation, for sycophants’ gain, this dreadful collusion to remain, a miasma with profane downturns
How many more to kill to thrill, an inept dynasty, to the lust of power alas, so predisposed?
Not the last one though, many more to come, when dynasty yearns, to fill more urns, till the last Sikh burns

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Come! Kiss My Soul!


How far I seem, to that man
Who feeds on, worldly flesh alone!
Sold out to love, whole human clan
One that adores, that lure outgrown

Which slithers on shell, but fails to storm
Sanctum of soul, oh! That creed sublime!
The tide that soars, amid a riotous swarm
Of streams, that bend the curve of time

Let be today, that day, of fiery bliss
I bare to you, my cherished pain
Born to soul, salvaged from abyss
That child, who bore, this man insane

Come! See thru flesh and heart, unearth
That aching dream, lasting on dole
Come! Cradle me, my yearning’s mirth
Be one with me! Come! Kiss my soul!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Why History Lies ?


vikas chandra

In chase of time, where it all began
Stands deaf and blind, a cynical man
Force-fed on a past, that present denies
Probes a man aghast! Why history lies?

Is Propaganda the path, to final truth?
Or means to bribe, the past uncouth
To narrate a lie, to present’s ‘whys’
Wary man won’t buy! Why history lies?

How many gallons of blood, disappeared?
To save dynasties, brazen rumors reared
Effaced from its pages, many unheard cries
Betrayed man, for ages! Why history lies?

The who’s who club, has its roots, in yesteryears
They buy key pages, from history’s auctioneers
Lost in footnotes, and in oblivion, their sighs
Unpaid-for anecdotes! Why history lies?

White colonies were built, on their history’s grave
Who lost a lasting face, yet, forgot and forgave
How come they agreed, for this slavish compromise?
Left, uprooted nameless breed! Why history lies?

History’s a hollow statesman’s tool
Prejudiced…

View original post 151 more words

My Quiet Attic !


What holds the heart, to fly up high?
Never air, though fetters of the slumber
Where soul snuggles, on a soothing sigh
Come forlorn fall, or sweet December

How moments, melt down, in the loft
Watching flocks of, vistas change
Have marveled through, my spirits oft
What’s left of me now, to estrange

From myself, oh, my heart and soul
Are now, one with, the holy retreat
A redeemed captive, on Lord’s parole
To hit the sweet, “Redemption Street”

How sublime, the creed, of this cozy patch
Where time stops by, to clasp and kiss
An awe-struck soul, below a, humble thatch
Can’t help, but thaw, in aplomb’s, surreal bliss

The scents of cedar, the wood of love
I see thru my nostrils, the tree that died
To heave my world, so far above
On shoulders of Goliath, David’s lofty ride

From the embers of dark, the day does rise
Strews the hues of glory, of sun’s conquest
In the lap of nature, does the Lord baptize!
The dreams of splendor, in a weary breast

As the day marches, over time’s decay
In my attic, grows a song, from child’s rhyme
To bloom once more, on who turns gray
A man, who left life, on borrowed time

As night descends, to walk solitary shadows
And on grave of sun, moon strays lunatic
Reaps dreams, my heart, in blazing meadows
Cradles my soul, solace, in my quiet attic

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

The Zillionth Love Song !


Such has been love, that aging cherub
Blasphemed for life, deified to death
Lone voice of truth, amidst times’ hubbub
Yet one more song, past that lasting breath

“Would you care to carve, on my stone,
Your passions’ worth, for me!” she said?
“May this be, that matchless milestone
In histories resound, our love undead!”

“Was it never before, as much sublime?
Your cherished blush, my flush of zeal
How different would be, that wondrous chime?
That tolls to lord, our hearts’ appeal”

She said, “Like the freshest dew, so pristine
That avows pure creed, of my heart’s virtue
Let’s see, how your fiery flairs, underline
The bliss of bread, that sees us through”

“O’ Dear! Beyond us, lies that world
Where angels tread, on lovelorn hearts
Will have the bounds, of two realms blurred
To dare the limits, of our intuitive arts”

Will love evolve, to a new threshold?
Spent-up to be, the same dreary tale
Or won’t be sold, lo and behold
Old magic extolled, just won’t turn stale

Will feed on hearts and sleep on souls, as ever
On four letters or long epics, as it plays along
It will stir and dare man, for a new endeavor
Since it first began, till the zillionth love song

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Peeping Tom !!


Where hid that lad, in looming manhood’s garb?
On moon-lit roofs, overlooking busy bazaar
Tiptoes he across, eluding “voyeur’s” barb
A randy thief, hounding fissures ajar

As day succumbs again, to night’s mystic snare
Comes alive the same, hunt for indulgence
By a soul laid bare, in this illusive affair
Of a man, and his deviant, insolence

Unwary feminine flair, strays in nighties and chemises
Whilst he devours every inch, of skin, on parades
An owl, on the prowl, how brazenly appeases
The lust of a man, lost in worldly charades

Blessed with puberty, some crime divine
He weighs its vigor, in every vista sublime
Of that starkness replete, beyond confine
A half-naked woman, his full played mime

He flies night kites, lit with fancy’s delights
To reach out to, umpteen forbidden dreams
Is it riot of instincts, or his passage’s rites?
That make him a man, not what he seems

Veiled windows, his sworn bête noire
Dogged curtains, to his heart’s despair
A lust-dead man, only knows to adore
Not a soul, but a shroud, laid bare

His creed akin, to a scavenger
Sniffing bins, sifting remains of the day
Or a lure-enchanted, passenger
On an endless chase, a thought astray

As midnight yawns; offs lights; carnival dies
Peeper has had, his heart’s fills, no qualm!
He dreams away, the night, with lurid lies
Needless to say, “Ain’t you and me that Peeping Tom?”!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

When Egos Talk !!!!


What maketh man, so sociable?
Amongst a mob, of urbane men
Is it some virtue, negotiable?
To feed his ego, now and then

He ain’t a man, they say until
He dons that guise, of ego’s choice
That glorified ill, his cherished skill
That devil’s voice, which ages rejoice

What Napoléon had, and Hitler made
A God of an ego, weighed in blood
Why Churchill said, Stalin’s charade
When both baptized, in the same holy mud

Is this the one, that riotous discourse?
Where men dissect, each other’s core
While some content, flogging a dead horse
The rest resurrect, a dying cold war

Leaders make nations, or it’s the other way around
Though ego makes leaders, meanly noble, for sure
For they dare and defy, history’s faith profound
That sits on the shoulders, of her lasting savior

Its creed akin, to that tide, in the sea
That slumbers, until dared, by heaven’s pull
With a kindled soul, shatters gravity
Scales the sky, defiant raging bull

How measures a man, this sinful love
Of his dreadful clone, that talks for him
Though, enshrined in his soul, a bleeding dove
With crimson coos, sings life’s lost hymn

Yet again, Obama sold off, to Putin’s petty plan
Hand-in-hand, two foes, on a phony moonwalk
Back to where it all began, O! That ego-ridden clan
Destined to doom, a lost caravan, when egos talk!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Reading Faces !!


Who steals the view, midst the million, few?
Beyond that frown, that fear, that smile
Is the face that stands, in fog and dew!
A lighthouse seen, from a million mile

Whose design is he, born by fate’s decree?
A child who sees today, an outgrown beast
In mirror his face, shows the time’s debris
Startled he says, “Why made I, a man’s feast?”

On the Baptism day, a soul in the fray
A blessed farewell, to a faceless man
Now more than a face, a faith’s essay
Echoes his soul, the spirit of a clan

Thru the poison shops, those murky backdrops
In mayhem, strewn apart, spent staggered souls
Their faces, full-licked, half-bitten lollipops
Furled flags are they, on stooping flagpoles

In those feisty cafes, where smoke dies over ash trays
So many souls squandered, in so many chases
Each weary face, masked in, caffeine’s maze
“Will face truth tomorrow, at leisure”, it braces

In queues lined up, each quest, a shakeup
Of a man lingering, in ration shops, job dialogs
A face that lasts, to the fate’s runup
With a coerced smile, glued on each underdog

Now that last deceit, stole by death’s conceit
His face, a tranquil sea, a grave of destiny
A heart missed all the beats, now a man is all defeat
A soul though smiles away, a lovelorn escapee

The façade of this edifice, a man, his woes and bliss
Tide past likes waves in soul, on face their tell-all traces
Passions galore that arise, to brim a heart’s abyss
Summarize the human graces, bared by reading faces

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Whispers Of The Storm !!


New birth of doom, or heaven’s calls?
The fury that slept, now kissed the horizon
See the shards of sky, torn by fiery walls
Held bonded, by faith, of its spirit unwon

Said the storm to night,” O! How I blazed in dark!
Lookers forgot you! “What is night?” They said!
“Better shining storm, than this misery stark,
Enough of this dark, be it storm, instead””

“I was meant to be, the night, I am
Not a fickle storm, with fleeting light
But a serene shade, not a blinding sham
Nor a brazen parade” said the night

Said the storm, to sky, “Have scorched your soul,
Many times before, to weigh my sway
Why a passion misspent, on the dole
To lose once more, to your fortitude’s play”?

“Akin to an urchin, you, in my vast expanse
How bland your pranks, no pain, no sigh
You sound like the gist, of unrequited romance
O’ I pity your futile tryst.” said the sky

Said the storm to earth, “Did you hear the roar, it was me!
Who else could shatter, your splendid sleep?
If not me, the Goliath, on an orgiastic spree
How reborn, overnight, that nerve you reap?”

“Yes! Heard and felt, a spent force melt, from above
How hard you tried, to prove your wrath’s worth
Still abloom in my arms, unfazed, labors of love
Lasting spirits, in immortal farms” said the earth

Said the storm to sea,” Were the tides too much, for you to bear?
I saw them, wash your face, with fear
I tossed you up and down, at will
Like a toy, I played you, to my heart’s fill”

“Oh! So was it you, loudmouth, insane lout?
Is victory, a crudely defined, decree?
It’s neither a matter, of conceit nor clout
It’s anything, but self-flattery” replied the sea

The spirit that swaggered, will it now concede?
To the fact of the matter, the truth in its form
How elements, conferred, their enduring creed
You’d know, if you heard, whispers of the storm

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Till The Last Sikh Burns: 1984 – State Sponsored Sikh Genocide!!


“Blood for blood!” gallons how many, to sate the revenge of an imposed bloodline?
Minions galore, they madly implore, “for every Sikh slain, a rioter earns”
Alas, Indira demolished, Rajiv idolized, another false god, toadies enshrine
To coddle the clan, discerns each yes-man, “Go on brethren! Till the last Sikh burns”

“When a big tree falls, the earth shakes”, alas, a head of state, Rajiv, brazenly bodes
Which duly decodes, “my godly clan, dare not hurt, if hurt, more pain it returns”
Congress henchmen, avengers of Gandhi clan, bolstered now, hit the Delhi roads
“Dynasty our redeemer, let’s celebrate, orgy of carnage, till the last Sikh burns”

Her Punjab escapade, grossly went wrong, Operation Blue Star, Indira’s swan song
Indian ethos outraged, Golden Temple blood-bathed, rendered an object of spurns
Indira slayed, martyred? Or a headstrong lady paid for a misadventure headlong
To the minions’ delight, a martyr forthright, passions ignite, till the last Sikh burns

Aah suddenly! Kerosene comes free, to strew the fire across, at Congress’s cost
Racism reshaped, mothers gang-raped, tots butchered like pigs, a nation’s soul churns
Is Rajiv deep asleep, as his murderers make a clean sweep, a no contest almost?
Crimsoned streets, charred flesh reeks, revenge speaks, and hate governs, till the last Sikh burns

Police knows well, impotence has its rule, in Rajiv’s blood orgy, it became a wiling tool
Felons freed for henchmen’s killing needs, but a Sikh when pleads the cop adjourns
Meticulous means, to mark homes “S”, through voters & ration lists and records of school
Congress-perfected pogrom, Rajiv’s tom-tom, played by turns, till the last Sikh burns

Six decades of decadence, thanks to Congress’s prevalence, its bootlicking to a clan imposed
On the nation, for sycophants’ gain, this dreadful collusion to remain, a miasma with profane downturns
How many more to kill to thrill, an inept dynasty, to the lust of power alas, so predisposed?
Not the last one though, many more to come, when dynasty yearns, to fill more urns, till the last Sikh burns

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

What All She Hides !!!


Ah! Kitty of the cathouse. No! She ain’t that shy
She frolics with menfolk, and breeds bonsai
On parade, her gluttony, not forbidden tattoos
Those half-cherished, half-ostracized taboos

Baptized by the papal curse, with ferula upside down
Married to dark comedy, Satan’s gracious face in town
She pounced on me, smirked “Care for a tête-à-tête?
I measure you, you fathom me, come closer; don’t fret!”

She led me to her holy attic, above that banished tomb
Which echoed the last rendezvous, in a sin-infested womb
Splintered goblets of passion, a yet unbroken song
Unrequitedly that plays along, to who shall it belong!?

Kitty shoved me on the couch, a kindled soul in awes
That dead man, now so wide awake, as she set to bare her claws
“Hey Kitty! Is your bareness, so white, or is it vitiligo?”
“What you see, is what you get, not what you want though!”

“Your claws are sham, your pits unkempt, you stinky whore”
“What brought you here, is deeper, not just passions galore
That endless chase which fails a man, his pride’s lasting slur
It ain’t me, but you lie to thee, your manhood, death’s metaphor “

As night deepened, the tryst spread out, its tentacles
In clasp of defeat, two souls rejoice, a machismo suckles
Immortal venom, from the breasts, of a sold out dream
Ain’t she the Goddess now, for a man, to rout or redeem?

Did we make love, or it made us up, two riots undissolved?
How many times to spend our souls, to feed a love, unresolved
For it ain’t love, we ain’t lovers. Ain’t you the art of deceit?
Or a half-hearted keep, of those yearnings replete

Unfathomed, left, her lasting lies
Or the only truths, civilization defies
The dimensions of a woman, and the flair, she prides
With nothing more, left to bare, what all she hides!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Monotony : The Symphony of Life


As I return, to where I left
Ain’t I, the same, in a life bereft?
Of a drive to drive, beyond the reach
Of yesterdays’ rituals, so hard to breach

Obliged to rise at 5, each day
Some penance is it, or toll to pay
By a man, who bears, a father’s heart
A hubby, a wage slave, can you tell apart?

Treading on mornings thru lost alleys
One amongst the aging faces, matching tallies
One more farewell, to the bus I bid
Which carries my young seed. Alas! Me a lost kid

The breakfast toast, has new blisters today
Unlike mate’s dark circles, on unbroken decay
The dailies do shout, to a deafened, spent man
Whose creed resigned, to scan that layaway plan

Thru the taxi queues to the office gates
Wail weary ways, on endless waits
Same place to work, and lie to self
A pigeon-holed man, rotting off-the-shelf

Beating retreat, the same spineless rebel
Under earning’s spell, every fury to quell
Breadwinner indeed, rules the roost, at nest
Makes love to a dream, over sinking breasts

Yes, the same climax, of a day’s life again
Another coup de grâce, to a spirit on wane
To rise from ash, a halfhearted man born
To be force-fed again, on obligations sworn

Though underneath, lies the unfelt, beauty of it all
As tedium enthralls a man, with a faithless call
It’s a surrogate to futility, obsessions’ mother
Who makes men mad, who better sane be rather

Yes, regurgitated truth, life is, over ages, lives and moments
Why just resent the routine, not value the endowments
It plays on and on, unvanquished, motley tunes, rife
Wished away, yet dished out every day! Monotony! The symphony of life!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Misogynist !


She squelches on my canvas, hues of deceit
Whose grandeur, reeks of, crumbling hauteur
A swelling mold, on my soul, carousing its conceit
Vanquished many manly prides, never found that connoisseur

Who weighs her worth, against her airs!
But does she know, where lies the end?
Of her boundless dominion, of despairs
“Oh! My splendor’s sins, I comprehend!”

One ain’t ample! More the merrier, is the holy rule
What she treasures more, her glory, or the hearts
She tramples on, who stray upon, her paradise of fool
Doomed escapades of Caesars, jaunts of Bonapartes

What she veils, and reveals, beyond her starkness
Is the mystique, that defines, her phony creed
A chapel, ringing sultry chimes, draped in darkness
Or hostage, to her elegance, yearning to be freed!

She slithers past my senses, a lizard, on the prowl
Looking for a crevice, in a man, smitten, she thinks
Quips she, “Bow to conquest! Throw in the towel!”
I retort, “Spare me, your fusty fest, your vainglory stinks!”

Unrequited, eh! She spits malice, bares fangs, her pride
“You ain’t a man, of machismo! Has your manhood died?
I smell her venom, simmering now, vanity up, in the mist
“Neither you a woman of virtue, nor me a misogynist!”

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Misogynist


She squelches on my canvas, hues of deceit
Whose grandeur, reeks of, crumbling hauteur
A swelling mold, on my soul, carousing its conceit
Vanquished many manly prides, never found that connoisseur

Who weighs her worth, against her airs!
But does she know, where lies the end?
Of her boundless dominion, of despairs
“Oh! My splendor’s sins, I comprehend!”

One ain’t ample! More the merrier, is the holy rule
What she treasures more, her glory, or the hearts
She tramples on, who stray upon, her paradise of fool
Doomed escapades of Caesars, jaunts of Bonapartes

What she veils, and reveals, beyond her starkness
Is the mystique, that defines, her phony creed
A chapel, ringing sultry chimes, draped in darkness
Or hostage, to her elegance, yearning to be freed!

She slithers past my senses, a lizard, on the prowl
Looking for a crevice, in a man, smitten, she thinks
Quips she, “Bow to conquest! Throw in the towel!”
I retort, “Spare me, your fusty fest, your vainglory stinks!”

Unrequited, eh! She spits malice, bares fangs, her pride
“You ain’t a man, of machismo! Has your manhood died?
I smell her venom, simmering now, vanity up, in the mist
“Neither you a woman of virtue, nor me a misogynist!”

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

My Quiet Attic


What holds the heart, to fly up high?
Never air, though fetters of the slumber
Where soul snuggles, on a soothing sigh
Come forlorn fall, or sweet December

How moments, melt down, in the loft
Watching flocks of, vistas change
Have marveled through, my spirits oft
What’s left of me now, to estrange

From myself, oh, my heart and soul
Are now, one with, the holy retreat
A redeemed captive, on Lord’s parole
To hit the sweet, “Redemption Street”

How sublime, the creed, of this cozy patch
Where time stops by, to clasp and kiss
An awe-struck soul, below a, humble thatch
Can’t help, but thaw, in aplomb’s, surreal bliss

The scents of cedar, the wood of love
I see thru my nostrils, the tree that died
To heave my world, so far above
On shoulders of Goliath, David’s lofty ride

From the embers of dark, the day does rise
Strews the hues of glory, of sun’s conquest
In the lap of nature, does the Lord baptize!
The dreams of splendor, in a weary breast

As the day marches, over time’s decay
In my attic, grows a song, from child’s rhyme
To bloom once more, on who turns gray
A man, who left life, on borrowed time

As night descends, to walk solitary shadows
And on grave of sun, moon strays lunatic
Reaps dreams, my heart, in blazing meadows
Cradles my soul, solace, in my quiet attic

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

The Zillionth Love Song


Such has been love, that aging cherub
Blasphemed for life, deified to death
Lone voice of truth, amidst times’ hubbub
Yet one more song, past that lasting breath

“Would you care to carve, on my stone,
Your passions’ worth, for me!” she said?
“May this be, that matchless milestone
In histories resound, our love undead!”

“Was it never before, as much sublime?
Your cherished blush, my flush of zeal
How different would be, that wondrous chime?
That tolls to lord, our hearts’ appeal”

She said, “Like the freshest dew, so pristine
That avows pure creed, of my heart’s virtue
Let’s see, how your fiery flairs, underline
The bliss of bread, that sees us through”

“O’ Dear! Beyond us, lies that world
Where angels tread, on lovelorn hearts
Will have the bounds, of two realms blurred
To dare the limits, of our intuitive arts”

Will love evolve, to a new threshold?
Spent-up to be, the same dreary tale
Or won’t be sold, lo and behold
Old magic extolled, just won’t turn stale

Will feed on hearts and sleep on souls, as ever
On four letters or long epics, as it plays along
It will stir and dare man, for a new endeavor
Since it first began, till the zillionth love song

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Peeping Tom


Where hid that lad, in looming manhood’s garb?
On moon-lit roofs, overlooking busy bazaar
Tiptoes he across, eluding “voyeur’s” barb
A randy thief, hounding fissures ajar

As day succumbs again, to night’s mystic snare
Comes alive the same, hunt for indulgence
By a soul laid bare, in this illusive affair
Of a man, and his deviant, insolence

Unwary feminine flair, strays in nighties and chemises
Whilst he devours every inch, of skin, on parades
An owl, on the prowl, how brazenly appeases
The lust of a man, lost in worldly charades

Blessed with puberty, some crime divine
He weighs its vigor, in every vista sublime
Of that starkness replete, beyond confine
A half-naked woman, his full played mime

He flies night kites, lit with fancy’s delights
To reach out to, umpteen forbidden dreams
Is it riot of instincts, or his passage’s rites?
That make him a man, not what he seems

Veiled windows, his sworn bête noire
Dogged curtains, to his heart’s despair
A lust-dead man, only knows to adore
Not a soul, but a shroud, laid bare

His creed akin, to a scavenger
Sniffing bins, sifting remains of the day
Or a lure-enchanted, passenger
On an endless chase, a thought astray

As midnight yawns; offs lights; carnival dies
Peeper has had, his heart’s fills, no qualm!
He dreams away, the night, with lurid lies
Needless to say, “Ain’t you and me that Peeping Tom?”!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

When Egos Talk !!


What maketh man, so sociable?
Amongst a mob, of urbane men
Is it some virtue, negotiable?
To feed his ego, now and then

He ain’t a man, they say until
He dons that guise, of ego’s choice
That glorified ill, his cherished skill
That devil’s voice, which ages rejoice

What Napoléon had, and Hitler made
A God of an ego, weighed in blood
Why Churchill said, Stalin’s charade
When both baptized, in the same holy mud

Is this the one, that riotous discourse?
Where men dissect, each other’s core
While some content, flogging a dead horse
The rest resurrect, a dying cold war

Leaders make nations, or it’s the other way around
Though ego makes leaders, meanly noble, for sure
For they dare and defy, history’s faith profound
That sits on the shoulders, of her lasting savior

Its creed akin, to that tide, in the sea
That slumbers, until dared, by heaven’s pull
With a kindled soul, shatters gravity
Scales the sky, defiant raging bull

How measures a man, this sinful love
Of his dreadful clone, that talks for him
Though, enshrined in his soul, a bleeding dove
With crimson coos, sings life’s lost hymn

Yet again, Obama sold off, to Putin’s petty plan
Hand-in-hand, two foes, on a phony moonwalk
Back to where it all began, O! That ego-ridden clan
Destined to doom, a lost caravan, when egos talk!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Reading Faces


Who steals the view, midst the million, few?
Beyond that frown, that fear, that smile
Is the face that stands, in fog and dew!
A lighthouse seen, from a million mile

Whose design is he, born by fate’s decree?
A child who sees today, an outgrown beast
In mirror his face, shows the time’s debris
Startled he says, “Why made I, a man’s feast?”

On the Baptism day, a soul in the fray
A blessed farewell, to a faceless man
Now more than a face, a faith’s essay
Echoes his soul, the spirit of a clan

Thru the poison shops, those murky backdrops
In mayhem, strewn apart, spent staggered souls
Their faces, full-licked, half-bitten lollipops
Furled flags are they, on stooping flagpoles

In those feisty cafes, where smoke dies over ash trays
So many souls squandered, in so many chases
Each weary face, masked in, caffeine’s maze
“Will face truth tomorrow, at leisure”, it braces

In queues lined up, each quest, a shakeup
Of a man lingering, in ration shops, job dialogs
A face that lasts, to the fate’s runup
With a coerced smile, glued on each underdog

Now that last deceit, stole by death’s conceit
His face, a tranquil sea, a grave of destiny
A heart missed all the beats, now a man is all defeat
A soul though smiles away, a lovelorn escapee

The façade of this edifice, a man, his woes and bliss
Tide past likes waves in soul, on face their tell-all traces
Passions galore that arise, to brim a heart’s abyss
Summarize the human graces, bared by reading faces

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Whispers Of The Storm


New birth of doom, or heaven’s calls?
The fury that slept, now kissed the horizon
See the shards of sky, torn by fiery walls
Held bonded, by faith, of its spirit unwon

Said the storm to night,” O! How I blazed in dark!
Lookers forgot you! “What is night?” They said!
“Better shining storm, than this misery stark,
Enough of this dark, be it storm, instead””

“I was meant to be, the night, I am
Not a fickle storm, with fleeting light
But a serene shade, not a blinding sham
Nor a brazen parade” said the night

Said the storm, to sky, “Have scorched your soul,
Many times before, to weigh my sway
Why a passion misspent, on the dole
To lose once more, to your fortitude’s play”?

“Akin to an urchin, you, in my vast expanse
How bland your pranks, no pain, no sigh
You sound like the gist, of unrequited romance
O’ I pity your futile tryst.” said the sky

Said the storm to earth, “Did you hear the roar, it was me!
Who else could shatter, your splendid sleep?
If not me, the Goliath, on an orgiastic spree
How reborn, overnight, that nerve you reap?”

“Yes! Heard and felt, a spent force melt, from above
How hard you tried, to prove your wrath’s worth
Still abloom in my arms, unfazed, labors of love
Lasting spirits, in immortal farms” said the earth

Said the storm to sea,” Were the tides too much, for you to bear?
I saw them, wash your face, with fear
I tossed you up and down, at will
Like a toy, I played you, to my heart’s fill”

“Oh! So was it you, loudmouth, insane lout?
Is victory, a crudely defined, decree?
It’s neither a matter, of conceit nor clout
It’s anything, but self-flattery” replied the sea

The spirit that swaggered, will it now concede?
To the fact of the matter, the truth in its form
How elements, conferred, their enduring creed
You’d know, if you heard, whispers of the storm

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Till The Last Sikh Burns: 1984 – State Sponsored Sikh Genocide


“Blood for blood!” gallons how many, to sate the revenge of an imposed bloodline?
Minions galore, they madly implore, “for every Sikh slain, a rioter earns”
Alas, Indira demolished, Rajiv idolized, another false god, toadies enshrine
To coddle the clan, discerns each yes-man, “Go on brethren! Till the last Sikh burns”

“When a big tree falls, the earth shakes”, alas, a head of state, Rajiv, brazenly bodes
Which duly decodes, “my godly clan, dare not hurt, if hurt, more pain it returns”
Congress henchmen, avengers of Gandhi clan, bolstered now, hit the Delhi roads
“Dynasty our redeemer, let’s celebrate, orgy of carnage, till the last Sikh burns”

Her Punjab escapade, grossly went wrong, Operation Blue Star, Indira’s swan song
Indian ethos outraged, Golden Temple blood-bathed, rendered an object of spurns
Indira slayed, martyred? Or a headstrong lady paid for a misadventure headlong
To the minions’ delight, a martyr forthright, passions ignite, till the last Sikh burns

Aah suddenly! Kerosene comes free, to strew the fire across, at Congress’s cost
Racism reshaped, mothers gang-raped, tots butchered like pigs, a nation’s soul churns
Is Rajiv deep asleep, as his murderers make a clean sweep, a no contest almost?
Crimsoned streets, charred flesh reeks, revenge speaks, and hate governs, till the last Sikh burns

Police knows well, impotence has its rule, in Rajiv’s blood orgy, it became a wiling tool
Felons freed for henchmen’s killing needs, but a Sikh when pleads the cop adjourns
Meticulous means, to mark homes “S”, through voters & ration lists and records of school
Congress-perfected pogrom, Rajiv’s tom-tom, played by turns, till the last Sikh burns

Six decades of decadence, thanks to Congress’s prevalence, its bootlicking to a clan imposed
On the nation, for sycophants’ gain, this dreadful collusion to remain, a miasma with profane downturns
How many more to kill to thrill, an inept dynasty, to the lust of power alas, so predisposed?
Not the last one though, many more to come, when dynasty yearns, to fill more urns, till the last Sikh burns

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

A Blogger’s Creed – The Wolf of Blog Street


Broken to bits, now lives on the cloud
Little legend he; heard, read, seen and known!
In megabytes of some server, his being avowed
Thru internet, he heaves, his theories outgrown

No more that minion, who tamely, loaned his soul
To the glory of tech-snobs, reigning the World Wide Web
A blogger now, with a face and name, a spirit on a roll
Not millions though, many dozen know, this rising celeb

Bygone those times, when Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”
And Shakespeare’s Hamlet, had to, for ages, but wait
For the world to rejoice, to their hankering hearts’ fills
Now a click away, a virgin view, yet a second, too late

On PC’s screen, what seems to be, his world to him
Is half-made truth and half-said lie, a mutually cherished sin!
Do the “Likes”,“Views”,”Comments” and “Follows”, echo his triumph’s whim?
Or a sham of sorts, some buy and sell trade in!

A “Like” for a “Like” or a “Like” for a “View”, who’ll know!
Who cares to view or follow, in the spree to be, that cynosure?
Who is liked, viewed, followed, commented to death, as though
The rest are mere testimonies, in his accolade’s brochure

Why stares and then despairs he, “Alas! No “Likes” , or “Views” today!”
As if past “Likes”, were “Oscars” and “Views”, “Grammys” bestowed
How many were so honest, how many were just stray?
Get into their minds if you can, the only mode to decode

“Blocking” is his easy tool, to blind his soul, to the other view
Why he chisels out a dwarf from self, to shrink to a shaky man?
A “walled garden” his blog became, where blooms his dogma, thru and thru
But blogosphere is not for him, the one from the prejudiced clan

Does he dare to dare, the fanatics, flaunting bloggers’ blood?
On hands, that cleaved their heads, and said
“Now fear is mightier than pen!” that old adage, a dead dud
Few martyred, but the rest are left, to fight your dread, with blogs instead!

Why he chose to be a propagandist? A royal beggar’s creed!
Fancy-dressed statesmen dwell his blog, vermin begging a look
On his million “Likes”, they rear their ploys, like some vile weed
Once a blogger, see how he became, a money-minded crook!

Will regimes ever understand, cyberspace’s not their domain?
Why curbing minds on some pretext, is simply not their business?
Can they dismay this daring breed, that won’t let truth, die in vain?
They can’t defeat a shouting truth, can’t subdue a million, cyber witness

How a billion beliefs on infoway, merge to make the world a cozy place
Forbearance, its enduring strength, prejudice, its disgraceful defeat
May our present evolve to an enriched posterity, in this cyberspace?
May for good, evolve, the blogger’s creed – The wolf of Blog Street!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

vikas chandra

Broken to bits, now lives on the cloud
Little legend he; heard, read, seen and known!
In megabytes of some server, his being avowed
Thru internet, he heaves, his theories outgrown

No more that minion, who tamely, loaned his soul
To the glory of tech-snobs, reigning the World Wide Web
A blogger now, with a face and name, a spirit on a roll
Not millions though, many dozen know, this rising celeb

Bygone those times, when Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”
And Shakespeare’s Hamlet, had to, for ages, but wait
For the world to rejoice, to their hankering hearts’ fills
Now a click away, a virgin view, yet a second, too late

On PC’s screen, what seems to be, his world to him
Is half-made truth and half-said lie, a mutually cherished sin!
Do the “Likes”,“Views”,”Comments” and “Follows”, echo his triumph’s whim?
Or a sham of sorts, some buy and sell trade in!

View original post 318 more words

What All She Hides !!


Ah! Kitty of the cathouse. No! She ain’t that shy
She frolics with menfolk, and breeds bonsai
On parade, her gluttony, not forbidden tattoos
Those half-cherished, half-ostracized taboos

Baptized by the papal curse, with ferula upside down
Married to dark comedy, Satan’s gracious face in town
She pounced on me, smirked “Care for a tête-à-tête?
I measure you, you fathom me, come closer; don’t fret!”

She led me to her holy attic, above that banished tomb
Which echoed the last rendezvous, in a sin-infested womb
Splintered goblets of passion, a yet unbroken song
Unrequitedly that plays along, to who shall it belong!?

Kitty shoved me on the couch, a kindled soul in awes
That dead man, now so wide awake, as she set to bare her claws
“Hey Kitty! Is your bareness, so white, or is it vitiligo?”
“What you see, is what you get, not what you want though!”

“Your claws are sham, your pits unkempt, you stinky whore”
“What brought you here, is deeper, not just passions galore
That endless chase which fails a man, his pride’s lasting slur
It ain’t me, but you lie to thee, your manhood, death’s metaphor “

As night deepened, the tryst spread out, its tentacles
In clasp of defeat, two souls rejoice, a machismo suckles
Immortal venom, from the breasts, of a sold out dream
Ain’t she the Goddess now, for a man, to rout or redeem?

Did we make love, or it made us up, two riots undissolved?
How many times to spend our souls, to feed a love, unresolved
For it ain’t love, we ain’t lovers. Ain’t you the art of deceit?
Or a half-hearted keep, of those yearnings replete

Unfathomed, left, her lasting lies
Or the only truths, civilization defies
The dimensions of a woman, and the flair, she prides
With nothing more, left to bare, what all she hides!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Monotony : The Symphony of Life


As I return, to where I left
Ain’t I, the same, in a life bereft?
Of a drive to drive, beyond the reach
Of yesterdays’ rituals, so hard to breach

Obliged to rise at 5, each day
Some penance is it, or toll to pay
By a man, who bears, a father’s heart
A hubby, a wage slave, can you tell apart?

Treading on mornings thru lost alleys
One amongst the aging faces, matching tallies
One more farewell, to the bus I bid
Which carries my young seed. Alas! Me a lost kid

The breakfast toast, has new blisters today
Unlike mate’s dark circles, on unbroken decay
The dailies do shout, to a deafened, spent man
Whose creed resigned, to scan that layaway plan

Thru the taxi queues to the office gates
Wail weary ways, on endless waits
Same place to work, and lie to self
A pigeon-holed man, rotting off-the-shelf

Beating retreat, the same spineless rebel
Under earning’s spell, every fury to quell
Breadwinner indeed, rules the roost, at nest
Makes love to a dream, over sinking breasts

Yes, the same climax, of a day’s life again
Another coup de grâce, to a spirit on wane
To rise from ash, a halfhearted man born
To be force-fed again, on obligations sworn

Though underneath, lies the unfelt, beauty of it all
As tedium enthralls a man, with a faithless call
It’s a surrogate to futility, obsessions’ mother
Who makes men mad, who better sane be rather

Yes, regurgitated truth, life is, over ages, lives and moments
Why just resent the routine, not value the endowments
It plays on and on, unvanquished, motley tunes, rife
Wished away, yet dished out every day! Monotony! The symphony of life!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

A Blogger’s Creed – The Wolf of Blog Street


Broken to bits, now lives on the cloud
Little legend he; heard, read, seen and known!
In megabytes of some server, his being avowed
Thru internet, he heaves, his theories outgrown

No more that minion, who tamely, loaned his soul
To the glory of tech-snobs, reigning the World Wide Web
A blogger now, with a face and name, a spirit on a roll
Not millions though, many dozen know, this rising celeb

Bygone those times, when Wordsworth’s “Daffodils”
And Shakespeare’s Hamlet, had to, for ages, but wait
For the world to rejoice, to their hankering hearts’ fills
Now a click away, a virgin view, yet a second, too late

On PC’s screen, what seems to be, his world to him
Is half-made truth and half-said lie, a mutually cherished sin!
Do the “Likes”,“Views”,”Comments” and “Follows”, echo his triumph’s whim?
Or a sham of sorts, some buy and sell trade in!

A “Like” for a “Like” or a “Like” for a “View”, who’ll know!
Who cares to view or follow, in the spree to be, that cynosure?
Who is liked, viewed, followed, commented to death, as though
The rest are mere testimonies, in his accolade’s brochure

Why stares and then despairs he, “Alas! No “Likes” , or “Views” today!”
As if past “Likes”, were “Oscars” and “Views”, “Grammys” bestowed
How many were so honest, how many were just stray?
Get into their minds if you can, the only mode to decode

“Blocking” is his easy tool, to blind his soul, to the other view
Why he chisels out a dwarf from self, to shrink to a shaky man?
A “walled garden” his blog became, where blooms his dogma, thru and thru
But blogosphere is not for him, the one from the prejudiced clan

Does he dare to dare, the fanatics, flaunting bloggers’ blood?
On hands, that cleaved their heads, and said
“Now fear is mightier than pen!” that old adage, a dead dud
Few martyred, but the rest are left, to fight your dread, with blogs instead!

Why he chose to be a propagandist? A royal beggar’s creed!
Fancy-dressed statesmen dwell his blog, vermin begging a look
On his million “Likes”, they rear their ploys, like some vile weed
Once a blogger, see how he became, a money-minded crook!

Will regimes ever understand, cyberspace’s not their domain?
Why curbing minds on some pretext, is simply not their business?
Can they dismay this daring breed, that won’t let truth, die in vain?
They can’t defeat a shouting truth, can’t subdue a million, cyber witness

How a billion beliefs on infoway, merge to make the world a cozy place
Forbearance, its enduring strength, prejudice, its disgraceful defeat
May our present evolve to an enriched posterity, in this cyberspace?
May for good, evolve, the blogger’s creed – The wolf of Blog Street!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Your arms, my garden of bliss


At last, we know, where dreams are grown
In the farms of hope, love’s seeds are sown
God made your love, brim my heart’s abyss
And me, a love dove! Your arms, my garden of bliss

What makes you last, beyond a thought
Is the whiff, you breathe, in this endless knot!
In our hearts’ confines, blessed by a kiss
Love’s lasting signs! Your arms, my garden of bliss

How timeless is, this hearts’ embrace
Two souls entwined, lost, without a trace
Ain’t two anymore, what mystique this is?
Hold secrets galore! Your arms, my garden of bliss

They raged a storm, who had to win
But I chose to lose, for my holy sin
For your folds of solace, left a labor amiss
Won a lost war thus! Your arms, my garden of bliss

Betwixt those arms, lies a world of dreams
Your soul nurtures, my heart redeems
With the worth of faith, blooms rapture this
For love’s fury to bathe! Your arms, my garden of bliss

Though far away, still in soul’s recall
This fortress of yours, holds my world from fall
Where yearnings rest, lovebirds nest, that edifice
And love echoes, its glory’s knell! Your arms, my garden of bliss

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Why history lies ?


In chase of time, where it all began
Stands deaf and blind, a cynical man
Force-fed on a past, that present denies
Probes a man aghast! Why history lies?

Is Propaganda the path, to final truth?
Or means to bribe, the past uncouth
To narrate a lie, to present’s ‘whys’
Wary man won’t buy! Why history lies?

How many gallons of blood, disappeared?
To save dynasties, brazen rumors reared
Effaced from its pages, many unheard cries
Betrayed man, for ages! Why history lies?

The who’s who club, has its roots, in yesteryears
They buy key pages, from history’s auctioneers
Lost in footnotes, and in oblivion, their sighs
Unpaid-for anecdotes! Why history lies?

White colonies were built, on their history’s grave
Who lost a lasting face, yet, forgot and forgave
How come they agreed, for this slavish compromise?
Left, uprooted nameless breed! Why history lies?

History’s a hollow statesman’s tool
Prejudiced to death, in a collusion cruel
To split the populace, and creeds to baptize
A nation of failed race! Why history lies?

More questions it raises, than the answers, it delivers
Truth doomed to drown, in fallacies’ lingering rivers
Why sold in schools, naked delusions, in “History’s” guise?
To feed generations, biased conclusions! Why history lies?

Is historian he, or a pimp on spree?
Who sells wholesale, antique debris?
To regimes and clans, that hail, truth’s demise
A second hand soul, on sale! Why history lies?

So long as man is content with, beauty of an ugly myth
History will be, nothing more, than a dumb, decaying megalith
Why mankind fears, truths most? For they reflect his lasting vice!
It won’t help, to overlook, man’s enduring cowardice
Will forever trade lies, past to present, that future belies
It’s the chase of truth, which man defies! Hence history lies!!!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

A drop… here and there!


Where slept that valley, of the grand yore!
There stands today, an ocean bare
Whose crimson tides, now wash ashore
men’s shattered prides, a drop… here and there!

In this God-made realm, every man, a guest
A heart to plough pain, a soul to say a prayer
Who vanquished whom, in prides’ vain contest
Just dripping sutures, a drop… here and there!

How big, could he be, within God’s grace?
A man meant to toil, till the end, to bear
Those labors of love, or a prides’ lost race
Betwixt sweat and blood, a choice to shove, a drop… here and there!

Would struggle, be a creed, some day?
Yes! The one to make, not the one to pare!
When souls discourse, not the prides in fray
Strewn dialogs, of recourse, a drop… here and there!

What lastly decides the end, you know!
Is when, nothing’s left to win or lose, but to spare
A lease of hope, for the souls, that tow
Pride’s hefty tolls, a drop… here and there!

Why histories awash, in color red?
From then to now, pride’s crimson affair
Why man chose, to bathe in, gore instead
When an ocean, brims within, a drop… here and there!

Burst it must! This barrage, on barren souls
How long can hold, a venting heart, each tear?
Let them riot and roll, beyond pride’s controls
To kindle, every soul, a drop… here and there!

Had he shed a tear, the world would have changed?
Yes! A man must cry, for the soul to rear
The yield of compassion, on a pride estranged
Each tear, a lasting passion, a drop… here and there!

Let these seeds of peace, men sow, in their hearts
For the world, to win, over that lasting fear
Which looms large, that pride imparts
Sink this soul’s surcharge, a drop… here and there!

How history swears, of those men, who never shed, never learnt
That mercy ain’t the creed of frail, but the daring ones, who care!
They emptied hearts with fills of tears, for eternity, well-earnt
Let this flood of bliss, kiss all frontiers, a drop… here and there!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

When we stop to live!!


Another mile! Is it worth the sweat?
Or worth a thought, in a laidback mind
With no regret, he squared each debt
His creed became, his daily grind!

Wasn’t he a child, the soul of awe?
Who climbed the tree, to see the hive?
Got stung in heart, until he saw
That pain is the way, to be alive

Wasn’t he the boy, acne-shy?
Who ran 10 miles, to prove a point?
He sold his sleeps, for a dream to buy
Said, “Won’t let life, to disappoint”

Yes! He was the kiss of puberty
Estranged to the boy, but not the zing
With poise, served heart, to Doherty
Smirked,” Ah! I made life, a riotous fling”!

What matrimony brought, and took away
Is the man summarized, you see today
What’s life beyond, errands, that flay?
A man who bloomed once, now turning gray!

Kids came along! Ah! A man, beyond doubt!
From one, to half, to one third, to a fourth
Shrunk his own stake, in his life’s sell-out!
Solitude won’t sell! His own, henceforth

A child went on, to father a child, one day
He lost in way, those joys, dreams, and the drive in between
A coolie now, bears a toll and toils his way
Why be a living tomb, a monument in the making, unseen?

Was it meant to be this, or a mere, matter of choice?
We live to regret, or regret to live, as our hearts misgive?
That we choose to sway, in the wave of world, defy soul’s voice
Become shadows of phantoms; a presence blurred; when we stop to live!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Will Gracy shout……??


“Grace! Ain’t she a beauty, at four!” said, Uncle John, next door
That angel, who frisked around, on his heart, in a skimpy frock
“Uncle gives you candies, but you the sweetest one!” he swore
“Come! Let me have a bite of you”, his passion ran amok

Would Grace ever know, what ensued, but “dirty”, yes, it was!
Smirked Uncle John, “Well! What happened! O’ my honey baby!
You loved it too! Had me impassioned!” said with wild guffaws
In a frock amiss, she toddled away, a toy of joy! Broken doll, maybe!

Was that virgin soul, sin-laden? Alas, a maimed tale, of mayhem!
How come, forgot hide-and-seek and tic-tac-toe?
Now she hid from men, and curled her toes, by the sight of them
When mama probed,” What’s wrong?” little woman rejoined, “Don’t know!”

Was she a woman-in-making or a girl-in-breaking or both?
Months after months, splintered and scattered, a ravished soul
Uncle John seemed won, this tug of war, betwixt a girl and a manly troth
He pimped his soul, to a sinful lure! Behold, behold, a beast, on a roll!

A treat, of guilt and threat, to make her fret! Oh, his vicious means!
A dumbed doll, fading flower of fall, dare she, yell to those deafened?
Who can’t read pain, in her barren eyes, world gamely demeans
A child somewhere, in the shade of fear, left, for herself to fend

Grace now eight, still Uncle John’s bait, but why?!
Has the woman not grown, in this girl alone, to dare?
For, she was schooled to stay quiet, bear and belie
A soul that turned to stone, in a cold body, laid bare

Was Grace disgraced, by a man, some “Uncle John”?
Or a culture’s creed, that we all agreed, to live in denial
Grace not the first, nor the last, to play a lust-pawn
In the hands of a monster, alas! Beyond any trial!

Grace now twenty-four, mama of Gracy, who’s four
Next door, lives Uncle Sam, an ogling man, a perverted lout
“Uncle gives you candies, but you the sweetest one!” he swore
Will she succumb? A soul be undone? Will Gracy shout……??

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

The Islam I know


What drove me to Musandam, that fateful day?
That heaven’s charm! Or some pious toll to pay!
Was it mystic passion, that rushed my car’s pace?
Or sublime urge of soul, seeking divine embrace

Musandam, there it was, I lost in her lavish lures
What lay in store for me, what destiny obscures?
Next moment, me in shambles, in a wrecked car
Would end be swift? I presumed! Not a soul, near or far!

From nowhere, I saw, an old man, running beyond his means
Skull-capped, kandura-clad, bare feet, steadfast, beating ravines
In a while, I heard his heaves; a spent man ready, with pulled-up sleeves
For me, he was hope, his weathered face God! He smiled and swore, “Allah relieves!”

He fanned and wiped, my lesions with his holy cap
A wounded soul cradled, in a mother’s tender lap
I read his withered façade! All smiles and Allah’s name
Like a garden in autumn, abloom that now became

He lifted me and sighed, “Bismillah! Two souls on a pilgrimage!
Let Allah be your savior”, as we headed to a fishermen’s village
As we neared his hut, yelled a man,” Ali! Why blood-stained your new dress?
Be ready for the Hajj; bus coming; Allah awaits you, to bless!

Your money, your chance, so many times, you gave away
If you miss this Hajj, I am afraid, you won’t live, to see that day!”
Ali smiled and said, “Let Allah try me, my virtue, as he wills
Won’t leave a bleeding, dying soul, for my yearning soul’s fills!”

I was all tears, when I heard, that poor old man’s soul
How huge a heart this Muslim has, for me, he pays this toll
“If you fail to do Hajj this time, your birth, your life will be vain!”
“If I leave you here to die today, shall Allah’s heart not pain?”

I kissed his hand, and forehead too, as he burst into smiles
Which creed, followed this beautiful man, miles away from guiles?
As he dressed, my mortal wounds, a soul too began to heal
I cherished the day; what it brought to me and the timely ordeal!

How splendid was his reed shack, which opened to heaven’s gates
On august heart, he served me, humble camel milk and dates
Panacea, his magic touch, the soul of his meagre cares
He mended me, enduringly, with Allah’s five prayers

The Hajj bus honked aloud, a man shouted, “Come! Hajj’s near”
Ali looked at me, smiled and waved, “Insha Allah! Next year!”
Over the days, two men, two souls, basked in bliss, as though
He remedied me, a notion amiss, to know the Islam I know

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

O’ America: Where guns call the shots!!!!


From Texas to California, South Carolina to Oregon
Smoking guns rule the roost, from dusk to dawn
Play games of cold passion, new kids, on the block
Gory lessons of obsessions, scratched on walls, with red chalk

Why guns became the creed, of this American breed
For ages indeed! America destined, to bleed
Thru schools and colleges, bloodbaths galore
These kids ain’t done yet, blood-thirsty, all the more

Is it some trendy video game, or legacy of “Tombstone”?
Why shouldn’t idolize youngsters, this prophecy, homegrown
With 280 million guns, 4.5 million per year! Does Obama care?!
Every Christmas, a bloody Christmas, every New Year, a bloody year!!

This relentless, blood flood, does it define American ethos?
Fewer lost to liberty, more sons to guns! What a lavish loss?
Is it the whiff of gun smoke, which weighs down the blue air?
Or the charcoal smoldering, from someone’s funeral prayer

Is gun-culture some fad, in this hallowed American Land?
Fortressed from fanatics, wrecked, Bastille, built on sand
Which mother bore that son, who slaughtered this mother’s son?
Two mothers stand demolished, by a single shot of gun!!

But gun is a well-paid trade too, spins monies for, touts and regimes
So coldblooded is this dealing, deafened to next door screams
Is the state impotent, held hostage to its own laws?
Have they enforced in schools too, “… at your own risk” clause?

Is racialist their genre, or some reckless passion, profound
Doesn’t he slay, his soul too, not just compassion, downed!!?
Dailies splatter the murders, in crude colors of black-and-blue
Congressmen, warily tint their tales, lost somewhere, the hues that strew

Will tomorrow be, one more day, of a bloody, newsworthy shootout?
Will Obama slumber tonight too, in the coffin of, today’s fallout?
Will American Dream breathe free, thru this miasma, wherein blood rots?
Shan’t we dream of that America, where guns call the shots?!!!!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Pretty! Is she?


That mirror, is the face of hers
For it tells, the half-truths, she flatters
Where the brink of glamor, splendor blurs
Is it the former that lastly matters?

Yes! Talk to that glass, night and day
Hear the echoes, you like to hear
Or read yourself in the eyes, that say
“Oh! Would you care, to be mine? O’ Dear!”

Aphrodite you, you Venus, and may be more!
Your conceit defines, infinite woman, in you
And those, motley façades, galore
That possess you, through and through

That make-up, how it makes you up, replete
A woman awash, with greasepaints, veiled
Ain’t that you, who treads, the vanity street?
That soulless ship, in fiery seas, never sailed

Her beauty, a craft, to bait, and buy, men’s pride?
Oh! What a busy day, so many chores, to close!
Let the soul of truth, creed of love, decide
Why she chose, the way, that nowhere, goes

Is she afraid, so much, to face that face?
Which is she, who rises, when vanity naps?
Who trades, a lasting lie, at the cost of grace?
And bends a defiant soul, to the point, it snaps

Now, behold that milkmaid, in the farm of poise
Milk-bathed, naïve glory, wed to modesty
In her arms, rejoice, all the seasons of joys
She, a bliss-kissed child, of love, and honesty

Miles away, lies spent here, that undying chase
Of that child of pride, on a, beguiling spree
Lost in herds, of charades, without a trace
Her myriad sham shades! Pretty! Is she?

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Divine commotion


Mammoth wakes up
That December, the month of lasting cold!
Half-awake, skull-capped, in the lazy sun, that mossy mammoth, in history’s fold
Moss is bristling green, in biting dew, as we know
Not this dull black, as this mammoth has been, over ages; see a very old tired man grow
Compellingly, on the shoulders of his divine debris, above the winters’ snow
A spread of morning pleas, by souls reclining to a distant past
“My great grand mud, many posterity’s blood, so be it, my soul’s daily breakfast”.

Call of faith
The mammoth calls, with an unflagging shout, still five times a day, from his vintage bed
Screeches past that voice, like an arrow thru his sons’ hearts, Caressing blood,
From a quiver rusted
“Come my sons! Rest your restive souls, spent on holy chase, have my cud,
That I burnt into, your divine bread”.

Passion’s plea
With splintered eyes, mammoth sees, that saffron surf, swell, swell swell …..
Lies an ocean ahead, of thirsts galore, drop by drop, tolls the passion’s bell
Is it some undying discourse, some five centuries old… or so….
Haven’t you seen before, this pleader, pleading and bleeding? ….
Haven’t heard him, so deafening though!
“Extinct every mammoth! Why not you! Lying lazily, on our patch, ravenously feeding!
Uproot, we must, your divine lust, if you not ceding!”

Divine dialogue
Mammoth’s cherished broods, steadfast rock in midst, how braves the sea,
That swells, swells, swells, beyond the faith, of a starving crusader’s spree
Hands against hands, eyes against eyes, shouts against shouts, creed against creed
“Dare you touch our mammoth, our soul’s pedigree…?
Whose blood is you? Which lasting breed? With blood awash, our holy seed….. !”
“We the Aryan race,
Now we found our face,
Ain’t blood-shy either.
Ours the first-born germ, and that divine chase.
Your mammoth, blaspheming on our God’s chest, living on a doled-out breather.”

Mammoth falls
Now enflamed, that saffron sea.
Each wave knocks hard, the defiant rock, measures the mammoth’s destiny
As rock gives way, to passion’s flood,
It feeds on felled mammoth’s, flesh and blood.
While still gasping, on their promised land
Mammoth moans, “Was it a sin, to mightily stand, on a history grand?”

Mourning and revelry
On his carcass, stands a living past, dead present and a haunting future
Mammoth dead! How dead? With a minced body and soul…..
Beyond repair, a maimed creed, with any suture!
As the other rejoices; so many voices, triumphant bells, riotously toll
Whose creed won, whose creed lost?
A history stands defeated, amongst dead, a howling ghost.
A sin! A passion!
Beyond rationale, this divine commotion
Will forevermore, cradle and kindle men, their faiths astir
“Jai Shri Ram!”, “Allahu Akbar!”

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Last letter to Anna


Would this be, that piece, I deferred, thru many ends
Or forgot shrewdly, many times, till it came
To that bend, where we break, not as lovers or friends
But strangers so estranged, playing a “skipping” game

Do I have the nerve, to pen this, with that thing called “pain”?
It ain’t the finest ink, but, how else, to post a heart
That moans out the missive, of a man, with a nerveless vein
Who once mimed a hero, is a wreck, can you tell apart?

Was love, some hearts raffle, some gamble, out of the blue?
Sorry! I didn’t make it, to the win, that, so likely seemed
Just love, pure love, with heart at stake, until, you bid adieu
Why made me a petty bettor, were you the one, I dreamed?

Springs still bless, those who, bask in passion’s grace
Baptize rains, those loves, whose creed, to give away
And the frigid spell, that relays yearnings, on a warm chase
Why bestowed me a fall you, rustling sighs of, withering decay

That scent of you, I had smelt, thru my smitten soul
What more is you, beyond that, a profound mystery?
Or a shallow travesty, of deceit, on the stroll
Still lingers, in my recalls, new throbbing’s, aging debris

Who left whom behind! Us or time?
As I reach out, to touch, those moments thru fog
I find the same man lost, on a chase sublime
Who is me now, penning vain love’s, last dialogue

Would you not care, to embrace or caress?
What you once called love, and I, a pious creed
How sumptuous in fact, is this playful largesse
Your pompous decree, “It wasn’t love indeed!”

My hand would tremble, so won’t write your name
The same shiver, that’s still me, a lovelorn shy man
How hard to confess, to put my only pride to shame
Awaited, still awaits you, on his tomb, since it all began

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

A forsaken bard!


Who forgot me, are not the ones, who cared
Those who recall, are but the ones, who blared
“You ain’t the one, cherished, on our roster
Neither Keats nor Yeats. Not a bard! An imposter!”

How many miles more, to walk this oblivion?
A castaway, do I dare, cross-over to their dominion?
Who are poets and prosers, not petty imposers, like me!
Whose hearts spew out, the pride of clout and creativity

Never penned a rhyme, that lasted beyond, a day or two
To not be read, so short an age, of a dream, born to rue
How many times, I perused it, shouted out, my hushed heart
The verse that bore, scorn galore, at maker’s hand, now ripped apart

Measure of my joy, every time was she, or more than that!
Then why besieged, my naïve poesy, in this vicious spat
With those, who care to bless, chosen creations of times
And etch in stone, the bizarre laws, of novelty’s paradigms

What makes a man known, in this world, alas!
Not self-worth, but a lavish lie, that sells his class
To awaiting mobs, with hearts in hands, to buy
That sweet deceit, that sells their souls to a lie

Why is a man, just not content, with a confined glory?
Why he begs, goes all out, to hawk his, cherished story?
Is fame essence, to a tame pretense, to memorialize a man?
Indeed it is! For that lasting bliss, from the time, man began

Whatever be, my destiny, a spark enough, to lead my way
As I toil at desk, size my text, to context, with dogged words, stray
Who recount, mystic tales, of what befalls them, enroute
How they array, like mimed elves, witness to a, vain pursuit

Whose heart was it, which never moaned, with pain awash?
Whose art was it, which never failed, christened, “panache”?
Here lies a man, on piles of routs, a soul spent up, and scarred
Still braves the tide, for a dream, a pride, a Godforsaken bard!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Pilgrimage of the atheist


Was it etched on his heart, or destiny?
To be born a man, creedless to be!
Wasn’t he baptized or circumcised, on His holy lap?
Wasn’t he marked, Adam, Ali! So why did he snap?

The yarn that ties his mind, his heart, his soul to God
Why infidel, he chose to be, did he find the decree flawed?
That dictates a man’s being, from womb to grave
Why, he chose to be unshackled, to not be a, lifelong slave?

Atheist, agnostic, apostate, scorned by, many more names
How cultures chasten heretics! Consign their folly, to shames?
In awe, that disbeliever, gleans, the relics, of his belief
“Robbed myself, off gotten faith, my conviction, ain’t anyone’s thief”

Anguished! Is he? Yes! Yet, cradles that solace, in soul
“Must I be a sinner? So be it! May I not earn, His parole!
Still, dwells within this cynic, a child, who hums, that blissful rhyme
Which bathes my soul, in shades sublime! Is heresy, a noble crime?”

Banished from, chapels, mosques, temples and synagogues
A misfit, who long-disposed of, those devout dialogues
Which teach, a man to queue up, and chase, an ordained line
A man of free will, bewildered, by this comedy divine

This God-less, creedless man now, lured, by holy tout
“To save the wrath of heavens, avert your moral rout
Why don’t you be amongst us, to reap, faith’s worthy yield?
Then, heaven will be yours too, may your soul be healed!”

“Let me be, the evil outcast, spare me your doctrines
Life ain’t just religion, but conviction, beyond confines
Neither seduced by heaven, nor distressed, by a futile end
The one of love and mercy, only wealth, I earn and spend”

He braves the believers, to save that, profound thought
For which, he, a heretic, shoves, a life of slur, throughout
“Would destiny be better, had it been, in a holy cage!?
Each inch a milestone, for me, each moment a pilgrimage!”

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Sunday suicide fest


Lingering sedated slumber, on the same wrecked bed
This Sunday, me a mystic, who divines, his lot ahead
Oh! Done with this hide-and-seek, with self, and time
Would this man, still shy away, from that sin, sublime?

Every nerve dug out today, the roots of that evil tree
Tentacles cleaved away, of that octopus, on the spree
The agony that became me, beyond the soul, to hold
Now I forsake, that legacy, to a willing heart, I once sold

I end for world! No! World ends for me! Both same
Not in talking terms, sworn enemies, none to blame!
A life, barren, like a blank check, never signed, to redeem
Spent up every tear, every wail, this soul, declines to scream

The maid did come, to make my bed, O’ with lustless eyes, I stare
Has impotent, gone this dying man, his manhood, laid out bare
That next door kid, smiled at me, but, failed to stir, my soul
The daily scribbled, minus my obituary, will someone pay its toll?

Baptized, to be, a dream to her, that woman, I called mother
Manhood earned, that boy one day, his pride, beset his father
Was it love, rapture or brazen deceit, I took it all, in my stride?
Never betrothed to life quite, will death be, my chosen bride?

Have savored blood, from bleeding gum, would end be just, as sweet?
Have vanquished fears, over many years, to win this, cherished defeat
Tranquil me! From my balcony, as I gape at, my tomb below
Did heart miss a beat! Not indeed! When a man’s dogged, to go

Saturnine sun as rages above, bustling fairs below, blare, “Sunday fest”
Consumed in life-lust, many goblets downed, unquenched yet, that immortal quest
An empty man, so far away, sips spits of sin, sighs, “My Lord’s within!
If end is all, which counts in the world, I lose to death, for a life to win!”

That moment of truth or lie, lies ahead, as I plunge to death
In ticks of time, lay a shattered man, so numb, out of breath
The fest goes on and on, on the crimson mosaic, of my entrails
Whilst I rest, in eternal bliss, the world regales, with my bloody tales

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

If sex were to die today!


If sex were to die today!
Will that love’s creed, go astray?
Which sells, at desire’s cost?
Will that drag, midst hearts, be lost?
Which kindles, the passion’s play
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Will the Cupid, be out of fray?
To forsake, the realm, of hearts
Till that last spark, of love departs
And lingering cinders, sigh away
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Will that love, hold on its sway?
Which was tried, on pledges galore?
Now platonic passion, nothing more
An ordeal of delusion, borne every day?
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Would making love, be passé?
Would bodies, be rendered, empty urns?
With no sign left, of the fury, that burns?
In yearning hearts, now a long-lost melee?
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Will the flesh, sell on display?
Will the skin, lose its cherished sheen?
Will extinct, go desire’s gene?
Will posterity’s hope, decay?
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Would austere, be his way?
Will mystic, become a man?
And women, a banished clan?
With a vain allure, to parlay?
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Will the world, in order, stay?
Bigotry, amid sexes rife!
Cynicism, the new creed, of life
A new way, to betray?
If sex were to die today!

If sex were to die today!
Yes, world will be, many shades gray
For passion has, its reason to be
Beyond souls, lies destiny’s decree
That stirs man and woman unendingly
To dissolve in one, two species, vainly
Two souls, born to stray, still, abstract to say
If sex were to die today!

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

A nun in love


At 18, Eve, a novice, counting ageless, rosary beads
A lass on erosion, forsaking, a woman’s needs
She lives on vows pious, of poverty, chastity, and obedience
A dole out of her clan, now, “dead to the world”, her existence

Crooning “Liturgy of the Hours” all-day, this nightingale
Perched on a pew, long-lost, in search of the Holy Grail
“Jesus! What maketh me a nun, is your love divine
What chisel you out, from me next, my fate, cut it fine!”

One day, while Eve sat, in “confessional”, just to check out
A lad rushed in, the other end, sighed, “Father! Hear me out!
Is it a sin, to love Sister Eve, desire her, to death?”
As Eve peeped, thru the grid raptly, O’ did she hold her breath?

“Are you the Eros, to dare, the kingdom of Christ?
Beware! Thieving my heart, an ungodly heist!”
As Ben pulled, the grid down, their eyes did meet
Smiled a dream in hearts, when rejoiced, Eve’s defeat

Was it a heavenly affair or a sinful season?
A million buds of love bloom, not without a reason
Thru chapel and monastery, passed the love’s pilgrimage
Does passion seek permission, when hearts come of age?

Could she hide from fellows, that forbidden child?
Whose creed a sin, nun’s womb abode, an unsought wish reviled
“Mother Superior” moaned “You’re the “Eve”, by every deed!
Debauchery your creed! Would you care to dispose of, this evil seed?”

Alas! Each holy vow breached, Eve, now a broken nun
Will penance be her life!? A woman betrayed, a mother undone!
Each passing year sedated Eve, a barren woman, estranged to creed
“O Jesus! Why it had to be, that a heart with your passion, had to bleed!”

“Mother Superior” now, Eve 81, counts her deeds one-by-one
A woman, cynical, to the world, its façades overdone
An empty womb, an empty heart, an empty life to shove
An aching soul, she smiles away, “a nun, who fell in love”

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

The meaning of “Man”


Who stands once more, in the queue, to face?
A full-blooded man, a half-hearted chase
What histories taught, but forgot to tell
That man made to last, till the time’s death knell

Once the Adam of bygones, is the Maker’s envy now
Beyond mortal frontiers, who pushed, his instinct’s vow
Though beneath, that skin, is the same brittle soul
Doomed to pay forever, manhood’s terrible toll

Yes! Obsession! His being, his only tool, his creed
A trillion miles beyond, has touched, this dogged breed
Alas, the same passion, his unmaking
More war than love to make, that fanatic’s undertaking

Is art his muse, or man, a myth of art?
Galore his flairs, beholden to beauty, his heart
Yet, penury, the true shade, of his core
Lord bequeathed him, a wasteland, nothing more

He is the one Almighty, or at least, he thinks so
What arms, fail to win, he buys out, with his dough
A vain statesman, who knows not, statesmanship
Power too has its limits, why a false God, to worship?

How earnest a believer, to the creed, born with
Man weighs his religion, in blood! Not a myth!
What makes him a ghastly zealot? Not his conviction!
A passion of “pious” power, a blasphemous addiction

A social animal or beast? Stuck to inherent class
For caste, a way to discern, “divine” from the “crass”
Do former, earn heaven, and latter, reap hell?
What a folly is man, not that hard to tell?

When the passage, comes full circle, what remains?
A spent man, with a broken prayer, in chains
Behind him, lies the labor, of his soul’s fortitude
A bounty-laden garden, and a grower, subdued

As time dissolves histories, evolves mankind
Eternal passion, strides on, fired by, a beautiful mind
Many times died, and still arose, this immortal clan
God gave a name to passion, and called it “Man”
Who fathoms that obsession, knows, the meaning of “Man”

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Solace


Having counted tears, of each passing rain
Which bathed my soul, with that pain again
A prayer, a wish, alone, to make
A soulful sigh, for heaven’s sake

Thru the fissures of time, when I stare behind
Absent my shadow! I ain’t that blind!
Enough of that chase, which ends nowhere
Now redeem that grace, soul’s silent affair!

Every fury quenched, by the penance of soul
Why smolders then, begs a heart, parole?
Thru sublime fire, lies the way to that sea
Solace its name, spent spirit’s final spree

Away from that realm, where mayhems abound
Rests the inner sanctum, that peace profound
That cradles outrage, of a deadbeat heart
Beyond that cage, many miles apart

That chime lost out, in the mob of dins
Is the purest one, above worldly sins
Now heard, loud and clear, Lord’s decree
Solace lastly! The creed of a wrecked heart’s plea!

Every riot so quiet, every tide at rest
As soul rejoices, a blissful tranquil fest
We chance upon it, or it unearths us
That handful of poise, that heartful of solace

© 2015 Vikas Chandra

Lasting Whispers Of Fall…


vikas chandra

Shh! Lo and behold! Sweet soul of September
Myriad riots of colors, bleed the summer’s ruthless recall
And a sum of bygone longings, sets the air astir
Rustling fur of fallen belongings, lasting whispers of fall…

A bunch of dozy Asters, loll, on the relics of Maple’s toils
Braving life, in throes of fire, earth slumbering in bleeding pall
In the mêlée of four seasons, it’s the fall that yields the spoils
Blessed balm on throbbing lesions, lasting whispers of fall…

And the sun does die down early, in the grave of equinox
Moon lingers on long, to croon a cradlesong, Oh! That haunting call
To nature’s naked enigmas; broken mirth of mating peacocks
“Beauty of death’s blessings and life’s stigmas! Lasting whispers of fall…”

Beyond the barren branches, and wasteland’s scorched soul
Flickers faith, in winter’s cold blood, and spent summer’s haul
On the rustling grave of yesterdays, sing…

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Lasting Whispers Of Fall…


Shh! Lo and behold! Sweet soul of September
Myriad riots of colors, bleed the summer’s ruthless recall
And a sum of bygone longings, sets the air astir
Rustling fur of fallen belongings, lasting whispers of fall…

A bunch of dozy Asters, loll, on the relics of Maple’s toils
Braving life, in throes of fire, earth slumbering in bleeding pall
In the mêlée of four seasons, it’s the fall that yields the spoils
Blessed balm on throbbing lesions, lasting whispers of fall…

And the sun does die down early, in the grave of equinox
Moon lingers on long, to croon a cradlesong, Oh! That haunting call
To nature’s naked enigmas; broken mirth of mating peacocks
“Beauty of death’s blessings and life’s stigmas! Lasting whispers of fall…”

Beyond the barren branches, and wasteland’s scorched soul
Flickers faith, in winter’s cold blood, and spent summer’s haul
On the rustling grave of yesterdays, sing todays’ requiems, to extol
“Till the farms, of tomorrows’ dreams, lasting whispers of fall…”

© 2016 Vikas Chandra

Poise…


vikas chandra

Would you call it solace, hanging by a flirting hope?
That knotted thread, which no one knits
And fate, a dream, in shadows we grope
Whom soul convicts, and heart acquits

Needless, we know, is this endless chase
For the sinning soul, of a, fleeting aplomb
Which stares at the mirror, of its vanity’s face
And shouts, from the top, of its lasting tomb

That grace, which weighed on, her buckled blush
Now lingers alone, in a wrinkled maze
A smile which was she, on a passion lush
Now a tear lost, in tranquility ablaze

Same battle of wits, between heart and soul
Of noble moves, ignoble ploys
Let the rituals of life, take their toll
For a handful of dust, and speck of poise

© 2016 Vikas Chandra

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Poise…


 

Would you call it solace, hanging by a flirting hope?
That knotted thread, which no one knits
And fate, a dream, in shadows we grope
Whom soul convicts, and heart acquits

Needless, we know, is this endless chase
For the sinning soul, of a, fleeting aplomb
Which stares at the mirror, of its vanity’s face
And shouts, from the top, of its lasting tomb

That grace, which weighed on, her buckled blush
Now lingers alone, in a wrinkled maze
A smile which was she, on a passion lush
Now a tear lost, in tranquility ablaze

Same battle of wits, between heart and soul
Of noble moves, ignoble ploys
Let the rituals of life, take their toll
For a handful of dust, and speck of poise

© 2016 Vikas Chandra

Brinda’s Breasts


vikas chandra

That lasting pilgrimage, from Dhaka to Kalimpong
Thru snaky streets, nay rivers, march dogged conquests
In beelines to redemption, echo many a swan song
“Moti! Pay heed! For to you, they belong, Brinda’s breasts!”

O’er many monsoons, sprouted from a Brahmin’s rib cage
Two murky nipples, stood out to hunger’s tests
And they sank and soared, to famines’ outrage
As they learnt to, come of age, Brinda’s breasts

How a bride was cut, of a puny village lass
Who brought dearth and virtue, her only bequests!
Didn’t last though, past a night alas!
Misery, in the flesh, be it so, Brinda’s breasts

A widow, an outcast, an exile, a Shudra’s keep
In his arms, makes way, to the Promised Land’s quests
Atop a hushed heart, a heartless bosom dead-asleep
Brazen, Unsuckled, unrequited fests, Brinda’s breasts

© 2016 Vikas Chandra

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Brinda’s Breasts


That lasting pilgrimage, from Dhaka to Kalimpong
Thru snaky streets, nay rivers, march dogged conquests
In beelines to redemption, echo many a swan song
“Moti! Pay heed! For to you, they belong, Brinda’s breasts!”

O’er many monsoons, sprouted from a Brahmin’s rib cage
Two murky nipples, stood out to hunger’s tests
And they sank and soared, to famines’ outrage
As they learnt to, come of age, Brinda’s breasts

How a bride was cut, of a puny village lass
Who brought dearth and virtue, her only bequests!
Didn’t last though, past a night alas!
Misery, in the flesh, be it so, Brinda’s breasts

Now a widow, an outcast, an exile, a Shudra’s keep
In his arms, makes way, to the Promised Land’s quests
Atop a hushed heart, a heartless bosom dead-asleep
Brazen, unsuckled, unrequited fests, Brinda’s breasts

© 2016 Vikas Chandra

When You Touch Me… !


vikas chandra

Estranged, becomes, a heart to a soul
And one become, two realms in orgy
A million wolves, stray on a stroll
Sing a lullaby, when you touch me…!

Two whiffs tangle, two furies dissolve
In the cradle of passion, aches’ tides set free
That mystery called love, best left to solve
Like a lockless key, when you touch me…!

Every nerve ablaze, in yearnings earned
Which nurtured, the age of chastity
Deflowered lies, my virtue spurned
On the throes of spree, when you touch me…!

When we molt in, each other’s skin
Become smitten mimes, of a mortal fancy
Is it kiss of life, or sublime sin!
Oh! So many wars within, when you touch me…!

© 2016 Vikas Chandra

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