His Own Stew

Monologue,

rambling,  

in words,  

sounds,  

grunts,  

shrieks,  

and what not,  

it was unknown,  

what had hit,  

and how,  

and where,  

he was here,  

making sounds,  

uttering incoherent words,  

with suffused red,  

in cheeks,  

eyes,  

shot dark,  

the words,  

flowed,  

now with,  

lot of sparks,  

he was looking,  

for someone,  

when,  

there was no one,  

his words flew and flew,  

and came down,  

on him,  

and now he had to,  

of these,  

make   

his own stew.    

© Shishir Gutpa 2005

Rebirth of Adages

Old adages,

Growing older with ages,

Wrapped inside,

Torn books,

And periodicals,

A dislike grown out of over their use,

And failures after their use,

And their newness in old times,

Had bundled into hatred,

Adage repositories,

Were thrown in attics that be,

And remained there for untold years,

Curiosity unburied them now,

Discovery was stunning,

And shaking,

Adages came waking,

Each word was born anew,

And had a wonderful meaning,

More importantly they were ancient wisdom,

We must learn lessons from the past,

Our own adages,

Must be understood now and here,

And not buried,

For "them" to read years later "there".

© Shishir Gutpa 2005

Full Life

Days rolled on,  

I could not track seconds,  

Minutes I was barely aware of,  

Hours I had perceptibly noticed,  

And days rolled on,  Days rolled on into weeks/months,  

Months also had to roll,  

They did so into years,  

By the time I finished one year,  

And got on to the next,  

I had forgotten most of the past,  

And remembered it vague,  

Like a film roll,  

That had lost silver,  

And was dull and bright only in patches,  

Stumbling and strutting years rolled on,  

I had not yet fallen,  

I had a century,  

perhaps more,  

perhaps less,  

life was a fixed time travel,  

and an experiment to hilt,  

In this life it is not possible,  

That I could get it to unravel full.

© Shishir Gutpa 2005