Soliloquies: in between: a transgenders lament

Soliloquies: in between: a transgenders lament:
"Am i the raindrop suspended in air ?
Am i the notes of a guitar floating in air?
Am i the tear rolling down the cheek?
Am i the pain of seed in a shell..."

Soliloquies: Faceless

Soliloquies: Faceless:
"Faceless i,
searched for a face
in the looking mirror
in the streets
in the shops."

Soliloquies: bird..............

Soliloquies: bird..............:
"I am a bird
a migrating bird
searching some shore...
i don't know whether there is spring there.
i don't know if someone is waiting for ..."

THE RIVER SIDE..!!!

Hello Lounge, I see many new members in WL...so here i am an Old member of WL...Then Yamini Meduri, now Ms.Meduri..!!!

I was busy with my daily routine and somehow couldnot make it here...but today, i have come here to just check out whats happening here at the lounge from my Land of Dreams and seeing the new pens, I felt to write one too..!!

Welcome to the new pens and a warm hello to the old pens...!!!
*********************************************************************************

The River Side...!!!

waiting for you at the river side
As the birds fly high
I wish to be in your arms tight

Waiting for you at the river side
As the sun sets
I wish to be the li'l chill around you

Waiting for the you at the river side
As the moon goes up
I twinkle bright to find you soon

As the moon sets down
As the sun rises again
As the birds tweet around
I still find myself
Waiting for you at the river side



from the Land of Dreams...!!!

I Believed

I believed in you, every word you said.
And I believed you'll believe me too.

I choose to believe.
Not because I didn't notice that all the pieces of puzzle aren't exactly fitting together.
Not because I can't think properly.

I am actually very well aware,
That what you said, what I heard and what happened
Don't seem like they came from the same story.

And yet,
I never asked any of the thousands of questions boiling inside me.
But that's not because I'm afraid to ask.

I choose to believe, 'cause I care.
And I know only too well
How much it hurts
To hear those little words pointed right at you.
"Did you lie?"

I know because you asked me that
So often I lost count.

Also posted on thewarrantycard

I'd live them again

“But I’d trade all of my tomorrows, for one single yesterday…” – Janis Joplin, Me and Bobby McGee

Take back my car.

My new suit.  My job.

Two tattoos

and the scar on my leg.

The dozens of novels

I don’t mind reading again.

Two sunglasses

and bracelets of leather.

Take back my hard drive.

My new songs.  My G1.

The thousands of minutes

I don’t mind talking again.

Two of my blogs

and the unfinished novella.

The hundreds of pages

I don’t mind writing again.

Take back my rank.

My new muscles.  My stuffed leopard.

Take back me.

My future.  My age.

Two coastal cities

and a dozen albums of photos.

The thousands of miles

I don’t mind flying again.

If Two can Take back The hundreds of days,

I’d live them again with You.

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2637/3875179889_f513250f56.jpg

Soliloquies: Is this your tears....?

Soliloquies: Is this your tears....?:





"Dear moon,


is this night rain your tears?"

windy road-death ahead

Sold my heart tonight

Betrayed on a windy night

you smiled and i died

Flight

Photo Credit: Flickr

Iridescent light lay high upon the creek:

Light, dripping sapphire—

Wings above my body.

Dike, though, land to keep what ‘way.

Rare a sight be, my angel's flight.

Yonder skies, she drifts away—

Looking back, yield none; dismay.

Hours, days, and months I’d wait.

***

Originally posted here.

Please don't call me jerk

"I am going,you always make fun of me and call me a jerk" He said. turned back and began walking. He looked innocent and cute, nagging.
"I shall never let you go in the first place...I am sorry, din't mean to hurt you", she replied,came running and gave him a hug.
"can I ever leave you,ask urself...? I was kidding" he smiled.
"Can't you stay quite for one moment u jerk..." she whispered as her eyes were close and she has holding him tight, their arms wrapped around.
"I am going.... I hate you... you said you wont call me a jerk again", he started to take his arms off her.
"I shall never let you go...my jerk", she held him tighter.

(Pulkit)
also blogs @
-(Poetic cries)-

Game Of Love

I know I can't win you. But I shall definitely participate in the game of love.

Replica

paper cups

When I hear your name

I feel like breaking glass,

kicking an old woman,

spitting on a flower.

You’re spilled coffee;

hot and a bother to clean up.

You’re black coffee;

strongly bitter, flavor overcoming.

You’re light and sweet coffee;

artificially arranged.

You’re Starbucks Coffee;

pricey hypocrisy, bland and lame.

But I do love their espressos.

“Two doppios for Glenn with a G!”

When you told me your name

I felt like glass breaking,

helping an old lady,

picking you a daisy.

Like I spilled my coffee,

I was hot and bothered.

Your smell, like black coffee,

was richly flavored, strongly filling.

You were light and sweet coffee

my loving tongue was lovely sipping.

You were Seattle’s Best Coffee.

Honest origin, humbly made with skill.

But your colors changed from red to green.

My palms went shaking.

I woke up crashing.

Escaping, I swore

to only drink juice.

But when I hear your name

I feel like breaking promises.

photo1:http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4003/4514495576_e2fb5a8d1d.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3654/3695615600_9bf269ecac.jpg

Tears

Genuine tears always fall silently. If they are loud, they most probably are fake.

P.S. - Just a random thought.

Replica

Little Bile

[Characters: Sumanta (pronounce as Shoo-mon-to), Kruti (pronounce as Kroo-tee), Bile (pronounce as Bee-lay)]

Part 1

“You better go and wash your face in a pot full of shit!”
“Oh, get lost! You do not even have a face to wash anywhere.”
“I know what I need to do. Just do not bother me again!”
“Fine, I’m leaving!”
Sumanta slammed the door behind him.
“Ya, go! Damn you! I’m leaving too!”
Kruti too slammed the door behind her and left.

It has been an hour since they left. The house has been silent, motionless and noiseless too since then. The light in the bedroom was glowing. The kitchen tap was probably open, contravening the silence. The living room was dark, cold and at sixes and sevens. Nothing moved – the door, the curtains, the chairs, the fan, the remote, the sofa and little Bile on it. Nothing moved. Bile is Sumanta and Kruti’s eight year old son. He did not understand a single thing that his parents talked about. He was always quiet since morning, when his mother, wake him up in this sorry Sunday morning. He could feel the rain pouring on the terrace and on the balcony. Did his parents take umbrellas with them? He does not know and never in his life had he given an umbrella to his parents while they go out. He was not responsible for that ever! However, today, for a change, he woke up, brushed his teeth, took bath, got dressed up, ate the piece of bread and drank the glass of milk – all by himself. Nobody had to run behind him for each of these daily chores. In fact, none had the time to run behind him today, since it was a sorry Sunday morning. His parents did not have time to look at him today, because they were always cursing and shouting at each other since they opened their fiery eyes. Bile has been a good boy today. He was going through all these chores one by one keeping an eye on his parents – their fists – their high raised voices – their curses until the door banged twice as they moved out of the house. Since then, he sat there, on the sofa knowing not what to do. The sofa gave him some comfort and he almost felt asleep. Probably the rain drops on the terrace kept him awake – he somehow, likes the sound of those drops – synchronized, consistent and inexorable. It has been an hour since his parents slammed the door and left for nowhere!

He was terrified by their behavior today. He was afraid if he would see the faces of his parents again. He was too small to even think what could be the consequences of this sorry Sunday morning. He wanted to cry, but there was none around to comfort or commiserate him. Hence, he did not. He wanted to sleep, since the sofa was too comfortable and he was feeling cold in that dark living room. He was somewhat happy that he was alone in the house and he could do absolutely anything with nobody around to stop him; but he had nothing special to do. He did not plan anything ahead of time. He was feeling clueless too, with a little doubt that the door would bang open once again and his parents might comeback with those false grins on their faces, like always.

Bile spent another hour, sitting on the sofa, with eyes fixed at the door which never opened. The rain has stopped by now. Still, the drops from the leaves were making that sound on the terrace – every other second. He just wanted to cry out aloud and wished to scream to someone; only if there were anyone to hear him and attend to him. He stretched his legs – they were jammed, sitting in that one position for so long a time. This was the first thing that moved in two hours. Slowly Bile got down from the sofa, still watching the door and hoping it would open. But nothing! He stood there for some time, to decide what to do. He could not! He walked to the kitchen to see if the tap was really open. He peeped in. Yes! It was open no doubt, but he was the last person in the house who could reach atop the sink to turn the tap the other way. He just left it as it was – dripping. He looked around. The house was almost haunting to him. The walls seem to squeeze in, reducing the space he had for himself – the whole house! He was still feeling cold, and may be a little hungry too. He went to his room, quietly, as if he was punished for making noise while walking in his own room. He saw the umbrella which his father bought him from the last mela but he could never use it since it did not rain as it is raining now. Quietly enough, he picked up the rainbow colored umbrella and slipped into the slippers and walked towards the main door.

Part 2

“He is tall. He is black. She is combing her hair. He is running for the bus. She is lovely. They are students. She is talking over the mobile. She is wearing a saree. He is riding a bicycle. He is riding a bike. She is making signs to him. They are waiting for the tram. She is busy. He is smart. Those are talking to each other.”

Bile was walking on the wet roads in Kolkata, almost unnoticed, with the rainbow colored umbrella in hand and tiny steps taking him nowhere, but away from the cold, dark and silent house. The road was bustling, but quieter than usual days, when he comes out to go to school. He walked alone – slowly, but surely enough not to return again!

… To be continued.

---

[To my readers: I know I am not writing much these days and I apologize to all those who await my posts here. Lately, a lot of stories came to my mind which I failed to put down in black and white. This one, is one of the best thoughts that came to my mind and I would love to write this one – long and completely. Part 2 has just started. Will post the same in time! Thanks for your love and support. That is what keeps me going on.]

---

WC Concerns and Woes

2010 World Cup has been a world cup to remember throughout history. Books will record this world cup for sure but it has been exciting to watch throughout. I had tests running when it started, the finals of the year and then it was all free, as I watched the games from home. But after the world cup is over, I will visualize on the concerns that occurred to me from the world cup after watching all these games. ESPN puts on their criticizes and remarks the unforgettable moments from the world cup. These include varieties of categories such as the big stars disappointing, the fall of the 2006 finalists, the performance of African teams, the Vuvuzelas, but most importantly to list are these:

2. The goal that wasn't
Let's be clear. Soccer is a terribly difficult game to officiate. But by missing Frank Lampard's goal, the officials made FIFA's Luddite-like insistence on avoiding goal-line technology even more baffling. With Germany leading England 2-1 in their second-round match, a perfectly legitimate goal by England midfielder was ruled not to have crossed the goal line when television replays clearly showed otherwise. Given Germany's superb form in recording a 4-1 win, it's easy to think the game wouldn't have turned out differently, but no one can say for certain how Lampard's apparent equalizer would have affected things.
The incident made a mockery of the business adage that "There's no such thing as bad publicity," as FIFA's stance against goal cameras or additional officials became untenable. It seems a lock now that FIFA will adopt one of these measures before the next World Cup, which will come as small comfort to England fans.

4. FIFA's not-so-Masterpiece Theatre
Diving is bad enough, but the shameful theatrics of players such as Ivory Coast midfielder Kader Keita and Spain defender Joan Capdevila show that FIFA should take a good, hard look at suspending players who con referees into sending off opponents. Keita's falling to the ground in apparent agony after Brazil's Kaka raised his arm as the Ivorian ran into him was a complete and utter joke, one that saw Kaka ejected for his second yellow card. The same was true for Capdevila's reaction to alleged contact by Ricardo Costa that resulted in the Portuguese defender seeing red.
If FIFA began suspending players for such absurd behavior, it would disappear in a heartbeat.

These two causes put on the link towards video replay in football and it is really mesmerizing to see that the viewers actually get to see the replay in their televisions while the referees have no chance to see it at all. They are talking to someone, as I can presume from the headphone tied on their ears but what does not make any sense at all is who are they talking to and what are those people for? Thus, I am ambiguous about what is to happen in the world cup 2014 if video technology does not come up.

Previously published in Chotto Mind's Blog

don't read this

I’m pretty good

at drinking beer,

picking songs,

and driving stick.

Knotting a tie

in several ways.

Matching meats

for a decent sandwich.

Name all the Bond films,

explain meanings of flowers,

fold napkins into roses,

drink martinis shaken dry.

But I’m special agent skilled

at making especially bad decisions.

I can double talk,

find my pants in the dark,

semi-swagger walk,

bend a bluesy harp.

I can double take,

stealthy nympho ninja,

while we’re both mid-gait,

in una strada stretta.

And if you notice,

don’t let me talk.

If you talk too,

there’s no hope for you.

So this is my disclaimer.

A warning, my future ex,

because I’ve learned from bad decisions.

I’m good at sex,

not what comes next.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3231/2923992303_1a6da1a0e1.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3003/2894944587_7f2983e8f3.jpg

Lonely (2)

Loneliness fills me with empty feelings

Lonely

I'm not alone yet I'm lonely.

Replica...

Your Name

Today I was thinking what to write about love. I was about to write your name and suddenly I stopped. I only smiled.

Replica...

of fire and freshness

“No amount of fire and freshness can challenge…”

One foot out of the shower

I remembered, perfectly

as if watching the scene.

The stage—what used to be,

the other half of my bathroom.

The oddly colored checked tiles

were now an endless maple;

the wood floor shined and smoothed glossy.

The ceiling rose to a faraway height

and the light dimmed to a yellowy darkness

broken by the convulsions of strobe lights.

Where the sink was, now stood

a towering speaker box

on an anorexic tripod.

And I, wet and naked

one foot in the shower

dripping scented water

all over the slippery dining hall dance floor.

You were so close to me

swaying in front of the shaky speaker

an inch, maybe closer.

But I could barely see your face

in the fractured dimness,

in my cracked memory.

I hid under my cupped hands,

but you didn’t notice me.

You were looking into my eyes,

younger, more aware.

The eyes I used to have

that saw you—they had the right to.

I was so close to you,

swaying with you in an ordinary suit

and a tie that matched, on purpose,

your turquoise dress.

Or was it teal?  aquamarine?

This was the only time

you curled your hair that way…

Brown curls, brown and light brown;

curly streaks tickling

your creamy cheeks.

The freckles, so light, almost imaginary.

Phantom freckles haunting your fair face.

Your fair face, your just face.

Equality—

either side of the summit of your nose.

And what I found in your sleepy eyes:

I saw the moon, whole and glassy,

low in the still bluish sky through my windshield.

The sun, a burning match-head

sinking into the parkway in my rearview mirror.

I saw the crowd of our classmates,

violently bobbing blades

of angst-grass thick and static.

They were making too much noise

in my small bathroom.

They made a ring around us, a solid fog,

trapping us in a cramped Mexican standoff.

The Girl, The Boy, and The Wet & Naked Man.

It played on as I remembered.

You tripped backwards

on one of the tripod’s errant legs.

Your knees buckled, your back straightened,

you kept good posture even when falling.

Your head tossed back,

your eyes confronted the ceiling,

your arms waded in the helpless air.

Naked me, no less dry,

watched you falling and didn’t move.

I did what I always did in this memory,

since the first time when it was event.

I caught you.

Quickly you lied down on my forearm,

looking up at me, my lips curled into a smirk.

Swift, so aware, invincible.

Your faithful mongoose.

Your date to The First Hurrah.

We danced on.

Away from the speakers,

away into the fog, into the cloud of our classmates.

Away from me—ever more naked,

no less dry,

But now very cold.

“…what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.”- F. Scott Fitzgerald

photo:http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2090/2235602174_08a97b781c.jpg

V_3.0

Endless misery.

Tranquility lost.

Burdened by the thoughts of luxury.

It haunts.

Haunts and scares.

But some run the scare house.

They run the misery factory across the borders.

Fascist nations setting new order.

Fight a war to prove to them,

That you are stronger,

That you can survive.

You can learn better,

In a refugee camp, than in a school.

You can rise,

If you got metals shoes.

They'll hurt and punch and kill you.

Till you are dead. Dead inside.

And they'll tell you that it was all for you.

Squeeze the last drop from your eyes.

Survival?

The next best excuse.

Printed in grey all over the news.

You don't know the names that fight for you.

Neither do they know you.

Stones and sticks make for bread and butter.

Thoughts are hidden. They cant be uttered.

The machines make you go back to sleep.

Till one day,

You become your own nightmare.

Force you to open a disease shop.

And fake factories that scare.

is done

Like I used to

close my fingers on your stomach.

Barely touching.

Breeze a whisper at your ear.

Hardly singing.

Damp the tip of your nose with a lick.

Slightly smelly.

Break your smile with a word of my doubt.

Mistrust of the Future.

And I used to

strum your strings in the cellular air.

Honest lullaby-ing.

Roll you with me on bamboo mats.

Sleepless resting.

Bring you milk in bed, thirsty and spent.

Coupled tired.

Quiet your confidence with a word of my pride.

Misspeak of the Present.

When I used to

dig through YouTube to freshen your Inbox.

Laughing receiving.

Blind myself in the darkness of your curls.

Hiding, breathing.

Muss my hair while fed live to your screen.

Fighting, receding.

Drown your cheeks with a word of my resentment.

Mistake of the Past.

But I used to

bargain badly for more time alone.

Abandon your argue through the door to the road.

Soak you in my sulking till you let go of the rope.

Wake up, measure the blanket to make sure you weren’t cold.

Like I used to.

When.

And I used to.

But I never brought you flowers.

I hope he does.

photo:http://farm1.static.flickr.com/103/282327168_e205a48578.jpg

Six Word Stories

Ego clashes . Paths split . History repeats .

Invaders Must Die !

Wherever I go,

Whatever I do

Its surround sound,

Its only you.


Whatever I think,

Whenever I blink,

A fenced ground,

Your presence around


Whenever I sleep,

Whatever I drink,

A beautiful nightmare,

Your eyes, your flair


Whatever i try,

Whenever I sigh,

The same salty stream,

With an embroidered theme.


Whenever I walk

Whoever I talk,

The same old shit,

Life, you little prick.

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Dar lagta hai ishq karne main ji..dil toh baccha hai ji..

thoda kaccha hai ji - Ishqiya