34 and a Day

i’m glad to be me

there’s no one else i’d rather be

it’s taken me 34 years and a day

to feel this way

but when the reward is this great

time is a small price to pay

i know others have consciousness 

just like me

but are they as conscious 

of how awesome it is to see?

i know i didn’t use to be

until love came to me

it has found me

in many forms, at many times

sometimes as pills and smoke and wine

sometimes as lines

but through it all,

there is this stillness within me

that is as close as i have ever come

to being free

i used to be quiet

now i often talk too much

but that core inside

doesn’t subside

never retires

until maybe

i expire?

my friends and i

we have started talking about old age now

and not in a mocking manner

the questions are real now

and the worry somehow grander

but despite it all,

there is a wonder within me

a wide-eyed boy inside

who can only count to three

Prav is how i sign off now

though i’ve been called jojo, pravs and pavee

perhaps i’m also an avi

or am i really not all that savvy?

i’m 34 and a day

but i think i’m just learning how to play :)

A Song for the Masses

I want to write a song
a song to end all wars
a song to heal all scars
a song to open fresh ones
and one to celebrate greatness.

I want to write a song
a song that will never fade away
a song that will not die with age
a song that will stay
with you and me, always.

I want to write a song
a song that will bring people near
a song that the kids will play
a song to turn your knees to clay
one that the gods will fear.

I want to write a song
a song to wake you up
a song to make it up
a song to break your heart
and mine, just by the way.

A Moment Lost

I have
no rhyme, no meter
On the threshold of greatness
I falter.

I must
think up, write down
Imbibe the visions that come
with renown.

I pray
for wisdom, a word
Instead what comes out
is turd.

I wake
up, realise
the moment has passed me by
I sigh
time for me
to awake.

What dreams may come

I close my eyes
and I say goodbye to sleep again
as I drift back to where it all began.

Outside, it’s starting to rain again
And I see you
lost in your pain again
as I do what I can.

But we both know
I’ve missed the train again
Maybe if I’d been more of a man
we could’ve sung the refrain again.

Then I open my eyes
and thank God I ran.

Twenty-Six and a Day

Year after year, I am reminded
we are ageless.

Our skin grows old and wrinkled
But the smile remains timeless.
Backs get bent
Gracious gestures live on.
Hair falls out, teeth follow
The twinkle in your eye never does.
Hands shake
Strength of character does not.
Memories and bowels grow erratic
Love just grows.
Legs become weak
Not the desire to stand tall.
Boobs sag, ears flap, lips droop
But the person inside shines through all.
The frame shrinks
While the contents multiply.

Day after day, I am reminded
we are priceless.

A Singular Truth

Truth is. Lies are.

A linguistic aberration? A whim of chance? Or something more?

Can it be that grammar teaches us the indivisible nature of truth? And the recurring, many-headed character of lies?

One God, one Truth and only one measure of success. We are taught this in a world where all that we see is a contradiction of all three. There are atheists and there is polytheism. There are gypsies and there is the Housewives Association of Victoria. And there are many versions of Truth – each one equally real and alive to its owner.

How about Lies then? They multiply, duplicate, add-on, and ultimately – divide. We have all experienced the futility of killing a lie, while so many of its insidious relatives fill the world, like Indians filling America.

The question is – have few ever really triumphed over many?

Perhaps the clue to the identity of the final victor is also buried in grammar. You lie. But you have to tell the truth. Or be truthful. The first comes naturally, but the latter needs conscious effort. Truth costs us.

Then again, perhaps it’s not really a victory for Lies as much as a reversal to his true nature for Man.

Because the real Singular Truth is: Lies are us.

The Soldier

The sun beats down my back
sweat drips off my brow
and I feel my companions hot breath on my neck
as we march, foot after foot
mile after mile.

Each step brings us closer to the hour of battle
closer to honour
to pieces of metal on our chests
and to the stench of death.

We halt for the night
with an extra tot of rum
and, for the lucky few, opium.

We talk of honour, morality, justice
to pass the idle hours before daylight.
But in the thick of battle
there’s only the heat
and a job to be done.

A leg carried away by canon shot
an arm lost in the charge
another friend cut down by my side
and the only thought I can spare
“Today it’s him
tomorrow it may be me.”

And so it’s done.
Another battle lived through
another one to look forward to
and we move on.

No loyalty, nor patriotism
Not even a heroes welcome keeps us going
What we crave, is clean linen and a warm bed
after our march, foot after foot
mile after mile.

One for the road

I saw the reflection and almost panicked. But she didn’t notice anything, moving away from the mirror and turning toward me.
“How about dinner” she asked. “Sure” I said and sunk my teeth into her neck.

And so, all hope comes to an end.

From Che

My heart sway[ed] between her
and the street, the road.
I don't know where I found the strength
to free myself from her eyes
to slip from her arms.
She stayed, crying through rain and glass
clouded with grief and tears.
She stayed, unable to cry
Wait! I will come walking with you.

- Miguel Otero Silva, Venezuelan poet & novelist

The problem with drinking

The problem with drinking is that people do it on every occasion. They drink to celebrate when they are happy, and they drink to drown their misery when things are bad.

I promised myself I would be different. I would choose one occasion for my drinking, and stick to it - either ecstasy or misery. And since I didn't want to become addicted to the stuff, I chose the first.

That is why, my friends, I will not be drinking today.

Wide-eyed lament

I’ve tried drinking
And I’ve tried music
But sleep, it doesn’t come.

I’ve tried vodka,
And gin and tonic
But sleep, it doesn’t come.

I’ve tried walking
And I’ve tried talking.
I’ve tried listening
And reading
Starving
And cringing.
I’ve tried friends
I’ve tried enemies

I’ve even tried cribbing

But sleep... it just doesn’t come.

Words alone do not a writer make.
Nor yet does a surfeit of imagination
or the art of a story teller.
But original thought,
a desire to see through to life's very core,
and having perceived the Truth therein,
to present it, with its lusture still intact,
to the world - that, is the calling.

Or, in other words, give me something to say.

Revolutions turn this world around.

Ghosts in the mirror of what could have been

So many choices we have to make.
So many roads we fail to take.
Wonder how many lives I’ve already lost
in a lifetime spent calculating their cost.

Inventory of a Wasted Life

I have sent 12 'business' emails today.

The primary function of 7 of these emails was to cover my quivering pink ass.

3 of these emails were sent to 'confirm' (read 'repeat') what I had already verbally communicated to the recepient. To cover his/her quivering pink ass.

2 of these emails were constructive, and hence could possibly get me into trouble in the days to come.

I love corporate culture.

One

One life
One love
One dream, all our own
One place to call home.
One more day to take flight
One more gift to make it right.
One last day, before endless night.

Q.

Will time heal the pain or kill the memory? Did the illusion of choice set Sisyphus free? Can you lose your way and find the destination? Or will nuclear war be our salvation?

With love gone will god need Man? Would you have done enough if you do all you can?

If repeated often enough does a miracle stop being one?

Is the journey just beginning, or are we done?

Growing up sucks

Someday, you’ll hear the concern
behind every censure.

Someday, you’ll be kinder to your parents
and feel sorry for others’.

Someday, you’ll find a stranger
in your mirror.

Someday, you’ll miss the comfort of certainty.

Someday, you’ll want real food.

Someday, you’ll be all grown up
and hating it.

...
That Man is the product of causes which had no preview of the end they were achieving; that his origin, his growth, his opens and fears, his loves and his beliefs, are but the outcome of accidental collocations of atoms; that no fire, no heroism, no intensity of thought and feeling, can preserve an individual life beyond the grave; that all the labours of the ages, all the devotion, all the inspiration, all the noonday brightness of human genius, are destined to extinction in the vast death of the solar system, and that the whole temple of Man's achievment must inevitably be buried beneath the debris of a universe in ruins--all these things, if not quite beyond dispute, are yet so nearly certain, that no philosophy whch rejects them can hope to stand. Only within the scaffolding of these truths, only on the firm foundation of unyielding despair, can the soul's habitation henceforth be safely built.
-Bertrand Russell

I don't feel i need to say more. That quote says it all