Floydian Slip

This is a tribute to psychedelic music. And a confession of a bong. 

At dawn's gate puffs the piper 

a saucerful of secrets -- ummagumma and more. 

An atom heart mothers 

 its meddled relics. 

At cloud-obscured Z-point, 

a grass pad propels me 

 to moon's dark side - 

Wish you were here! 

The walls within and between 

alienate all animals, 

comfy or numb, awaiting final cut 

of deception and betrayal. 

These gigs on grass ink

lapses of reasoning momentary. 

Thunderstruck, division bells 

sound delicate. 

Through the passage of time 

on an endless river, 

the trips rock through 

 art, space and prog. 

Marooned yet free, 

sound and silence echo 

my pulse in experiments 

truly Floyd a rhapsody in pink!

How long

how long must I wait

at dawn's gate

how long will it take

for all to get your fake

how long must I dance

to the same song

how long must i march

to someone's tune

how long

how long

how long

Rangiye Diye Jao (Brighten me please)

Translation of Tagore's Rangiye Diye Jao 

Brighten me please before you leave this time -- 

    in your own hue, 

    in your secret shade, 

    in juvenile glee's perky tint, 

    in teardrop's touching tone. 

Brighten me please before you leave this time. 

Let the hue touch my spirit, be of use in each action 

Let the hue touch my spirit, let it kindle twilights' tip, 

    let it help me go through the night's dark

Brighten me please before you leave this time. 

Wake me up before you leave, 

    stir up my blood with your steps' swings. 

Wake me up before you leave. 

The way stars bloom in the dark night's bosom, 

    brooks spring inside chambers of rock-caves,

    cloud's voicefulness erupts inside its chest, 

    rhythm begins at the core of universal dance, 

Sway me likewise, walk me to the exit way, 

   shoo the bondage of lament. 

Brighten me please before you leave this time.

A Woman

She sits by the sea. 

Nude. Not naked!

Her sun-kissed body --
    curvy and carved, ivory and ebony, 
    firm and fair, brown and beige,
    all in one, all at once --
the sea-mists now cool.

Through her tassels of golden unrest
    the sea-breeze runs its care-soaked comb,
        unfurling yore's lore.
Over her skin of milky-glow calm

    the silky rays drizzle like sands in an hourglass,

        weaving morrow's lure.

She's desire. Pure. A pyre to which
    men draw and burn.
She's gravity. Powerful. Toward which 

    men flock and orbit.

Though eyes to her form often rove and halt,

she sits absorbed oblivious of 

    her admirers and adorers,

    the lurkers and the lechers.

She sits still pensive and lost.
'cause it's her time:
    A time to herself. A time for herself.

    A time to reflect. A time for rapture.

    A time to connect. A time for concord.

Her mind, body, and soul 

    in unison with nature,

sensing, sipping and sniffing its

    hues, spirit, and essence,

expands her horizon with all its joy and beauty.

She sits by the sea.

As thick as a brick

A poet and painter
behind glasses thick
seeks out musings
he hopes will stick.

A few reads his poems
at best labored verses.
Even fewer gets a drift
by skimming the surface.

A few sees his artwork,
plots at best scatter.
Even fewer has a clue
if it's guache or water.

He paints no fairytale
nor pens any spite well,
inking what's paintable,
daubing what he can tell.

Yet our poet and painter
as thick as brick.
Gets not he lacks the gift,
that rare touch or trick.

He strives for a way
to make a canvas glow
He hopes there be a day
for his words to flow.

A dreamer not doer
behind glasses thick
keeps laboring his craft
to be truly unique.