The psychedelic moment,

when your heart trips on awareness.

Drinking deep, the ale of timelessness.

Knowing well, these words are an illusion, a geometrical dream of thought.

We are alive, but like a ghost disguised, haunted by the breath of hope.

I am haunted by the beauty of this moment, as it leaves my side.

A burst of color, I am born.

Can you feel me softly caress your face, as I fall like jasmine summer rain?

‘The Birth’

A new leaf unfurls,
but nothing unfolds without reason.

Seasons all cluster
like drops of clouds
in the palm of my hand.

If I try hard enough,
this cloud can drench the parched soul
or warm the frozen heart?

So why not make it rain,
try hard enough to distill the seasons into a magical cloud?

It’s so easy to not try.

A new leaf unfurls,
but nothing unfolds
without reason.

‘Unfurling’

Mine wilting breast, perched on a parched heart,
Hath time dressed light, or enamoured hope in rags,
And doth the song haunt thee tempest?
Or the melody mask, the stranger in grace?

Tis true, the call silent, deep, surface bold,
Shall mine fears brush, paint strokes on canvas life?
All chimes, a begging bowl of questions lit,
Tust tempts myths, to burn weary paths blind,
Is this quest, just a milestone carved?

Or just an affair, that cold comets craved to lust?
The answers shall burn incense, for darkness whole,
The questions shall immolate reason, for light sole,
Will this delirium parade, the soul transition on hold?
Will mine branches break, for new earth to birth?
Still hath no mercy pout across thin lips cold?

Raw, unclothed I sought, yet thine price ever was life,
I seek not more, just clothe mine soul lost,
Will not seek, lest your mercy beget, bemused fate in regret,
Shall not fear, yet thee seek the cross on the soul,
All mine hands clasped seek, is not thin air bent,
Nor rarefied clouds sent, but winds on wanton mist,

This anger though, never the coffin on parched earth,
These verses though, never your morrow’s pallor,
Answer me soon, thine tears shall be your clouds fury,
For tis’ time, my haunted truth, my hunted reason,
And verses only shall frame a tresspasser’s truths,
And yet time sleeps and thine call burn,

The woods stay, demure and deep, the road allure, dark and dusk,
Cobbled castaways in stone, Coiled tendrils bold,
Obscure paths, lone waters, naked lakes, swampy woods,
I know not, that I am not the wanderer who passed by,
For I whispered and you whispered back “Home”

‘To be or not – The Road Not Taken’

Written by Prakash Rangarajan.© Copyrights reserved.

I waited…for the Spring of life…it came like a shimmering breeze,
blooming for that magic second, and left.

I waited…for the Summer of my dreams, it arrived…like fluttering butterflies,
showering my soul with unfathomable flicker-joys, leaving before I could even smile.

I waited…for the Autumn of my thoughts…they too,knocked on the mind-door,allowing me to contemplate on the
temporary nature of my guise, exiting with a chilly quietness, I sighed.

I waited…for the Winter of my wisdom, it crept into this foolish heart…drowning it into deep oblivion,
where sinner and saint meet wistfully, departing as a tender snowflake, the heart cries.

Yet I still wait for the seasons to change….

‘Seasons’

I close my eyes, I hear them.
Imperceptible chirps.
Tricking me into joyfulness.

How easily the poet is fooled.

Softly whispering leaves,
adding complex dimensions to this unfolding, where reality and memory become one.

My enchanted garden breathing her sweet spells of oblivion, I am smiling but invisibly.

In a parallel cosmos my soul screams.

Now the garden breathes some magic. Runes so ancient that time is irrelevant. Only senses can unravel what the skeptics can never decipher.

The secrets of imagination, remain a sacred art.

I cannot see , hear or touch it, but from afar I water it , with drops of longing evermore.

I smell the sweetness of the desert rose. The Quails peering through the wild grass.

The funny Hare with floppy ears, twitching, listening.

The Hopi Chipmunk, winking, scheming.

The hummingbirds , laughing, drinking.

All is clear, in this parallel world of mine.

Light footed dancing, the dryads and fae folk encircling my heart completely, until I am no more.

By some tear of the wish fabric, or the casting of a prayer, or the falling of some lonely star, the enchanted garden was not lost to me, but lost in me.

I close my eyes, I hear them.
Imperceptible chirps.
Tricking me into joyfulness.

How easily the poet is fooled.

‘Ode to a Garden Lost’

Each time I look at you, I see life and after-life.

This is not the last station but one of many.

At each stop, we change into fresh new clothes and begin a hearty conversation.

And soon, our next stop arrives, and the cycle continues.

There is so much to talk about that we forget to count the seconds only the moments matter.

And never does a dull second cross the hours, even if lifetimes separate us.

Just now I was laughing, but suddenly tears roll down my cheeks, like an unpredictable rainstorm,
becoming a river of memories, that gently flow through my veins,
keeping me alive and ready for the next change of clothes, and pining for new conversations.

This journey is such a great adventure where nothing is certain but small honest moments we’ve shared spontaneously.

No planning, no hurrying, no reservations, just riding, talking, loving purely and laughing.

Ah yes, in tears or joy keep laughing for it’s the laughter that will carry us to the next stop.

Each time I look at you I see life and after-life.

What shall we talk about today?
I’ve donned a fresh new layer of clothes but my soul is the same.

The next stop is here.
Let’s begin again.

Poem By & Copyrights Ansul Noor

Pain is the shadow of joy.
And shadows follow us throughout our life.
Without my shadow I’m a shallow pond,
sans depth, compassion or emotion.

Thanks to the shadows all around, for because of them I learn to survive, give and love.

‘Shadow’