The Daily Fret~ Quest for Annus Mirabilis

The Daily Fret~ Quest for Annus Mirabilis
Starting 1 March, I shall be attempting the "Daily Fret"; a simple
attempt to look for poetry in the simple everyday. For seconds tick away before we realize a life has been lived. It must not go by uninspired, unnoticed.

This blog in this respect aspires to be a Dialogue, and not just a listening post; so freely comment and participate, its a resonant communique we all crave-You to I, and I to You.

Happy reading.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Pieces of Dark.

My shadow moors me like an anchor,
Spins infinite circles-
Runs me aground.

Ticks the stories off the hurried seconds,
Becomes time itself-
Wrinkles my brow.

Sets the sun to race the horizon,
Drowns it in darkness-
Immures me in itself.

Retrieves a sallow moon from the night,
Dots the sky with stars-
Reminisces dawn.

Burdens me to sift through dreams,
Prowls on a tight leash-
Breaks into a sweat.

Tears future’s drape of ‘morrow,
Scrambles present in a bag-
Mixes it with past.

Silently awaits its ritual immolation,
Quivers against me imperceptibly-
Bleeds pieces of dark.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Marking Time.

The all seeing eye has been replaced
By all telling ones
A mutual supposition exists
In the illicit delight of life
Where the flea market of yearning
Bids in sundry moments
Romancing longing
In kisses clandestine,
For future's paths do backward find
Coming back to waiting time
Time, whose revolving doors
Blur me out, and in
Shadows scurrying in circles
Drawing our sighing reliefs
On tessellated pavements
Where arching shadows become sundials
That singularly trace
The lonesome march of listless skies
And a solitary blind eye


Don’t fold my letters love
The crinkling creases
Opportune opine
And make vagrant fate lines
To wrinkle my passions
Adding strange character
To the lonesome conversations
Before you read; So instead
I’ve brought your favourite scissors
The rusty one that would creak
Its sombre disapproval
Every time we brought its blades together
To make love                  
But by then we had learnt
That scissors better paper better
Than the quaint stains of ink
When it comes to our sort of art
For its consummate ease
To tenderly trace
Each line, shape and letter
And variously spout
Words, images and clatter
Like from a magician’s hat
Making me always
The confetti of your dreams
To fill and set afloat
In the garden of balloons
Where taciturn gravity
Would embrace my element
To whisper gently the translation
Repeating the hope of words long lost
Remembering your existentialist hobby
Of twisting parchments
Into paper boats set sail
Upon stormy rivulets
That soaked in their souls
Disintegrating it to shreds
And swallowing it whole…

Saturday, June 23, 2012


i hold the warmth closer
It seems a memory past
That though has done the distance
Yet remembers the kiln
That stoked its embers sweet
Its honey dripping lips
Bidding farewell
That keeps nostalgia still
Bleeding its red art
Sparkling like bits of sand
That now breathe of
Mortar and concrete
Dreams that spent life recalling
How the hungry waves
Had fed at every hour
Every minute, and so on
Because now you realize
That how an echo howls
And keeps the dialogue going
But with itself
For though crashing they are
And coursing as they scream
A faltering drop of blue
Like some grim punctuation
Hanging in space
Inhaling the vacuum;

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Blue Blooded

i wash my face in the mirror
And watch in its million drops
Reflections warped to behold
Or another mask Rorschach
The ink lay panting spilt
On white reams untouched
The strands soaking by turns
Immuring obscurity of facts
And out came rushing tumbling
With emptiness the words
Their shells a hollow cocoon
Of dreams that diaphanous were
That glistened in my harsh gaze
Like a rainbow painted bubbles
Pricking the sun.
i watch them drift asunder
In the flickering strands of breeze
That leaves me gasping again
For my claustrophobic reverie
That chokes me bit by bit
To squeeze the remnants of-
A splattered day, a chance meeting
And all those voiceless thoughts
That kept piling in a corner quiet
Because i never knew where
Does solitude of the world seep
To but sprout its tendrils here;
Here where the variegated moss
Of your life en-homes my dungeons
Seeping in its quaint moisture
And draws its hopeless art.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

The Colour Red

It shall be the happiness after tomorrow,
Let off by some sigh, but
The wind here grows only stronger,
And sun’s scattered beams,
Take leaves red and rub their sallow,
So now they must gleam green;
Watching us with orphan eyes,
As we sit suspended together,
If dusk would spill its secret dust,
Or would it be just the two of us,
Our mutual darkness;
And a ceremonious incense,
That just wouldn’t light.
There’s a fire raging below,
Like a red gash from a scimitar;
Bleeding black earth,
Burning the sky,
And filling our caress with tender smoke;
I look up distracted,
And find its careless smudge-
A crescent moon that barely breathes,
A crimson drop incompleting the horizon;
I taste a familiar tinge that drowns,
All the other bleeding senses out,
A drowning vortex of vertigo,
Calls an unfamiliar name to echo;
That, and the many uses,
Of the colour red.

Sunday, May 27, 2012


The day’s streaks are getting long,
Motion blur, i am informed
Add to that a certain curve,
That upon itself would turn upon,
And swirling whirls will tumble forth,
To eddies made to greater form,
And rise like tides of a full-ish moon,
Or better still our global warmth,
Thawing life in ice trapped,
Letting pipers escape the gates of dawn,
Who come to me to rue their ruse,
But come to leave and be ever gone,
For trapped in dreams of a dying man,
Life devours, what it does yawn,
It’s rather black this heart of man,
And denial's days are rather long,
A slip down the memory lane
And eternal’s paused the moment wrong.