An Artist

He wrote so playfully;

Living every breath.

Renouncing the bane behind;

He displayed all he can.

All he cared about deep inside.

He dared to muddle the meaning

For his own art;

The art which also belonged to others.

He is an artist of clumsy walks;

A first step of a long run.

A breathing and purposeful art

Survives the death of his meaning.

There are answers always

Questioning him.

There are questions always

Answering him.

He scribbled so fruitfully.

A device of worship he found so artistic

And future of brilliance in his craft.

A flavour of senses;

Drenching him in the

Purpose of his flair.

When Poets talk about Jazz 

When poets talk about Jazz

It reminds me how blues sharpen the cry of a guitar.

Musical words spill all over

The soulful page of a poet.

Away from the pages of a poet 

Like an amused solo wanderer

A sign on the lonely crossroad

Stands as the music of a road;

Leading to the calling and thought-out destinations

Jazz again reaches for the words

Blues pause cutting the heart

A start ends peacefully

A cut for a cut again

A broken heart for the blues and Jazz

Jazz is imagination and flights of sensual fantasy

Blues seem like a knowledge forgotten and

Remembered in fragmented revelations still

Bearing the painful past

The best thing is you can wonder and wander

At the same time with these two.

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