Tag Archive: Past

A random walk

The writer went on a random walk,
Reminiscing past conversations, re-playing some random talk

He tried to settle a recurring thought,
A warm cup of coffee he now sought

To clear his mind and think straight now
Write some new tale… needed new ideas somehow

Writer’s block, this time, was not the same as always,
His old self had left him, seemed two personalities had parted ways

He was not the same, changed over the passing time,
Yet he kept re-writing similar words, penning almost a similar rhyme

He tried to settle unclear thoughts, clear his mind
Start afresh new, not get stuck up to tales left behind

He had changed, so had life, so must his writing now
He tried to reinvent the same, but his words… his thoughts still needed a change somehow.


That’s the story somehow

Written words…plots…papers…books…all seem irrelevant now…
You keep saying…I keep hearing…that’s the story somehow…
Moments…minutes…days…years…all are memories old…
Yet all the time spent with you, still seems new – a tale always retold…

Time seems frozen with the words you said…
Who knew then, where time will tread…
Not knowing the future seemed bliss…as one realises now
Memories of a not so distant past is haunting somehow…

Stories start and stories end…
Some too twisted…one can never mend..
Yet every tale seems incomplete now…
You kept saying…I kept hearing…that was always the story somehow.


Note: The above piece is inspired from the below verse written by a very talented writer I once knew :

Lafz…alfaaz…kagaz…kittab sab baimaani hai…
Tum kehte raho…hum sunte rahe…bas yehi kahaani hai…

Two damaged hearts…

Two damaged hearts chatting one night…
Contemplating what’s wrong.. discussing what’s right
Of friends and love.. of relationships old…
Situations discussed…Memories retold
And in these discussions..realization too…
A connection exists through these tales few…
For both may be travellers of a different time..
Yet both have lives that fit together… like a rhyme
And of many emotions shared.. one concludes between the two….
"You love me", she says… "And I love you !"

The last song of the night

A writer immersed in writing…trying to write a song,

The song that would summarize his life – all good days and days that went wrong.

The song, that would also be an ode, to numerous nights like this one,

When the writer tried to write, random rhymes filled with pun.


Mocking oneself at writing, and life in general that was,

And losing oneself in one’s own thoughts – moments of bliss-filled pause.

The last song, a writer writes, his last attempt to be good,

His finest attempt to be creative, rhyming on, perhaps…as best as he could.


The last song of the night,

A writer’s attempt to set things right,

In fiction perhaps, write a reality new,

And sing it thereafter, in synchronous words few,

Set a new rhythm, to groove on,

Singing ahead till dawn,

That’s how this song went by,

A twisted tune, to the beats of which… time will fly,

In faded time, memories too will fade,

To a tattered past, a goodbye the writer will bade,

His is an attempt to set things right…

As the writer writes.. the last song of the night.

Random Writings

Some writings he wrote, were randomly written,

Tales with no beginnings and tales that refused to end,

Some characters he created, to be soon forgotten,

Broken snippets of their lives, that he tried to mend…


A writer went back, to his writings old,

Seeking new beginnings, new ideas, for new tales to be told,

He had a writer’s block, or so he felt,

Nostalgia was high, in his past he dwelt…

He needed a new start, both for his writings and his life,

Yet, he searched for the same in his past, such was his strife….


His search never ends, just like his tales,

Every once in a while he tries, every once in a while he fails,

The fool doesn’t realize that his search itself is futile,

He lives in the past, he must return to the present from his exile,

For it’s the present that was always there and the present that will always be,

His source of tales, his life, his thoughts, his words that are waiting to be set free….

Seated in the library, a writer tried to write,
Trying to define his existence, with a struggling attempt to set things right,

He tried to rectify the errors of his past,
Though he was short of time, in the few moments that will last!

He tried to write a tale too long,
Lost track in-between, wrote it all wrong…

He had new beginnings, he faced the same end,
A broken tale with nothing to mend

Fragments many, of a life gone by,
Turned to fiction, truth woven in a thread called lie

Of a wanderer at heart, that he always was,
Wandering on random ways, left with no purpose!

With memories left to be forgotten someday,
As he walked on, on his broken way.

Many twists and turns were still stored in fate,
It seemed to him he was life’s favourite bait!

Back to the question, of what to write,
The writer pondered a lot, but nothing seemed right!

His words were empty, a tale with no track,
The end was an irony, a meaningful conclusion it lacked!

He wrote of days long gone…
Of memories many, remembered by none…
Of friends he met, and foes he made,
Tattered glimpses of a past, that will soon fade !

Of long talks…over matters non-trivial…
Of excuses to meet for workings unreal..
Of a rose not given…of a sentence unsaid…
Of a call unconnected…of a letter unread…
And so the tale, went on and on,
Of random moments turning to memories to be retold later in some song!

Of love, or what he believed love was,
A random verse, to explain his loss,
Of random twists in tale, to set things wrong,
Indeed, his tale was turning too long !

He faced highs, he faced lows,
A murky life full of emotional blows
To give him support was his favourite quote,
Life’s Like That… he always wrote !!

Corner Cafe Tales – Incomplete

On a random night, a wandering loner,
Enter a random cafe, by the last lane’s corner!
A writer he was once upon a time,
Off late he had lost his ability to rhyme,
He wanted to write again, perhaps a tale all new,
But for that he required words and had thoughts too few,
He ordered a coffee, black, as he pondered what to write,
Of days gone by, an eventful past, or just the description of a random night!

He choose the latter and wrote a ode to the night,
Of empty roads and a faded moonlight…
His coffee arrived steaming hot,
Ecstacy for him, for ideas he sought,
He tried different ways to create a tale,
Every concept he tried, eventually failed.

His writing was flawed, he knew it by now,
He sought an inspiration, had none, yet continued somehow.
At that moment in that cafe, his glanced turned on the window at the rear,
He visualized a scene, his reality, of his college life’s last year!

There he saw a lad, young at heart, full of life,
Living on his own terms, no worries, no strife,
He stood outside the cafe on a random night of November,
A day before his birthday, as the writer bleakly remembered.

(may be continued…..)