Clouds in the valley...

    When I look back, I wonder now Who was it, the hero one? Wizards, elves, the dwarves below Or was it one of the hobbits in turn?   In youth, you would say, Frodo, who else? Gandalf, Strider, Legolas as well, But as you grow old, you do realise This world is far from a green Rivendell   As silvers set, you wait for the dusk When you find your peace in the stars above You know you have bled, been burnt, and bruised To have scribed your tales of pain and love   And then you will know it was always Tom, The Bombadil Tom, was the hero lone The recluse Soul of the Forests old, Who chose his fate in being unknown Desireless was he, to have found his peace, That the Ring itself could have no hold, In his simple life with nothing around He had found his gems and gifts of gold   But can we too find the Tom in us? Can we stay far from the Rings of greed? Can we forsake the treasures of Smaug, And live in our ...

I walk in a sea Of wildflower blaze Outbursts of springtime gold: Smiling on carpets of meadowy green, As if, Fireflies on the fold   I cannot walk, Without crushing them (Do they see in me a kaiju beast?) An anomaly In an endless pointillist painting – Of flowers in a flaxen feast   It reminds me then Of a mountaineer though Frank Smythe’s olden tales His walks following Himalayan rains In hills And the floral vales   The Valley of Flowers, he enthralled Joshimath, Ghangharia, Heaven’s steps As monsoon clouds Billowed and bloomed In dreamy, vagrant, pensive shapes   If I feel this much glee, In a lunch-break walk That barely lasts an hour, How must have Smythe Felt on his treks In endless meadows, vales afar?   Is insanity then The solace lone, How else do you see the world? A lonely walker In the hills And petals of yellow, gold unfurled   But how can I fathom The joy t...

Norah Head flashes on the horizon As if reminding, Even in absolute darkness Hope is not very far It is there: burning, flashing, Crying, so often But the sailor has to watch All along For a drop of light On the eternity of emptiness   For this, he has to know He no longer treads In the deep, dark sea But that he has come this close To the headlands of his home If he feels not This proximity, There is nothing to look for There is no lighthouse That can bring him home   But if he does, It is not the fear Of loss at sea But the overpowering love That pulls too close That it runs aground The freedom of his ship; The love that leaves not The tendrils to leave That you can return someday     Somewhere between This loss and love, The lighthouse blinks On the edge Of seas of emptiness; And the sailor comes home Just enough That the scars are healed Knowing well, new cuts wait In his choi...