Folks,
Could we…
New streak, art souls be?!
Chariot of Youth
Limbs fused, coffee infused,
We strut a friendly mood –
Cosmopolitan, anti-war, not shy to plead
The case for a world in feminine lead.
Sea Splashy
She sports moving, heaving waves
Around hips that undulate…
Which a smitten painter hoisting sail
Hopes to soon circumnavigate.
The Right Light?
Beamed, stacked, piled high…
What are windows
But masses of light?!
To the wind married,
Skirting flowers potted,
They are art’s ‘new’ delight.
Shadow Foxing
On a thoughts lit balcony, he
Was absorbed in words avante garde…
Such that his whole being transformed.
But not the corpus only,
Even the faithful shadow turned 3D,
And in parts colored dazzlingly.
La Niña Evening
‘I am a child’ said she…
As I stared westwardly.
She was the sky and the sea,
With a space warped moon
And sun thrown in,
Yet insisted her voice ‘Please
Give birth to me!’
And I, a paper boat making kid
Set off on a painting journey.
Staked Ground
What value are arbitrary limits…
Imposed on the form of the infinite?
Could the sky shoreless and beyond reach
Be thus made available to imaginative artists?
‘Why, yes!’ exclaim the clouds
Resting upon empyreal seats ‘No doubt!’
Sheet Music
In golden sheets, light fell at their feet,
The grass bore patterns as did trees…
Before long as he gave her a grass flower
The merged identities of the lovers
Reflected in a sheeted roof, homey.
Kapipolitans
On the fabled Bangalore street,
Awash in coffee, perpendicular to MG…
Two old pals sharing tales did meet
When the wind whipped…
Then the sun fortified scene
Left a curiously new imprint.
So Odd
You may all too easily miss
The physical oddity at the door
Behind the long tresses of Miss…
With a holey, cutout face
And a lagging, solid leg
Who is it?… No shit!!
It’s the negative-positive man,
Impossible… but see you clearly can!!
Passing Canvas
Such was the emotive tug
Of the reminiscing artist and childhood pug…
That far Manhattan sky-huggers
Took remedial sculptural steps,
Recreating the bygone scene
For surprised passengers of the local train.
A ‘New Art’ Girl?
Radical grace, if that’s the phrase,
Cast her reading face…
Lost in a page blond hunked,
Backed by sun ribbon, three chunked.
Aah… ancient India, where times are young!
Similar Air
Rough and sharp she slices hair,
Though naturally wavy and splendorous…
As if casting a frontal dare
At all questioning her behavior.
Bystanders sketch her tone and tenor
While the normally placid air
Erupts into wavelets… edgily similar.
Darkness Beaming
That incomparably soothing, velvety thing,
Restorer of energies life giving –
Darkness… it descends from trees in beams,
Patting heads, rubbing shoulders with finger tips.
Those who see the spectacle
Agree with the painting’s ‘solid’ feel.
Inwardly Knit
A mind is a roomy space
Of thoughts woolly, their patterned guaze…
So knowing a painter moved sofas and chairs
Inwardly… then pulled a pastel trace.
- Bolbul
Is Tarah 