Summer musing

I was both your umbrella and your rain,

Your wound and your pain.

I was a juxtaposition that brought stability to your life,

I was a juxtaposition that brought you nothing but strife.

You were my refuge, I could hide away in the soft curls of your hair,

You loved me when I least deserved it, you sheltered me from every nightmare.

I am your summer rain, allowing for a burst of sunshine and then gone again.

You are not just my summer but every season.

You are not my excuse, you are my reason.


Reverie, Reignited

She is my reverie,

I am her memory.

She is my heartbeat,

I am her afterthought.

She is my smile,

I am a wrinkle on her forehead.

She is home,

I am a crack in the wall.

She is my journey,

I am her punctured tire,

She is my greatness,

I am her misunderstanding.

She is my reverie,

I am her tragedy.

I am her purgatory,

She is my redemption.


Rheums: A to Z Challenge Day # 18

Thank you for taking time out of your day to read my musings. Your appreciation is flattery, your kindness is overwhelming and I hope I continue to improve to truly justify and earn your praise!

D Lonely Stoner


Image Courtesy@ blogging on the bright side

Tears – the eighth color of rainbow, the Pain, the Separation and the Sadness,  the dark monsoon clouds waiting to burst out from the corner of your eyes. Who hasn’t been touched by its poisonous fangs as it burns our cheeks and blurs our vision? To celebrate the moon drops in all of us, let us join our hearts and raise a toast to one of the finest poets of the century. 

A personal translation of one of my favorite song, written by Rabindranath Tagore. 

Tomaro osheeme, prano mono loye,

Joto duure aami dhaai

Kothao mrityu, Kothao dukkho,

Kothao bichhed o nai

In your world, wherever I traversed

Along with all my heart and soul,

I could witness neither death nor pain

Not even separation.

Mritu se dhore mritur o rup,

dukkho hoi je dukher o kup

Toma hote jobe houye bimukh

aponar praane chai


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Electoral mystery

It’s an electoral mystery,

The illiterate can’t read history.

So we spread mass hysteria.

They can’t raise a family on minimum wage,

So spew some political diarrhea,

And keep them locked in a cage.


Revolution is the birth of equality and progression.

It’s the antitheses to failure and regression.

Don’t speculate about what Gandhi would say,

Don’t expect economic growth on a tray.

Don’t subscribe to an idea of zero corruption

Cause everything you’ve been told has been a lie.

They want to build you up and make you try,

Without any infrastructure so as you get closer to the Sun,

You fry.

Prometheus brought us fire,

Modi let it burn innocents.

Pandora the media opened the box,

The Gandhis and Congress silently let the terrors consume us.

The ordinary man wanted food to eat

Kejriwal’s anarchy brought them out to the street.


Choose wisely, Choose soon.

Choose the savior, not the goon.

Bleed blue not red.

Vote right India, else we’re all…



Indian elections

Indian elections

Three different candidates. Three equally corrupt and morally bankrupt candidates. Three different parties. Three equally ridiculous parties that are anathemas to progression. 1.2 billion people, 850 million eligible voters and we have a Hindu nationalist, a man who can’t phrase an original sentence and a man whose only response is to defer to the ordinary man. If you think Yuvraj Singh screwed us in the final, you have no idea how badly we’re about to screw ourselves.


Can Modi deal with the Americans, the Pakistanis, the Chinese?

Can Kejriwal?

Can Gandhi?


Can either of them usher in the light of a boom in our economy, a sustainable boom?

Can either of them plug the brain drain in our nation?

Can either of them remind us what it really means to be Indian?


Rebuilding a temple, feeding nationalism, starving the poor.

Feed the poor, starve the economy.

Antagonize the rich, run the country from the pavement.


All of these men want to divide and rule, none want to unite and lead.

You choose India; who is your devil of choice? Our grandparents fought to be independent of criminals, now we’re fighting to be dependent on them.

Political language… is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.

George Orwell



The Alpen-Glow

Your hair, your eyes, your smile, your lies.

Whenever you speak, you ensnare me;

A victim of your confusion, I tried to endure, patiently.

I watched from afar and cared for you indiscriminately.

Sitting close to you, I  yearned for your touch;

A seemingly innocent embrace gave me a rush.

You could have claimed me but you stayed with another,

Every time we got closer, you ran away, further.

Read my words clearly, this is not a safety net,

I accepted our distance, but my feelings and curiosity are not done yet.

I’ll sit here and put pen to paper and ask ‘what if?’

The answer stares back at me, devoid of prosaic mastery;

it is a mystery, it is a blank; unknown, undefined.

I cannot place you nor can I set you free;

So i’ll hold you close in one way or another for eternity.


Day 1

Write Hard and Clear

about what Hurts.

A void. An emptiness. Perhaps it’s because I am a 21st century child that I look to my phone for reiteration of your absence and, upon seeing a lack of conversation the sinking feeling drowns me.

You are hell, purgatory and paradise.

Yet you are none.

You are all around me

Yet you are not here.

Confusion. Sadness. I’m drained and wounded, but this is a wound that will not gush blood.


Yours sorrowfully,