WriteOnWithTrivedi

River pilots and odd accounting

2012-02-02T23:19:00.004-05:00

My bills are paid and the garage emptied

of all my lounging wear and raincoats.

The downpour outside strums indeed

a somber but steady set of colored notes.

The torn fragments of respect and greed

meander down the river, barely afloat.

Guileless moviemakers watch the feed

of Earth, channel deception and gloat.

My receipts, buried in a box in the reeds,

remind me that there is more in life to tote.

There is more in life than I perceived

and it is this more that pilots my boat.

The meaty soul

2012-02-01T05:00:00.008-05:00

The center cut of the soul is the meatiest,

with plenty of spicy morsels for each guest.

A simple recipe, annotated and indexed,

the sublime soul wanes, rude and perplexed.

Eat not the candied outer fragments and brine

for they sour the canals below and sully the mind.

Lavish upon your diners more than just leftovers,

keeping them bound to your cafe of mettle flavor.

And with the last mastication comes an epiphany,

a dessert laced with treasure and hegemony.

The center cut of the soul is the meatiest

and its unrelenting aroma the sweetest.

A little dirt goes a long way

2012-01-27T20:06:00.003-05:00

The white tips of nails, aged and sharpened,

grip the mealy earth, turned and beaten.

The skin turns opaque, cold and brittle,

trembles as the body moves, noncommittal.

Her eyes dance wildly, a search undaunted,

as fountains of youth loom, leaving her taunted.

Dig into the bitter ground, a hapless pillow,

and save thyself from an endless 'morrow.

There, ahead, grace from effort beckons

as does life's final, splendid lesson.

Terra firma is just a dream

2012-01-17T19:31:00.008-05:00

Separate the tinsel from the branches

and grow your limbs to carry water.

Borrow silence for a stolen moment

and plow the field to manage the chatter.

Endure missed footsteps and songs

while others lie prostrate in mortar.

Ask yourself, slowly, if emblems en masse

can restore a nation's imperfect flavor.

Action, furtive and stone-faced, endows

a great passel a future brighter and grander.

Post-modern modesty

2012-01-13T20:37:00.005-05:00

The life in me parries and plays, gives ground only when teased.

It blends soul with mind with body, never minds yours, sitting next door.

Buried in the backyard, truth fumbles and breaks free.

It's time we struck it rich, take back the way we were.

Here, in the middle of harmony, between the treaties and fears

of mellow bygone years, is the real manner of which I speak.

Hear me again, shallow is my tone, there's no reason to believe.

That after the last bit of treason, I will not break down the weak.

An imperfect forty feet

2011-05-07T21:12:00.004-04:00

Divine not more but less today, good sir,

and step slowly into the constrained air.

Struggle not strong but weak today, good knight,

and win or lose, you will find the bottom.

If we give life love, let God's note bless us.

If we break our lives' love, we feed God's will.

All is more or less life, stable not free.

Know more, give more - no greater battle breathes.

Concert of wills

2011-05-06T19:54:00.004-04:00

Peter sets the violin down gently, so as not to make a sound. The long bit of practice leaves him fully charged. A collision of emotion and physical prowess wear down the elements of nature that stifle.

"Peter, where are you?" Mandy appears back stage. Her performance rivals Peter's, but it lacks punch. It lacks Peter.

"I'm just here, Mand." Peter places his violin in the case, carefully.

"Peter, you play marvelously. I hope to play like that one day." Mandy reminds Peter of a puppy, gifted but not mature enough to know it. When will she learn?

"Mand, you gave and gave in today's performance. It was brilliant. You do not afford yourself enough credit. You must know that, yes?" Peter resists the temptation to condescend, which is a uniquely British struggle.

"Yes, I did, Peter. But, no one noticed. No one laughed."

"Laughed? They owe you laughter?" Peter sits down, drinks his water.

"Of course, Peter, it is a comedic piece. For violin."

"A comedic piece for violin? Don't be absurd? That is not appropriate."

"Clearly, you didn't laugh either, did you? No worry. I didn't cry during your performance." Mandy, clearly perturbed, places her violin in her case. "I'll be leaving for Lisbon in the morning. I play for the PortPhil tomorrow evening."

"Good luck, Mandy."

"Thank you, Peter."

"Good night, Mandy." Peter turns to walk away.

"Peter, you forgot your soul tonight. You left it outside."

"I know, Mandy, I know."

Peter keeps walking. Mandy cries, softly at first, then harder. No one is laughing now.

Wedding day

2011-05-05T20:56:00.005-04:00

Drumheads, heated and stretched by sunlight,

die more deaths than you and I, but are revived.

The cadence of the wedding march, wives in the lead,

drowns out the paternal shoutings on horseback.

The groom peers shamelessly at the mane,

wanting not to affect his soon-to-be benefit.

The bride, instinctively, throws hers in all ways,

never showing more or less of the toll taken.

Vows, to be broken then mended, convene here,

shoulder to shoulder, with faith and mirth to

pound a shallow drumbeat, sing a genuine song.

A different kind of dance

2011-05-04T08:57:00.007-04:00

The cold limestone floor mitigates nothingness

while they caper, lock step, behind their matador.

This dance, forged by epochs of sitar and song, and no less,

harmonizes man, woman, and their daily tour.

No lines or spaces, no conductor, and no choreography

lead here in tough times and in spaces of stolen grandeur.

Want for right, a craving for rigid walls, and a lack of atrophy

compel steps be placed, one by one, on the worn dance floor.

Today, the dance and the music, droned out by silver and gold,

spiral no more, torn not intertwined, fading to good from best.

Grief-stricken, though not so obviously, the new and the old

seek fresh players and instruments; wait, yes, but do not rest.

103 nevermore

2011-05-03T07:28:00.005-04:00

It burns slowly, like candles as pillars for a house down a hill.

The timeless wick curls back on itself as air invades, conquers.

Though men have stung in dead of night, leaving softened wills,

gravity will bear more that kill, more that never surrender.

Love gives tentatively, like rivers on mountains asleep 'neathe the sun.

A motionless rock splits the current, white stew bubbles and pours.

Some port looms in the distance ahead, always stunned

when the boat steers away, looking for a more resolute moor.

Big top chemical reaction

2011-05-02T06:37:00.006-04:00

Alchemists and trapeze artists dance similar routines

as they hang upside down, thinking their delicious dreams.

Ropes shift, pulleys whir, and nets below brace for their next meal

while ragged patrons' eyes volley to and fro, hiding their naked screams.

Performances mesh with reviews, lulled serenely by gothic critics

with long faces, longer hands, and disembodied souls of plaster.

When does it end, this uniquely parisian dance, which by every measure

and by every footstep, keeps out the living and holds up the heretics?

"I don't know," says the ringmaster, her morbid curiosity waning

with every tinctured needle and after every gasp from the onlookers.

"I don't know."

I carry forth

2011-05-01T20:36:00.003-04:00

Some men turn slowly in their sleep.

Other men recoil to one edge.

It is on this edge that they weep,

not too outwardly, hoping to hedge a bit.

The end brings their burden and the beginning finds their prayer.

A wife of another time and another manner

sways slowly, a gentle fit.

Gray sweaters and loose-fitting smoking coats

are all that are left here at the narrowest ridge.

Cold, dark winters and soft, sullen springs are cast

in roles to placate all that is right, all that is warm.

The litany of waking remains our sworn enemy - future, present, and past.

Also known as guilt

2011-03-14T22:31:00.004-04:00

Several days of cool rain
spread down my space
and test my happenstance sadness.
The turbulent rush, fear not,
passes once dreams stand alone,
cured of mobility.
And this is the daily answer to misplaced prayers,
cordial but strained by the undue burden
of lives wrapped in warm blankets of past
mistakes concealed in torrid accommodation.
Nothing from the rain remains but endless suffering,
knowing that it will pour again and again.

I feel

2011-03-13T22:40:00.003-04:00

The nerve ends shudder,

Tense with aspiration.

To feel something anew,

Someone soft, but less than what the mere equinox brings,

Creates less harmony.

Bathing, for a moment,

In cool sweat sitting upon the skin, feelers all of them,

Wait anxiously, hoping not for stings

Of pain or mirthless taps,

But for the deep sense of gain

That only another's touch

Can string together, pinch by tiny pinch

Your bonnet, mademoiselle!

2011-01-31T20:45:00.004-05:00

"I'm not playing your song, Mary." Freddy states loudly.

Freddy senses that Mary, on the verge of tears, likes me very little right now. Freddy likely deserve it. He provides a certain level of aggravation for Mary. His twisted, crass sense of humor requires an emotional palette largely lacking in most humans. Tigers and polar bears can handle it.

"Freddy, you are an abomination." Women in their early twenties cannot.

"I do so regret, Mary, that you think so little of me. Kindly do me the favor and never utter my name again. I bring enough shame upon your person."

Mary, seizing upon the invitation and wiping her tears, laughs uncontrollably. Her ruby lips gingerly frame her pearly white teeth. Freddy bows his head slightly. He fights back his fascination with this young lady. He imagines that she could be his wife one day.

"You are an ogre. An oaf." Mary, thinking nothing of it, throws her bonnet at Freddy.

"Now, that's not fair, young lady. I do not have a bonnet."

"That, Freddy, is a very good thing." Mary walks away, turns her head a bit, and smiles softly.

"Mary, your bonnet!" Freddy knows now that he is no longer the predator but merely the prey.

A piece of place

2011-01-30T10:46:00.005-05:00

A sense of place begets peace and

it begets longing, teary and measured.

Minuets of reflection pool in memories torn

from a refined process long passed,

leaving treacle, sweet and low impact,

for all to savor at the curbside cafe.

This is where harmony collapses

to the cobblestone, splintering the grout

but not lessening the strain

that place, the humble intermediary for everything,

places upon us.

body composed of souls

2011-01-17T19:28:00.005-05:00

no sins found on his person
not a shred of evidence of former self
but then are we surprised?
for too little time has passed
since she strayed into darkest night
too much blame poured into a bottle
so much suffering amassed
her return dims in the offing
so sure he is of her that the flicker
of a candle becomes a night's long tale
of tears and want for strange tablets
to type these words, both somber and pale,
against the backdrop of their life
forgotten as it were
but real nonetheless

with pen and paper, we climb

2011-01-16T12:17:00.004-05:00

steps, light but rapid

shoulder my world when i am gone

the quest to reach towering places

a long, hard drive up and around

a simple parchment, syllables unbroken

into a meter worth repeating

a mile worth climbing

a life worth living

born of lives lived

and sacrifices offered

on the other side

a clear, blue lake

crystal clear

suffering not from those that swim in it

but from those that dance near it

after the climb

full of mead and mutton

drowned out by their own song

thinking it their mountain alone

as the parchment turns to ash

in the cover of darkness

in the mist of the mountain

gone forever, father,

gone forever

the next frontier

2011-01-15T20:42:00.004-05:00

longer the distance
between us grows
it's not fair to blame one another
concerned nations all of us
breathing in each other's politic
dreaming one another's dreams
waiting for that moment to insist
we can't have it all
for as the old punchline goes
"where would you put it?"

daily grind

2011-01-14T23:33:00.003-05:00

my suit coat and gloves
meet the wind and the rain
the battle begins
a sophisticated fisticuffs
no Greco Romans
and no toreadors
just my handkerchief across my brow
signaling momentary defeat
a tragedy of nature no less
and no more

buoyed by sound

2011-01-13T07:34:00.006-05:00

crafters, varied in size and shape

open sky ensemble

to a closed-minded 3-piece band

all weaving, pooling together

their love of love

gingerly the bows brighten the square

or the electric buzz rattles the night air

hands dance

eyes watch the punctuated notes

black steerage on paper

that forgives no one at no time

and the music grows

like a vine wrapped around my heart

not subtle, but bittersweet, not permanent

but i am no less in its grasp

a craft whose sails know no sunset

note by sustained note

forgive me, for i have loved

2011-01-12T09:40:00.005-05:00

a single voice from the gallery

rained down on jurists

who watched the man wait

for some sort of decision

penalty or reward

it's not known

glances to the left

shy smiles from the maidens

pretense bears down from the bench

accorded entry by the mighty altar's own guilt

but leaves the spectacle

half empty and melancholy

a penitent man stands little chance

of love again

lest his motives are again true

and this is the test

of the court of the broken heart

this is the mirror that breaks

part for part

every time we stand

at judgement again

off book

2011-01-11T18:57:00.008-05:00

no stage lights
no street sounds
no mention of live action
just a little direction needed
often we revive old stories
memories fond, memories aglow
from old scripts, gilded but browned
by the trickle of tears
handed to children, actors in real life
to forge new moments
of glamour and gloom
a new script of fresh memories
performed on the big stage
of life

in between pure light, pure dark

2011-01-10T20:47:00.003-05:00

the long arm of the day

reached across my back

pulled me up close to the sun

only to drop me, slowly, into the dusk

craving more and more night

i swing my head back and rest upon the rock

in a new fallen snow

nothing seemed better than this

nothing reminds me of true love

more than this

but then what is true love?

undefined, often enough, it is

a rhythm

a monotone voice in church

or bells in a steeple

it is a nurse at your bedside

whatever it is that is love

is not lost on me

but rather is lost in my own light,

in me to be found or not

that is the end of the day

and the beginning of night

pari-mutuel love

2011-01-09T13:57:00.003-05:00

there's nothing like

basking in the glow

of your admiration

no words to describe it

nothing

but utter amazement

yet

when the glow dims

a harsh, morose wind

rips across the continence

i struggle to build

from the ground up

and the foundation shudders

the fenestra of my soul rattle

and i sleep uncontrollably

i guess there are ups and downs

in life

what is this?

unified due diligence of life's simplest moments

2011-01-08T00:24:00.004-05:00

clock stands still
composed yet unsophisticated
while the game of life
continues unsheltered
by my constant sabre rattling
and my undone sense of shame
are we so truly wasted
on the untamed course of time?
i can't believe i'm still here
and my body of work unnamed
what is the story?
why are you naked and unarmed?
here is the final bell
i hear it, unsure of heaven or hell
and the clock strikes
and unlocks this final spell

call it what you will

2011-01-07T19:36:00.003-05:00

i'm feeling taxed

brain weakens under the drought

of learning

crazy, isn't it?

no learning in an age

of mixed radio signals

chorus of machines

singing in digital rhyme

yet there we sit

stoic, nervous, but yet

resilient

as the waves pound us

slowly

but with no water, no surf

and no tide

just an undercurrent

of electric juice

poured from a towering blender

called

progress

my garden wall

2011-01-06T07:35:00.005-05:00

we built us a garden wall, she and i

of rusty tin and iron scraps

no contract needed

no indemnification clause

just the heat of daylight

and the need

to keep the garden safe

so in the garden

the children play

the sand beneath their feet

in the hours before twilight

but still no fauna in the yard

no trickle of water to keep them just so

what good is a garden wall?

night falls softly

below the umbrage of day

we hear the soft wind,

smoke a pipe of clay

and wonder again

why a garden wall?

to keep out the sand?

never, not for a moment

the time to rest nears

the children are quiet

and as she stands, the moon shows

the garden looms dark

but only a pale darkness

for it too cannot grow

a country separated

2011-01-05T07:31:00.001-05:00

simple, painful steps across the sand
no mounting hope, only infinite sorrow
the looking pack, married to wanting
so deep, the sand sinks into itself

and there, beyond the fringes of the desert
of our mild-mannered destiny
we wait and we pine
for the desert to slip away
for the gentle rain of forgiveness to atone
for the past's many wrongs
and for the night to clear
so we may return, tired and hungry,
to our warm beds at home

still just human

2011-01-04T20:05:00.004-05:00

saints depart

every day

solemn, pensive

on their way

held up, on our backs

as we simply watch

the ascent

as we meekly pray

saints commence

a slow pilgrimage

to earth's final step

nothing gained

nothing lost

all is forgiven

the journey complete

the final score tallied

stone templates

are all that remain

but no more saints

a very long walk indeed

2011-01-03T06:33:00.006-05:00

polar opposites

you and me

no ounce of will

between us

to sort out the mean streaks

put down our weapons

adorn our life

with unconditional love

for 'tis an upstream struggle

facing demons

dreaming big

and conquering the next fathom

and the next

one for which we've no mettle

nor plan to settle

so let us saunter a bit

together

take in long tables of food and wine

laugh, listen, cry,

and paint an entirely boundless time

of joy

out of the clear blue sky

the human vessel

2011-01-02T11:29:00.003-05:00

scene of waking up

hair spiked, ransom of daylight

life flows slowly, veins transport

the angel's breath

the devil's gaze

through me

not for want of anything

but simply looking for

a place to rest

this is life

nothing less

nothing more

more or less forgotten

2011-01-01T09:01:00.005-05:00

stained impressions of maple leaves

the concrete, too, holds a memory

though not for long

and not, to any degree, very anything

for when the rain pours,

heavy with its sameness,

the leaves swim for safety

while the sidewalk spreads

the memories of dead plants

along its not so ruddy cracks and crevices

no longer a parchment for Nature

but merely a manufactured stone vault,

cold, damp, and

heavy with its sameness

adt

short hills, nj

not just any old mead

2010-12-31T19:02:00.007-05:00

subject on canvas

mat

simple, no lines

no wide rules

no narrow bands

of creation to interrupt

the art

as the creator draws one final

scene

a man weaving a dream spiral

in the black crush of a blue ocean

at night

and then morning falls on the canvas

bright, cool

simple

in a sketchbook from my fathers

i would draw that if i could

adt

short hills, nj

here inside these new walls

2010-12-30T21:24:00.005-05:00

considerable weight

burdens our frail shelter

of stored up tranquility

and borrowed mortar

measurable times

sullied by crafty pirates

of solid amorality

and furrowed brows

i stand not to shroud it

i stand not to pretend

i see some pretense of purity

and the walls crumble

to be raised again?

"perhaps," said the vassal

but then the house will

always be just a house

and never again

a castle

adt

short hills, nj

dusk canticle

2010-12-29T18:40:00.006-05:00

never tell me anything
painful or
show me anything searing
to the eyes
never mention the mediocrity of your
stillborn dream
wait until I'm ready to listen
and my wine is poured
to speak truth or don a mocking
laugh
i serve no servant other than
time
i give no mention other than to
his wife
let the dinner bell stop
and let the carousel wheel circle
for I am missing my daily amusement
also known as your demise

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

blood from love

2010-12-28T18:28:00.005-05:00

some say time matters not
when love happens
perhaps the elixir is too strong
perhaps the ticking of the clock too soft
tick tock tick tock
no more reality
nor space for sanity
only the frail smile
that comes but does not go

with love
ruins glow but fail
rivers are rapid but willful
for it seems we give back
cupfuls of love like rain
on april's new window
porous cover, the heart,
takes that murky bath
when love happens
though it seems
for better or worse
blood flows

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

today's royalty

2010-12-27T21:16:00.004-05:00

lift up the phone
and call the king
let him know
you've lost your way
and he'll save you yet
this is what they do
kings and queens of today
give you reason to love
their mending ways
for this they want your soul
a little love
a little loyalty
that and some more
a little love

goes a long, long way

adt

short hills, nj

bond

2010-12-26T22:25:00.007-05:00

forged

in a cold sweat

teased by solidarity

we grow old

wither

and sense something

not so distant

tugging at our shirttails

begging for a final

bit of mercy

and then we separate

one last time

not out of sadness

or gloom

or even love

but just because

we can

making us human

if not inhumane

and broken

adt

short hills, nj

the soul next door

2010-12-25T22:06:00.005-05:00

cold snaps

my iron will

into narrow shards of glass

beveled by the fierce wind

the souls seeks more depth

more warmth

to put itself

back together again

so it can, amen,

render its owner whole

at peace

more substance than less

but never more than the soul

next door

adt

short hills, nj

a new peace

2010-12-24T23:39:00.005-05:00

a new peace

forged in common purpose

borne by an endowment

like no other

wound tightly by rope and

lights strung together in hope

a new peace shatters

a growing discontentment

that some seem to bear

even though, today and tomorrow,

we all breathe the same air

we all retain the same share

of life

one

no one better than the next

no home less beautiful

and no god less bountiful

in his or her love

this is a new peace

that i wish for all

adt

short hills, nj

view into the crater

2010-12-23T21:07:00.004-05:00

from Spring's temperate wind

to the visage of old man Winter

standing at the rim of deep void

in nary an hour

from heaven to hell

an ascent of all things

never a dull moment,

Mother Nature

never a sense of boredom

or a stage bereft of actors

but there is only forward motion

whether it be for good

or for bad

up the mountain we go

hoping only that the other side

brings a downhill slope

adt

short hills, nj

time immortal?

2010-12-22T20:03:00.005-05:00

a year of pictures

black, white

some in color

washed with anger

fear

'nointed in sunburst

some but not many

her smile dazzles each time

fleeting, here in my hand

something tells me life

is more than still frames

and the gross errors of our way

it is a beating heart

a train up a mighty hill

a snowdrift in june

the melodrama of new life

until the shutter closes one last time

and the flash dims

the faint smell of filament

leaves the room

and all is just as it was

when we began

opaque

adt

short hills, nj

some call it love

2010-12-21T21:08:00.004-05:00

lamplight dances

gingerly as the maiden

forms a statue

for all to see

johnny come lately's

dabbling in and out of

conscious lust

a lust which

evades them

a sense of yearn

that gives them new breath

that keeps them dodging

the shadows at home

more or less

this is the animal

turned human

and with each bill

his right to harmony

exists

still, then a flurry

a waltz of shame

for some

a dance for liberty

for others

love for all

adt

short hills, nj

passing through

2010-12-20T22:32:00.009-05:00

a cool morning

songs in monotone

colors not - orange, red, gold

the sun rises, the banks give way

oars hit the water, bold

placid becomes scorned

leverage remains fleeting

my vessel cuts through the water

no hint of solace, no restless beating

no forgiving wake

the oars rest, the earth sighs

i cup nature in my leathery hands

and i give my heart to the lake

adt

short hills, nj

sleep with the soul

2010-12-19T18:51:00.006-05:00

a soul in the bottom of a well

no light shone, no voice sank so low

only the cool stream of regret and anticipation settled

deep within its brick and mortar

deep below the waterline

a mind in the section of a wall

little light, little music to arouse it

only the falsetto of pageantry

and tremolo of courage

to gird it

the mind falls

deep into the well

where it sleeps with the soul

adt

short hills, nj

let freedom ring

2010-12-18T21:53:00.004-05:00

let freedom ring

softly in the wheat fields

golden

let freedom ring

loudly on the street corner

amplified by a beggar's crow

let freedom ring

let it spill from the mountaintop

let it swell from the currents

of the deepest ocean

let our freedom ring

so that no man or woman or child

is deafened and smothered

by the chains of bias

the chasm of hatred

the despair of violence unto others

let freedom ring

again and again

amen

adt

short hills, nj

H2O

2010-12-16T22:47:00.003-05:00

in the river outside
the daylight swims
close to the banks
never a dull minute passes
along the stream
the current, fierce under the wave
carries with it my dream
subtle, not tidy
whole, but not too much so
grander than the last
still like oxygen

then, the dam breaks
simple motion multiplied
a force of nature
colliding with my brain
splitting my body like a knife
splits a melon
just a little bit of resistance
but sweet nonetheless

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

renaissance men

2010-12-15T20:53:00.005-05:00

renaissance men

forlorn, having lost everything

caged by their modesty

moored, deep in the mud

bubbling up from their past

not to worry

the lust in their hearts

grows weaker now

courage to live right

and rites of passage face them

like bold stanzas across time

meter unbroken, but

the words meander

along gilded pages, frozen in time

and they search, slow, pensive,

wide and far 'round the earth

for one last chance at love,

one minute of rebirth

the escape artist

2010-12-14T22:27:00.003-05:00

measured, tactile
brushed aside early
was the sound of my heart beating
around the corner
a parade of forgiveness
marched, unrestrained
for the silencer of conscience
even on sunday morning
pews awaken, gleam with
an arc non-convenant
smiles, shameless smiles
and the silent one
becomes the king evermore
and the sea of followers
ebbs
flows
and falls back again
and my heart beats
cradled by my tears
nevermore

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

artifacts in still life

2010-12-13T22:30:00.007-05:00

in sterile rooms

broken glass, stained hands

oil stained

painted a dull ache

a billowing wind

not tied to any specific

artifacts

or topography

or Japanese garden

painted only a small inkblot

red, deep red

not more or less

the glass filled the spaces

reflections of a simpler

room of fiction

damsels distressed

and heirloom menageries,

still but impassioned

brooklyn never smelled so teen spirit

2010-12-12T17:03:00.004-05:00

crawl to the edge
push over the hedges and run
to the other one
nothing sorts out
nothing comes up roses
but i have my notes
carefully crafted
black ink, Waterman
i keep them in my back pocket
storage for hipster nomads
that dart in between the puddles
Brooklyn never smelled so teen spirit
i'm not sure if i can even say that

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

war crimes

2010-11-26T06:22:00.004-05:00

receding tempests
coasting down the path
nothing but somber battle drums
sound, true not bright
each soldier a figure in time
dancing 'cross the shallow
noting enemies' brazen aria
bold cacophony, light machine
"fire in the hole," rings proud
softened by the cries
of boys shouldering you and I
pray not for rain, for gold
or for your soul
pray the tempest ends
and father time brings them home

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

sunset never

2010-10-28T21:07:00.005-04:00

she boldly asked
"are you awake?"
at 3 am
and i rolled over like i always do

at the sunset, 10 hours ago
i was awake for sure
crouched in the corner
waiting for the bordeaux to age
and she hit me with a song
like no other I had heard

"dinner is served, dear,
are you hungry?
are you waiting for me?
is this the last supper for you and me?"

just then, the big light dipped into the horizon
pitch black doldrums again
forcible exit again
in my memory
i have but one love
in my memory
i have but one dream
it's of you and me
crouched in the corner
wine-drenched lips
waiting for the sunset
never

adt

short hills, nj

Copyright 2010 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

nothing better than dead fish

2010-10-26T23:00:00.004-04:00

i'm sitting, square in the middle of every day

awkwardly tilted to the left

miranda rights and all

i'm not sure they'll find me yet

crates and barrels along the sewer path

dead fish buried amongst the poor and

trodden down

the ones they couldn't eat, you know

the lady frowned and burned her stockings

couldn't go to the loo so quickly

she said

i jazzed up some concoction

held it up to the sky

winked at my neighbor

and drank slowly

you see

it's passion that buries the hatchet

creates wonder and joy

not a schilling or a cent

a mental journey folds

in the town near my birth

one, two, three

four

you

adt

short hills, nj

No worse shame

2010-07-04T19:19:00.005-04:00

graft and pain

the modern engine hums

belching out ogres, rattlers, and even

sorcerers

quid, quidditch

it's all the same

i gently rock in my mind

while she gently sorts her mane

lowly places, boiler rooms

crowded plazas and airport mezzanines

they're all the same

we take more of what we can never give

stakes in the ground, massive galleries of oil

food from a child's belly

and i, i simply can't watch the telly

for what we create

there's no worse shame

no worse shame

adt

short hills, nj

Black White Pearls

2010-06-27T20:26:00.009-04:00

The ice and Scotch spin round in the glass in unison. The sound it makes as the ice hits the side of the glass echoes melodically through the room. Frances plays the black and white pearls without effort. Her father watches and scowls. He places the glass on the side table and continues reading his paper. It is gray outside.

“Stronger, child, stronger. Your playing lacks courage.” Marven remains a stoic, hardened single father. Similarly, his Frances remains his fragile, porcelain child, one that gives him great comfort coupled with seemingly unending frustration.

The music, Chopin no less, rumbles from the mighty Steinway. Marven knows that Frances puts others her age to shame at the piano, but that matters little. Frances continues to play stronger and stronger. The ambient temperature in the room begins, it seems, to rise. Suddenly, she stops. Cold.

“Father?”

“Yes, dearest.” He lowers his newspaper to look at her. She seems quite annoyed.

“Father, why do you always seem so perplexed and, at the same time, indifferent to the world?”

“Dear Lord, Frances. How old are you?”

“I am 11 years Father, complete and never to be seen again.” Frances mistakenly plays a single C-note.

“Well, my dear, I do not begin to understand where you come up with such perplexing questions, followed by such philosophical meanderings, but I shall owe it to the brightness that emanates from your dear, dear mother.”

Frances’ mother passed away some two years ago. It was quite sudden and it left both Frances and Marven hollow and lonely. Their mother remains a beacon of hope and energy for both of them. There is no stronger bond. But, the loss of her presence weighs heavily on them both, not yet extinguished by time’s endless march towards finality.

“Why, Father?”

Marven, caught seemingly without a word to offer back, simply smiles, looks at his daughter, and sighs. “Dearest, it is not I who am so perplexed and indifferent. No, it is the world.” He picks up his newspaper and keeps reading, the tiniest smile forming on his face. Frances shrugs, sticks her tongue out, and continues playing her Chopin.

The music comforts Marven. As Frances attempts to play Nocturne, Marven slowly closes his eyes, recalling the moment when his dearly departed wife informed him of their impending good fortune. It was a quiet night in Bristol, 1935. She danced around the room, holding up a bonnet in one hand and a football in the other, claiming the world as her very own oyster. That was thirteen years ago, and yet it beguiles him still. Dance, sweetheart, dance.

“Father? Father? I am not happy with this piece. I don’t think it suits this piano.”

Marven, anxiously awaiting the coming twilight, again puts down his evening newspaper. He looks directly through his daughter and out to the lawn past the confines of the parlor. Gray turns to black. “It doesn’t suit the piano? Is that what you just said?”

“Yes, Father, it doesn’t suit the piano. It appears to be giving me some fight. I don’t want to play it anymore.” Frances suddenly rises from her position at the piano and looks directly at Marven. “I’m done for the day, courage or no courage. I’m done.”

“Well, alright then, I guess you’re done.” Marven sits in disbelief at the immediate nature and burgeoning maturity. He is, simultaneously, forlorn and prouder than any father in the land. Had he missed something in these many years of commerce and appeasement to his many overseers? Had the momentary pursuit of life’s finer things drained him of this wonderful accord with his daughter, and in days past, with his precious wife? Had he been so foolish?

“Father?”

“Yes, love.”

“Why are the piano keys black and white, Father? Why are they not different colors, say blue, yellow, or tangerine? It seems so melancholy that they are simply black and white.” Frances walks over to the chaise and plops down upon it. She looks like a curious, but tired, cat. “I should think, Father, that if the colors were different, my music too would be different. My music would radiate, but do so effortlessly.”

“My, Frances, you have grown up quite quickly. The world is not always, my child, as we would have it be if we were the designer and the engineer. I guess this is the way I look at it, my young butterfly. Black is the essence of nothing and white contains all the colors of the rainbow. There is order in having only the two. It is up to you to know when and what to play to mold them into something more than just, as you say, melancholy black and white.”

Frances looks at her father. She struggles with what to say. She knows he has to be right. Mum told her that Father was almost always right, unless he were talking with Mum. “Then, Father, gray can’t be so bad, right?”

“No dearest, gray can’t be so bad.”

Marven takes a sip of his Scotch. Frances plays and plays. He again closes his eyes and witnesses one last dance, all in black and white.

adt

short hills, nj

Mumbai Dusk

2010-06-07T22:03:00.005-04:00

“The Captain asks that you please fasten your seat belts as there is turbulence in the area. We will be landing soon. Thank you.” The female flight attendant’s voice rings out over the travelers, perky and bright.

All the amateur travelers hurriedly snap their lap belts in place as others tug theirs tighter. I have become accustomed to keeping my belt fastened, in place, throughout the duration of a transoceanic flight. The Atlantic is an unforgiving ocean. Even at nearly seven miles above sea level, she keeps her careful watch over you, plays with you, and even tickles your body and soul. No one is laughing, I assure you.

“Are you awake, Raj?” asks my lithe, slightly drunk travel acquaintance, Ansha, as she awakes gracefully from her slumber.

I never sleep on planes. There’s something about defying the laws of physics that keeps me mesmerized for hours on end. The anticipation of reaching my destination also has much to do with it. Perhaps, my friends would suggest, it is my nervous energy.

“Yes, I am awake. I see that you’ve been sleeping comfortably for some time.”

Ansha, whom I’ve only just met, is a consultant with an Indian IT concern. She cannot be more than twenty-eight. She holds two degrees - one in IT and one in business. She is single, but that makes no difference to me. She also likes German Riesling, which can be had, again and again, here in Star Class. I’m a red wine aficionado. She will make some bastard very happy one day.

“Raj, I do not understand you. I am a single, some say beautiful, woman and yet you have only spoken to me about the collapse of modern capitalism, the fact that businessmen suffer from irritable bowel syndrome of the mouth, and have only, in passing, stared at me.” Ansha exudes a level of discomfort that her prized beauty had only somewhat been exhumed.

I look at her without emotion, as I am prone to do, and the plane rocks violently. She grabs my arm, and pulls herself close. Without a glimmer of hope, and after the tremolo ceases, I release her. It is interesting how the inside of an airplane can provide catalysts for emotional and sexual tension. Ansha turns away from me and beckons for the shore below. She is clearly not very happy.

“The Captain indicates that we are making our initial approach. Again, please fasten your seat belts. Your stewards in the sky will be making their final passes, collecting cups and glasses. Once this is done, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position.” Poetry in the sky. I like that.

I look over Ansha’s shoulder, seeking some sign that we are indeed close to landing. She looks at me, briefly, as if to say, “fuck off.” I deserve that. Still, there is no ownership up here, and I continue my wanting gaze out of the window. Like small, rough-cut jewels, the lanterns of small fishing vessels shimmer on the water. As we made our way across the Arabian sea, I had seen many different lights on the ocean’s surface. None more important than the next, all keeping a man’s labor steady, directed, and productive.

We make a gentle left turn. The turbulence ceases. The statuesque stewards of the sky amble through the cabin, collecting our cups and such. All very ordinary, all very important. I can feel the plane sinking ever so gently through the clear night sky, with nothing but faith below us.

“Why? Why did you not say anything?” Ansha finally asks.

With the Gujarat coastline to our left, I wonder what type of life Ansha must have had to feel so betrayed by a total stranger. Not in a million sky miles can I make it up to her. There is no amount of love that can erase one’s past hollowness and I can say nothing to rid the pain today, though I am willing to give it a try.

“Why?” she asks again, this time with tears, like a strand of broken diamonds, streaming down her face. I gently wipe her tears away. I do so without passion, but with a desire to help ease her pain, superficial or otherwise.

“Ansha, you truly are a lovely lady. There is no room in my life for this right now. I know no love, no hate, and no emotion beyond what I do for my company. I’m sorry.”

She looks relieved. The whir of the flaps signals the pending arrival. Mumbai hangs in the distance, with the glow of the sun cascading over it. Right now, the sun is a bright orange rind, leaving the mighty subcontinent behind. Ansha dries her tears and kisses me lightly on the cheek. Now, she is the winner and I the loser. More flaps, followed by a new set of lights above us. And then darkness pervades as the landing preparation is complete. We can hear the gear engage and see the ocean below us, dark and murky in the morning wake.

“So, where do you go once we land?” Ansha asks. The winner is now composed and ready to do battle with her bharatiya colleagues. Body armor engineered with a Donna Karan suit, Prada shoes, and, organic vegan lipstick mask a treasure not meant for mine eyes. Definitely not the typical desi lady.

“Home, I go home.”

***

“Welcome to Mumbai. The time is now 20:10 IST. Please set your watches forward to Indian Standard Time. Our Captain and his entire crew welcome you to the jewel of Asia and hope that your stay is a pleasant one, whether it is here or at your final destination. Sukriya.” Final destination? Do we ever reach our final destination?

The outside vents are now open, letting in that world renowned Mumbai musk. It immediately attaches itself to me, like a think blanket made of years of neglect, shame, and fear. It is now gingerly laced with the smell of hard currency, the scent of a successful middle class, and the air of a motion picture mecca.

I find this aroma in many places in my travels, but those cannot rival this original. Life and death hang in this humid, gray veil of India. Lives lived and lives yet to come, be it now or forever, swirl in my mind. I am now in its midst, sheltered but yet fragile. One final ding and Ansha stands up. What a fool am I? Oh well, you win some and you lose some.

Before standing, I gaze out of the airplane’s starboard side and see the sun plunging into the horizon. The bright orange rind has turned into the flesh of a newly cut grapefruit - pink, hazy, and, I’m sure, a bit sour - filtered by Mumbai’s smoke. Regardless, before me, welcoming me home, was the one thing I will never miss - a newly minted Mumbai dusk.

adt

short hills, nj

Time's a bitch

2010-05-26T21:45:00.006-04:00

time mends not the heart

nor the head

nor the cadence

nor brings back the dead

it shelters not my soul

nor my past

nor my future

nor keeps first from last

i seek it

on my hand

the walls on my brain

the sand in the bottle

and the light of the day

"you will never get her back,"

time tells me

and my heart stops

and my soul bleeds

all so fast, and I,

I move from first to last

adt

short hills, nj

Perpetuity

2010-05-23T00:18:00.009-04:00

no sound, no solace

no wave to brush back

no love, no grooming

no shallow cove to round

no moment of standing

no wisp of gross neglect

no spade, no fallow ground

no furtive glance

no admission

no poignant afterglow

no discussion of her absence

no mythical bystander

no solitary soldier

no fortune and no glory

not even a simple hurrah

but then, at the altar

of truth, the phalanx of veiled virtue knows that

what is left is hollow, guiltless

"more to come"

"more of the same"

no reason and certainly no rhyme

no more

adt

short hills, nj

watered-down truth

2009-12-11T22:26:00.004-05:00

sitting in the rain

more than just a flood

on earth

sitting in the rain

moves me down

to dirt

i pick up the leaves

i send them downstream

it's not like before

here in my rainbow

solitary, truly heaven

on earth

here in my cacophony of

rhythm and sound

her in my side

her in my new found

side

more than just watered-down truth

just a little more

blame

2009-12-10T21:36:00.003-05:00

blame comes and goes

each step, future's cornerstone

each smile, enmity's horoscope

i turn not gray or wine

blood orange for kicks

to the head, to the state

and then reason fades

each step foretold in verse

alive in the womb

dead on arrival

it wasn't me, it was him

Our matriarch passes into the sunset

2009-07-20T23:09:00.012-04:00

Today is a most spectacular yet sad day. We celebrated the 40th anniversary of the first lunar landing. We also celebrated the end of a wonderful life. My beautiful, petite grandmother - Jaymati J. Trivedi - was released from her illness of the last 15 or so years and shepherded into the next life. Born in 1913, Ba, as we all affectionately referred to her, had 9 children, 20 grandchildren, and 26 great grandchildren. She had a perfect record in terms of childbirth, which is a feat itself given the circumstances in which she delivered. She was survived by all but 2 children and 1 grandchild. She raised her children in a three-story row house in Baroda, India in less than 1,500 s.f. Her husband, my grandfather Jayantilal, was a simple man who earned his wage as a government worker. He died in 1960 leaving my grandmother to raise the last 3 or 4 children with the aid of my uncles, primarily my eldest uncle, Devendra.

Ba was a simple character. No pomp, no circumstance. She had the hearty laugh of a sailor, but moved through the bungalow like a mouse. She was frugal with her money but forthcoming with her whimsical tales of the past. She had black locks well into her 70's...no colors, no conditioners, and no expensive Saturday salon treatments. She had asthma the whole time I knew her, but she rarely complained. She was the matriarch that had long ago passed the reins to her sons and daughters. She lived more than half of her life without her spouse, never having driven a car and having flown overseas only once. Oddly, I only saw her dressed in white, the traditional dress color for an Indian widow.

She likely had a 4th or 5th grade education, but has fielded doctors, engineers, artists, and bankers (a lot of bankers). She fed many of them on piping hot rotis and fresh vegetables, stirred fried in the old Indian methods. Dozens, upon dozens of rotis. They'd melt in your mouth, I'm sure. By the time many of my cousins hit the stage, Ba was decommissioned from the kitchen. All we have are the wonderful stories.

So, on this day of passing, I can only thank her for giving us our father. I can only thank her for her laughter and her quiet sense of family pride. I can only thank her for her many years, though it has been a burden to her and I'm sure to many others, to whom I am also thankful to for the care and patience they provided. Finally, I'm thankful that she is now in a better place, at peace that her legacy is a strong and rich one that will forever endure.

Jay ambe, Jay-Jaymati. Jay ambe.

In your show

2009-05-12T20:16:00.007-04:00

some filters keep me coiled
in a sleepless bed
some turns rape my senses
a hapless scene

i beg forgiveness
passive and strained
diligence spent
waiting for absolution

in harmony and not
she prays for it all
i watch, torn
limb by limb
she bests my faith
drowns my fury

crowds gather, portico bends
the rain begins
softly i sleep
in your show

adt
cincinnati, oh

copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

Tortured

2009-05-09T10:55:00.003-04:00

hand on the book,
tongue twisted, little girl twirls
in the round
and i'm humbled
i'm scared
words, cheap, positioned torture
side to side
slows the dance
marries us to forever wars
in the round
not your average theater
storyline, false premise
grander illusions prevail
controlling interest in humans
incorporated into sweet bites
shutterflies, memory killers

if this is the promise of a new dawn
then i stir not, pretend words
ebb and fade, forever
drowned in some stew like no other
but yet so familiar
so opaque
with no glimmer
of hope

adt
stone mountain, ga

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

My forever smile

2009-05-09T10:45:00.006-04:00

precious minuet, beat by beat
crisp springtime morning's heart
beat by beat
in a laugh, in a single tome
i jump up and down
wave by wave, something carries me here
everyday
clever, my mind races
towards the tunnel portrait's
sunshine breakthrough, steeped in history
looking forward to the pattern of yesterday
the song wind downs, i step out into the rain
and smile
my forever smile
beat by beat
remembers

adt
stone mountain, ga

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

The revolution's started?

2009-05-03T20:17:00.008-04:00

i stand, doorway open
a tremble spins away
and no one notices
it's said that's how cold wars start

in some small room, a man whittles
stone into a monument
great women dream of Pastorale
and broken glass
violins draw blood, penitent men
trudge in pinkish snow
it's said that's how walls form

i, somehow from my doorway, see more
grand oratory, pulled from babe's mouths,
in gilded archways, brick by brick, stronger
brighter, not monotone, curiosity ignites
a storm
it's said that's how revolutions start

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

New song

2009-03-15T21:23:00.007-04:00

brand new ribbons
on the front lawn today
bright blue, like the sky above
dear this is a new day
and finally a new song

bright babes' faces
on the television portrayed
true love, like from heaven above
dear this is a new day
and finally a new song

(chorus)
finally, a new song
sweet, like the morning caress
finally, a new song
glory to those who believe it
finally, my new song
finally, my new song

small, gentle steps
on the fields today
true colors, like my father before me
dear this is a new day
and finally a new song

(chorus)

i'm no saint
i'm just a witer
oh, a new song
i'm no army
i'm just a singer

and here, here is my new song
and here, here is my new song

(chorus)

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi
(Music to follow?)

If it is written

2009-03-15T20:50:00.004-04:00

clear blue sky,
dance songs radiate
from nowhere
Picassos melt the earth
this is art?

sweet green grass,
a soft drumbeat fades
from my slumber
i craft another song
is this love?

move inside
pull the covers close
warmth meanders
through palladium windows
archways to somewhere sincere

and no one writes another word
cacophony of dreams
pull the covers close, dear
embrace another word revered
another kiss

shoulder to shoulder, we sleep
our missive lost in the hollow
beneath yet another blue sky
our minds lost and unkind
leave nothing for those that follow

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

The First Day

2009-03-13T21:26:00.014-04:00

The solemn moment was one he had dreamed of many times. The shape of the room is as he had imagined. The birds outside the only sounds. An incubator of freedom, conspiracy, and carnal knowledge all in one. Unmeasurable eloquence nonetheless. He picked up a pencil and wrote the following words:

I am king.

He quickly erased it. Had he really made this journey? Every man and woman dreams of having this view. He became king of the domain of man today. He conquered many barriers. He conquered his own demons, though they were few and far between. He had journeyed to this point, this pinnacle and he had it all. He had fought a tremendous battle and stood victorious. Invincible, no. Enviable, yes. He would have to fight against his own ego and manage his desire to be heard and to be taken seriously. His confidence, though strong, could at times get beyond even him. It could get beyond even her.

"Sir?" asked a small female voice from beyond the door.

No response.

"Sir?" she asked again.

He looked up slowly, the commanding presence of his eyes nearly bowled over the young aide.

"Yes. What is it?" he asked, the voice echoing about the room.

"Your wife is here, sir."

"Show her in, please." he said.

The door opened and in she walked. Her head was held high and her smile radiated passion, compassion, and absolute incredulity. They had both arrived. She sat down on the sofa in the center of the room. He stood up from behind the desk and paced.

"I stand here before you, my love, and I can honestly say I have wont of nothing more. No diamonds, no Everest, no expensive cars...no other request. I only want better things for them."

As he gestured towards the broad, curved window, she stood up and wrapped her arms around him. She felt as complete as she would ever feel. She was also scared for him and for her children. The battle that awaited them was an daunting one. No one believes they can win it, much less start it. No one understands their drive, their energy, or their passion. No one trusts his vision. Entangled in a web of lies, positions, and overtures, nothing is sacred anymore. Nothing commands respect. Nobody respects anybody else.

"It will be alright, dear." His voice was both reassuring as it was musical.

"Let's go," she said.

"Let's go, Michelle, let's go."

adt

cincinnati, oh

the red birdhouse

2009-03-11T19:30:00.004-04:00

wind filters out life's somber echoes
a red birdhouse swings
its carriage full

she sits, day to day
consumed by the grander moments
simple sounds, vivid colors
keystone chase scenes and feathers

all within life's full view

i gain energy
sit up straight to view the sun
and think of her
front and center to the birdhouse
laughing with abandon

i love her

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

Drowned out again

2009-03-09T20:47:00.003-04:00

poured the saline
slowly
like a brook dances 'neathe the
oaks

cleaned the essence away
no more signals left
not a mere mention of life

and yet
the old bark, cast astray,
leads us to another treeline
in a grey forest

just near a creek bed
overflowing
into our own conscience

to drown us out
again and again
and again

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

I wish I was that doctor

2009-03-08T22:40:00.003-04:00

a single cut
waits open, tended only by sunlight
healed only by rain

a silent wound
stays fresh, fused true by love
simple, total, agape

i am not that doctor
nor am i that victim
just a cradle of soft advice
locus uninterrupted
daring to serve
but not be deserving

i am not that doctor
(though my heart trains it so)
that cuts
that heals
that binds

i wish i was

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

A life less acoustic

2009-03-08T19:28:00.001-04:00

foundry iron
makes tanks and bullets
like a jaded monk thinks of his youth
portions his day for prayer, for atonement
sounds bounce through us like a butter knife
and all i hear is his sadness
some moment of tandem living
the veil of happiness
slips off

in a life less acoustic
muffled sounds of now gone patterns
wake us each night with an electric buzz
strings from that same foundry
play me again
softly again

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

Peace lost again

2009-03-07T17:19:00.001-05:00

four moments
one for each season
passed before me
a parade of days
like none i'd witnessed
none i'd borne

each moment, grasped in each hand
given to the next king
not out of faith
but out of fear

each moment, breached by your fist
now writ large
here of our own accord
we seek a better sunset

in the sands
and in the snows
peace blows clean and strong
but our eyes, wide open, miss it still

for in each moment of peace
brothers and sisters cast it aside
for in peace there is little thrill
little change
only calls for battle and terror
circus maximus theater

and, we, the people stand to suffer
that much more

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

Intervention

2009-03-05T19:45:00.000-05:00

no clock struck
no sentinel looked up
a whisper rose gently from the ground
and her eyes closed again

no phone rang
no gypsy looked beyond
a whimper sprang forcefully from the sound
and her eyes closed again

the room was quiet now
swept under the rug was our desecration
the patient lay awake, breathing, chest falling
rising with the click-clack of a yard spigot
and my notes could barely contain my anger

it had come to this
a time too long, a moment too far
to come between good and evil
to stand and shout before her final breath
we are not all doctors, or saviors, or pallbearers
but we all have a minute to give
a smile to post in a letter
a kiss to send through the air

an intervention into a life less buoyant
this is our purpose

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

A new design

2009-03-04T20:43:00.000-05:00

move forward slowly
to a time where the shade tree cools our tempers
and its fallen splinters serve as kindling for new fires

see it through gently
to an empire where the people rein in fear and greed
and its many fallen angels who stood to be kings

dream it aloud soulfully
while my heart beats, the drums of new warriors speak
and our prayers are answered, and our sons and daughters
are not left broken, not left weak

this is a place i want to share
this is a design i want to trace

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

Can't sleep, little brother

2009-03-03T20:41:00.000-05:00

can't sleep, little brother
put my head back on the hay
golden, the chaff of my life

can't sleep, little brother
where is my soul, in rest or in motion
can't sleep, little brother?
did you see my house of cards?
did you dream of a better place?

can't sleep, little brother
is it too late to borrow a bottle
or a movement from Brahms
the rhythm stokes my embers
and the fire keeps me awake

can't sleep, little brother
is life this grand?
it is in my heart, brave but worn
the comfort calls for me
i'm so torn

sleep, little brother, sleep

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi

Burden of our fears

2009-03-03T20:39:00.001-05:00

settled down, inside the window sill
can't hope for anything better tonight, dear
except the dewdrops of you in passing
here i sit, hear me now
one last time

turn it off, outside the prison walls
can't look for anything bigger today, dear
except the smile on your face in the rain
here i sit, hear me now
one last time

cradled, minuet lilts and fades, keeps me warm
saddled, hate spills from the damper like a drum
and my heart breaks
one last time

for those of us that have lost the gain of our lives
i'll carry you on my shoulders, wipe your tears
it just steals away the night, this burden of our fears
but for me
i'm settled down, inside the window sill
dazed yet sobered by her love
one last time but forever
one last time and forever

adt
cincinnati, oh

Copyright 2009 all rights reserved arpit d. trivedi