On life and its vagaries


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The path is ever short

The struggles magnificent


May be I am the only one listening


Written by Sam

July 29, 2012 at 7:24 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

The Falsifiables

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The Falsifiable’s

“Nothing is stationary”
-The wise

“The wise can’t be wrong”
– The unwise

Only an observer, I am going with my boss

“&:/ +* @%\! -~{} *”$() ^%#!”

Written by Sam

July 18, 2012 at 8:26 pm

Posted in Humor


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Not that it matters
The shutters were down, the house was dark
A cloudy noon was prowling beyond
Switching the table lambs on
I place my spectacles where they should be
(In their case)
That at least should make
A case for clarity

There is the din of life seeping in.

Written by Sam

July 16, 2012 at 5:38 pm

Posted in poetry


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( Some amusing reflections on time and space)


Circle formed by dots. Start
From any dot, it has to
Give us the same count



Line with chronic dots
Starting from some silly dot
The count needs vary!


(Two humorous meditations on the self)



If I am the whole
World, why do I fight with I
Every single time?



If I am this guy-
Alone, what do I care for
The views of others?

Written by Sam

July 15, 2012 at 7:01 am

Posted in Humor

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On the aesthetics of disappearance

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On the aesthetics of disappearance


Just the other day, as I was ‘a thinking’
The God knocked at the door, and
Soon as I could open it
Began barking “what the hell took
You so long to come to the damn door”

I murmured, “I was a thinking and
As you know, it’s difficult to get
Out of a think that easily.”

God says hmm, and pshaw

I feel defensive: I never liked Bernard Shaw

“It takes some damn heavy going
Even to think in the first place”

I complain:

The guy could barely prevent
Himself from cracking up and dying of it

“Oh, God, oh God, “He gasps
“You think, really? That’s gross
That’s unbelievable
That’s notacceptable

Only the infinitesimally good does it in general
(Why else is there global warming?)

Nobody else ever, and I mean EVER thinks,
It has been banned by the censorial (sensorial?)
Council for the something challenged”

I grumble, still defensive:

Give us some names of the infin….. Whatever good
You kindly just mentioned

God breaks out in a thunderous voice:

“Socrates, Diogenes, Heraclitus, Zeno
Spinoza, Hartman, Schopenhauer ‘mano ya na mano’*”

I bow in awe. The god knows Hindi! Man!
I have goose pimples running the stretch of my spine

He sings on

The rest emanate from the hoary east, Kanada, LaoTsu
Kapila, Confucius, and some who talk in the ancient Hindu

I stand astounded:

Et tu god, you too rhyme?
Don’t you know it’s a definite crime?

God, seized by some terrible and helpless spasm,
Muses out aloud:

We, alas, inventing the thing in the first place
Have since then been confined to the houter space


Feelings man, feelings

What about Nietzsche? I ask


Nietzsche, you know, the Zarathustra,
Up in the mountains, down in the plains
Preaching to the populace, carrying the dead
Does he qualify to be within the infin…. Whatever?


And as I stand aghast, the god does the
Impossible, he pulls a vanishing act.


*Believe it or not

Written by Sam

July 12, 2012 at 12:34 pm

Posted in Humor

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Ciphers to the ace
Can be added back or front; one
Prefers the later



The Epicure

A little frog is seen
Jumping high, flailing its legs
Nice meaty limbs too



The tree, falling on
A car, takes a child’s life
Sprouts still break out



A poet pissed is
Truly-thorough, for, no one
Advises better



Installing calibre
In the system I stay put
Visitor’s announced

Written by Sam

July 11, 2012 at 1:56 pm

Posted in Humor

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Startled awake in the dead of night, I sit up dazed on that rickety bed. The room was dark; my roommate a silhouette on the far cot, there was rain and the weight of the night in the air. And as I turn the lights on I see something I would ever remember in life. My friend, who boasted of the palest of skins, had turned black; there wasn’t spot on his face that wasn’t dark.

He was deep in dreams, and so I didn’t trouble him, but carried my bed outside to be discarded.

In the morning, back to his usual pale skin, he shakes me awake from my slumber on a crumpled spread of news papers on the floor.

Why? he asks

Why what?

The bed. Outside. You. On the floor.

I shudder.

Well, sheik, it wasn’t exactly like this. Yet there was the night and there was the rain……..

Terrible calamities of nature.

And you, with your face the color of pitch.

He bristles.

I am not black, damn it. I am white, but you, you envious dog, are definitely dark. And I won’t take that back.

I wasn’t talking about the color of your pretty skin, you egotistical idiot . Can’t you imagine an event where your hot skin might turn black?

He spent some time in intense rumination.

The dark could do that to me.


And my dear sis . She could paint my phiz black.

Ah, the sweetness of a sister’s love.

Love never fails son, love never fails, but why was my face (He lets out an involuntary shudder) black?

Why would you think?

Couldn’t be….. that’s impossible…. bugs?

He shivers.

Would they dare touch you?


We both spent the rest of our nights in that lodge on the bare floor and on a bed of newspapers. Those were the only lodgings we could afford on our students stipend.

We are at least making good use of words. He says sometimes

Well, make use of this one then, I would prompt:

Darkness At Mid Night

I am covered on that one pal I didn’t discover them, you did. That’s why we are on a bed of words.

The best bed ever.

Why do they hate the lovely words?

The bugs?

Who else

No idea, may be they are students of Andre Gide or Ivan Illich ?

And who ever those might be?

Distant cousins of Abelard, Peter, I think

Don’t get smart with me, now

Would that add to my smartness?

And so we would drift off to sleep.

Written by Sam

July 11, 2012 at 1:37 pm

Posted in Life, Life situations

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That I just spoke with you, isn’t quite enough
To make me trust you my friend of an evening
The bus we rode to this junction, you’ll admit
Isn’t a fit environ where likings are formed
If you see me walk away without even a nod
At you at the nearing bus station
Don’t feel bad, for you also know,
That we live in a cruel world
And it isn’t one of our own making

Your face seemed wan, and a little over tired
I had even sensed a deeper weariness
That was behind, we know sorrow
When we see it, aren’t we all human in the end

You may be in dire need of food or shelter
But one thing seemed distinct, you needed
A friend to talk to, yes, who can miss the signs,
I could have helped you there, if you were not you
A stranger I met on a ride to my home town

You wouldn’t do anything drastic I hope
That would be bad on my conscience,
And there is the law sadly to worry about.

I remember cracking a few jokes with you
On our rough ride over the country roads
(How ludicrous the actions of our leaders seem
As one suffer their consequences in life)
And the pleasant and sad smile that
Seemed natural in you, a very moving smile,
I am a little envious of that smile I‘ll admit
And the words you spoke shone curiously with
The freshness of sincere feelings that
I myself sadly seemed to lack

Yet friend, penury is a vice I can’t seen be with
It would bring me down in my mind and
In the minds of others too, that is
A terrible sin in our small world of lucky souls
So forgive me for walking away, ignoring the strange
Urge to befriend you, at this time of your peril

I am only human
I have students waiting at home

Written by Sam

July 8, 2012 at 6:56 pm

Dots In Line

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Dots in Line

As I hold on to the moss covered gate-post, the scrawled codes of the past shake off their reveries and take me back through the barely distinct portals of my lost days, to where I was, some thirty years ago, walking these sandy paths, feet crunching, sand kissing my toes through the sandals, their ever so faint brush of discomfort on the soles, still walking, unthinking and immersed in the locale, inhaling the morning air that carries the faint salty sting of the nearby seas, and the sun on my skin, walking between the then newly erected bamboo fences, their thorns seemingly dulled by the rains, unknown vines twining through the abrasive structure, pale and fragile wild flowers hiding their heads between the leaves, white and yellow, blue and vermillion, and I sense the slow-moving little sand thorns gripping at my sandals, as if railing at me : “who are you to tread these paths, you stranger boy, go back to those red and hilly terrains you were frequenting not so long ago”, I lift my feet and carefully take them off, placing them on dry areas on the path, so that they could move again, wondering whether I am doing right, and they stay quiet for a moment on the loose sand and begin ever so slowly to travel again, I could see water snakes slithering across the sandy path out of the corner of my eyes as I turn my head towards the rustles in the leaves in the nearby trees, ever quick and frightened and disappearing into the wayside pools, their scales glistening brownish, looking so thin, and incapable of hunting prey, as I step on the clear puddles left by the rains the black grainy silt is seen flitting and settling down again revealing patches of sand, washed like fresh grains of white rice, the skeletons of fallen leaves floating to the surface and sinking slowly, and I hear the muted pops of the little silver fish jumping in the narrow wayside gutters, coupled with the flowing water sounds, its faint gurgles, and its stops, its silent passages over broken branches and jutting rocks in the gutter, and those elderly people that come against me smiling down, “no school today eh”, and passing by me with a twinkle in their eyes, as the sound of their footsteps fade through the sands I enter into the shady stretches of the path, mangrove branches stooping low, pines with tongues darkened at birth, barren palms with distended and graying leaves lined with long scratches near their bows, some darkening, others fresh, showing the losing green flesh underneath, there were red flame-of-the-woods, with their honeyed stalks, residing in bunches, determined to get through the sudden rains, and then the sounds of the beginning of winter days, the Thira coming opposite me with the frightening jill-jill of the anklets, its feet covered in dust, the calves in protective wrappings, with the circular head gear engraved in wood, with its demon in tow, rough drums playing a single harsh dancing tune, and the demon asking me “what’s for the demon now, kid, what’s for the demon” I search my pockets and locate a few coins and give them to him, he has a red wooden tongue sticking out of his gruesome and many colored carved mask, the Thira takes some dance steps to please me, and then they go away to dance and collect ………………

My thoughts break as someone ask me how I was. Yet these memories do not fade; they gain the strength of dreams and bring me back to my childhood.

                                               ( Back from the haunts of my childhood)

Written by Sam

July 5, 2012 at 5:57 pm

Posted in Humor, Life, poetry

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Leaves, dripping in
Rain, make the trees shiver slow
The sea is mute now

Written by Sam

July 2, 2012 at 6:20 pm

Posted in Humor

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