Double Acrostic.


‘I’ as an echo, breathe in some places known. ‘But’
‘still’ cognizant of memories gone by.’I’
‘feel’ as stones waiting in the deserts who ‘know’.
‘The’ only chance they possess is with ‘you’.
‘Same’, as the echo breathing in places I know of, but you ‘don’t’.

-Manvendra Vidyathi
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

On Fragments


Left over fragments, we linger upon now.
A Cline of partial sweet nurturing
and of partial blunt rejections.
Where we come now.
A mirror I stand before and what appears is your reflection.
Mirror separates mine two worlds.
Silence, an enemy and a friend.
The pen writes, left unsaid.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)



Nuances of the unprecedented claims
still, they shake, before me smeared
in prayers, the voices turn bleak.
Ostentatious impatient,
Incongruous becomes the wayworn teach
forever still, for such they seek.
Underscore this, at costs unbelievable.
My mankind comes to this.
In pockets, not roses
but blades are keeps.
At midnight, he and she,
drain eyes, drowning pillows in weeps.
O! Human! Can not you see this?
Five empty chairs and none to sit.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

Silly Child.


Quite a while, there silly child
of smiles and laughters,
tendings and meanings,
spending silence,
You, I have known,
child of smiles on side
footprints and transient toes
pressing lines.
Speaking of Beauty, not of
the ones the windows to soul
they call see.
Of ones resting deep inside
the ones you carry
are bona fides to let know
about you, winsome child.
None’s Patsy, keep tears afar
in shores unreachable and waters dark.
Be blessed by suns and stars
of hearts in hearts.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes)

Ode of Leaves


Crisp, curled in cocoon
of Winters O! Scattered falls,
the dry allures.
Thee roll carpeted yellow brown.
Silenced Streets with
the Song of thy sounds.
In dry she turned now.
Her nature wherein thee stay wrapped
every then, will be of her’s.
New forms reside.
The nuances belong to,the now dry.
Dropped from thy highs.
Flat, some curled, some untouched
and crushed, thee lie.
Thee descend to thy begin.
In time, spring again in thy highs.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

Restless Soul

Made with Square InstaPic

Spirits restless rising
Shivering core entwined
Aspirations in midnight open-eyed
Dreams silent behind eyes.
Disquitening butterflies
Prepare the soldier
Far into the miles
And for the transient body
Thoughts in mind.
Elements in spirited found
Courage plants down Victors
Not bow to the sinking downs.
Contain them fluent be waters
Becomes Wells, Oceans,
Or Rusty Kettle holes
Centred in core heartful
Still remains the goal.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

Dear Darling of once.


Dear Darling of once.
Partner in crimes stealing
victimizing us in betters.
Gone lost in heavens?
Or in blazing hot ashens?
None? The sweetened lush of greens?
Wrong still! Forgive such naive picks.
You are such, still
a Dear Darling of once.

Eternal joyous? Oh! Undone,
Not me, I am none.
See and dig deep.
A window takes you a place
Our crimes sits in, now vague.

Dear Darling of once.
You know you see in pains.
Some crimes you made
In windows I have seen
Hidden in unsolicited weeps.
Crimes too speak partnered by none.
Criminals we were to victimize one of each.

Dear Darling of once.
For I seek
Lift me, masks i keep.
Criminal – my crimes of partners none.
My keeps have gone vague.
Afar Islands, Dear Darling,
My sail’s distancing.
Dear Darling of once.
Promises being silent keeps.
Your music plays and my sail stays.
Dear Darling of once.
-Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)

Listen, Listen Soul Listen.


Learn, Learn soul learn
to lay upon fallen plays
of destitution and of course the celebration.
To turn weeping cheek close
and the dishonest happy away.
As frail as a twig, as mighty as a burning wick.
The Remnant, the same.
Come, Come Soul Come.
Pierce through these windows
Off some distance above the grounds.
You may find, find some things
Stories untold, some stolen paste lore.
Or probably nothing at all.
Some, they carry empty halls.
– Manvendra Vidyarthi.
(The Stories beneath the eyes.)