Sunday, July 22, 2018

Random Chaotic Thoughts

Why and when should you believe that your true you is the dark you?

 If you feel pleasure in saying No without consuming the option of saying Yes, you need a psychiatric evaluation.

A Patwari is a depraved self-constipated individual who feels demoralized in shitting out the old pernicious idea despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. 

Random Chaotic Thoughts

Religion spurs humility and mercy. Those in the pulpit turn it into arrogance and slaughter.

You cannot love once you have loved. You can only masquerade.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Ode To Empress

For poetry I was past my prime,
Would take months 2 find a rhyme,
My fire was out, wit decayed,
Everything was about to fade,
When my heart once said,
Let's throw the faulty pen,
Came an angel and spread,
The canvas on the scene again,
Like a goblet of wine,
And lily rose like design,
Having a peculiar majestic whim,
A childhood scar on forehead skin,
And princely decorum in chin,
My kingdom of heart found a fruitful hour,
To reconcile you as my motive power,
Fire rekindled poetry pouring,
Mind lightened spirit soaring,
A flame a rhyme with your name..
Pure grace, charm, a grande dame.

Saturday, November 18, 2017

غزل ''بیجنگ آمد''

ہوا ترا عشق مجھ پہ نازل ہے اب
بَنا اک بے علم، عالم فاضل ہے اب

تیری زلفوں کو چوم کر وہ پانی
سرشاری میں اُڑ کے بادل ہے اب

جہاں تھے آپ ٹھہرے سمندر کے بیچ
وہاں بھی سنا ہےکہ ساحل ہے اب

ترے رخسار سے ٹکرایا جو جھونکا
سنا ہے وہ مستی میں پاگل ہے اب

کبھی جس میں گھومتے تھے آپ
گلستاں، عشاق کاوہ قاتل ہے اب

بروزِ عید تم نے دیکھا جو کوئلہ
حسینوں کی آنکھوں کا کاجل ہے اب

سالہاسال صحرا نوردی کے بعد
گماں ہے یہ دل تیرے قابل ہے اب

فراقِ یار میں بعد از مرگِ شمس
 وہ خدا بھی شنید ہے عادل ہے اب

شمشاد علی شمس
بیجنگ 18 نومبر

Sunday, January 18, 2015

The Wailing Wind from Peshawar

Sitting in the bus jolting in fog 
Thinking about the sweet departed souls,
About the sojourn of unblossomed buds perfected
By those with veins carrying pus infected,
On the day that already carried
From 70 ies some deep bruises varied.

About the doom that hastened
And the gloom that fashioned,
About the books that cried, 
And the ink that died,
I can still hear them ;
Listen, listen to the lilies that moan; 
Feel the clank of trigger in the hands 
Of one with heart of stone,
The thud of bullet piercing
The green and white uniform.

About the veins, touched only by the lips of mothers,
Collapsing and unfurling,
In blood storm and smothered, opened
Like the fist of sleeping child,
With wrenching pain for a while;
Did they have their pens as arms of slaughter?
Or Ma'am Tahira a goblin's daughter?
For what fault their blood was splattered?
Could evil be more announced?
Could trauma be more pronounced?

About the wretched, the murderers wretched
May hell be their abode
Atrocious misery their mode,
And please make it perpetual my Lord;
May fetid be their smell,
Even to hell offensive their shell,
May to the acts of such depravity
Match thy miseries and woes' gravity;
And each suffering unspeakable
Fill thy every filthy cavity.

About the patrons and bros of dead Pharaohs,
And their roguish stinking shadows,
I hope their cheeks yearn for smile,
For now united are all ranks and files,
None will get any space,
Nor their bloody steps any place,
Run you will from hill to hill,
Won't now you hide your filthy face,
Remain you will under-siege,
No matter you are black, white or beige;
Clad in war, not peace we come,
Make your choice you all or some,
Shave your face or change your name,
Plant yourself or make a hasty run,
Invoke your klepy or orcs or trolls,
For God we pray to is not your one,
You sure will pay for each flower you uproot,
No friend, no fiend shall bear u a fruit.

About the day of pain which can't be unlived,
Though by sculpting courage collective,
And refusing to wed with fear destructive,
Lets infuse the dreams of fallen angels,
Into our hearts, brains and muscles
Into our skin, nail, hair and even hair tangles,
Lets adorn a future free from a sigh,
A future lifting even the heart of God High.

Saturday, January 18, 2014

Before that, after it

The day when u left the country,

Life became like a dungeon to me,

My city itself like a prison where,
People shared and I didn't care,
The days were dark and nights in anguish,
And every joy I wished to relinquish;

The hills of insanity became steeper,
The waves of despair became deeper,
Sounds, colors, scents nothing 2 me,
Neither the rainbow nor the moon I could see;

Then came the day after the rains of pains,

A momentus day when u had mercy on insane;
And sent me your what's app id,

I could gaze at ur profile for hours not in vain,

To become acquainted with u,
And in that few hours I painted with u,
A trip into the heavens of ur purity,
And depth of ur glorious soul,
Plunged into the ocean of ur sweetness,
And witnessed myself as whole,

But still dear sweetheart
Life was like never b4,
You are not here and I am all alone, 
I still hear you singing,
As you used to sing for me,

I still marvel at the wild rose,
Because we together used to marvel,
I don't feel the platonic pleasure,
After losing you my regal treasure;

But my insanity now is making sense,
As the misery at last knew its fence.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012


Pity the nation that achieves nationhood in the name of a religion
but pays little heed to truth, righteousness and accountability
which are the essence of every religion.
Pity the nation that proclaims democracy as its polity
but restricts it to queuing up for casting of ballots only
and discourages democratic values.
Pity the nation that measures honour with success
and respect with authority,
that despises sublime and cherishes mundane,
that treats a criminal as a hero and considers civility as weakness
and that deems a sage a fool and venerates the wicked.
Pity the nation that adopts a Constitution
but allows political interests to outweigh constitutional diktat.
Pity the nation that demands justice for all
but is agitated when justice hurts its political loyalty.
Pity the nation whose servants treat their solemn oaths
as nothing more than a formality before entering upon an office.
Pity the nation that elects a leader as a redeemer
but expects him to bend every law to favour his benefactors.
Pity the nation whose leaders seek martyrdom
through disobeying the law
than giving sacrifices for the glory of law
and who see no shame in crime.
Pity the nation that is led by those
who laugh at the law
little realizing that the law shall have the last laugh.
Pity the nation that launches a movement for rule of law
but cries foul when the law is applied against its bigwig,
that reads judicial verdicts through political glasses
and that permits skills of advocacy to be practised
more vigorously outside the courtroom than inside.
Pity the nation that punishes its weak and poor
but is shy of bringing its high and mighty to book.
Pity the nation that clamours for equality before law
but has selective justice close to its heart.
Pity the nation that thinks from its heart
and not from its head.
Indeed, pity the nation
that does not discern villainy from nobility.