Tuesday, 6 December 2016


Google pics

days pass, quintessential, clockwise;
mind, textured canvas, anticlockwise;
rabid brush strokes, past blending
roughly with an abstract future,
loud strokes, a delicate silence caught between
brush strokes;
silence caught,
silence snubbed,
moments packed tightly between
rabid brush strokes;
moments lost, before arriving,
before living…

Scarfed in...

Google Pics

soft petals of trust scared deep,
lamprocapnos hang beautifully---
deep, scar(fed) among chlorophyll(ed) shelter,
wind rustles, hushed tears scarring silence---
gracefully sways in wind;
the root? sending pricking pain, past,
bleeding the buds?
lamprocapnos hang beautifully
swaying gracefully
with  hearts so gullible

Monday, 5 December 2016

Waiting Pegasus

Born with shut eyes and open mouth;
Gone through different plains, arriving last
On creation’s own charm, on two legs,
Laden with huge brain, subtle heart;
Brawls between them putting masquerades,
Big-bang energy’s outburst
Still in Universe’s womb, struggling,
Glare at the end of a muddied vortex

Forces shut his eyes again and again

Thursday, 1 December 2016

a 'cover' for 'I am the people"

Picture courtesy Google

am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. 
this line I love so much
amidst all fury and opinions
someone wants to paint me real, alive!
self-proclaimed greats of our land
they howl too much, it was not my voice,
                                                   it is not!

I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history.
I have my own voice,
but, am I misled sometimes,
do I have the right education,
do I have the right wisdom,
am I kept in a cage?
explosion of knowledge
around me
explosion of freedom
around me
am I trapped?
what was the right mixture,
the right mixture of nobility, freedom and responsibility?

I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much ploughing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget.

I forget a lot
I, sometimes don’t revise my lessons
I forget and learn only to earn
I forget that I am the mob,
the people, from which my world emanates
is there a right potion of education for me,
the right kind of teachers for me
the right kind of civic sense to impart?
            .... for

The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.

Visit dVerse for more on “cover” a poem by a poet whom you admire. I chose 'I am the people' by Carl Sandburg.

Tuesday, 29 November 2016

purplish odyssey

Picture Courtesy Google

pink to blue
blue to pink
a life long journey

is it pink that I like?
is it blue that you like, honey?
can we dare say no
and that it’s the other way

my barbie wore a blue colored dress
my kid’s pink
a long journey

oh honey, your tea is good
it eases out the sore cold;
while i write, do you mind,
… do you mind hanging the laundry?

please put her pink dress in, honey
it may fade;
his jeans out,
he likes it faded;
ours honey, don’t worry
we are weathered
we are more earthy…

yup, back to point;
blue and pink
a long journey
they have got blurred boundaries
and strong existence,
a boundary of many shades of purple
we cradle in them trying meanings

honey, let it be there,
i will polish your shoe,
get your bag ready,
lemme help with packing;
a week before me to stride alone
from A to Z,
come back soon
I don’t like tea alone

above the purple sea
i paint my white birds of freedom
bunch of white birds
moving in unison...

Thursday, 24 November 2016

City, Night and life

Kim's photograph of Wroclaw, Poland (The challenge is to write a poem about a city at night at dVerse)

night resides in lonely streets,
in dark corners and alleys,
but then it resides in the splendours
of an illumined metropolis too;
inside well-lit windows
heated debates on air,
 nice dinner, kids raising questions,
life-insurance advertisements,
offended WhatsApp groups---
confused over controversies and information---
from the window city glows,
thresholds melt into each other;
like the city, night too is complicated
and here life gets complicated
finding boundary lines;
when its buildings glow in light
the river side by reflect
thresholds melting into each other,
and night resides here---in sleep or wake?


Wednesday, 23 November 2016

...a try at Tan Renga...

Picture courtesy Google

on a bare branch
a crow lands
autumn dusk
alone moon strides
with my numb limbs

Visit CDHK to know more...the first three lines are a famous haiku master's, last two mine.

...walk on...

“I have never been aware before how many faces there are.  There are quantities of human beings, but there are many more faces, for each person has several.” – Rainer Maria Rilke, Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

Picture Courtesy Google 

slithering, shimmering---
 lonely watchful eagle,
a bunch of sparrows,
profound blooms,
deadly snow,
                               it acts many ways;
watchful eyes
with their colored specs;
few, like mirror, true;
deadly masks too---
breathing in love
the monks walk on
leaving back poisonous snakes---

Visit Prompt Nights and dVerse for more...

Friday, 18 November 2016

sow and reap

The long queue before the ATM; vegetable sellers selling tomatoes and spinaches for people with lower denomination notes; lazy people like me watching super moon sitting calmly at windows.

The rabbit, the mother and child or aliens or a moon man, whoever there, can you see me, the long queues and all the dramas?

Oh super full moon
Insane tides rising here
Birds of sky resting  

Wednesday, 16 November 2016

...somewhere far...

Somewhere far,
in the land of coconut;
the land bounded by sea;
 the land of rivers, somewhere far,
there lies a piece of land,
and there is a home,
 surrounded by trees;
surrounded by plants;
it’s the garden,
the garden I know best;
no, it’s not a planned garden
but one nurtured with love;
a garden of coconuts, mangoes and jack fruits;
a garden of bitter gourd, bottle gourd and
a garden of rose, jasmine and shoe flower;
there in the garden is a little fish pond, a well of sweet water
and unknown herbs and blooms;
a garden that smells of trees, flowers, dried leaves and manure
and with a lingering scent of my parents,
their effort and love;
a garden that holds all about being me---
when rain washes its leaves sleepy
with the fullness of water drops
to be fresh and vibrant afterwards,
and the smell of the wet sand---
all about being connected
to an unsaid, unseen truth,
and it lies far behind,
and in all about being me…