Without poetic seed there won’t be prose. The elaborate network of trunks, branches, twigs, flowers, fruits and leaves is nothing but a commentary on the small poetic seed. So all ye wannabe writers, nurture the poet in you, who understands the value of pause in life, who moves slowly to watch everything, sight and smell everything. Brushstrokes of poetry softly touch the soul without disrupting its restful muse and bring out the nuggets of love, compassion, harmony and peace.


A black, toxic, putrefied nullah.
A sewage-eating big pig
surviving on garbage dumps.
Two holy mothers turned harlots
in this age of Kaliyuga!
Delhi, meanwhile, pumps
more pride in its polluted lungs.
On stinking sewage-layered banks,
The skinny cow grazes on
noxious weeds and poisoned shrubbery,
Its beneficent, teary eyes
ogle at the human-industrial waste
mocking and mirthing over Yamuna’s sighs.
Who needs a holy bath now and cow’s blessings?
Two pillars of faith
now crumble down to pieces, 
Any listeners to their dismantling shrieks?

Holy Touch!

With softly pining majesty, silence sings a song,
Shadows grow long,
Her soft fingers brace my face
and go along a tears trace.
Delicate tip of her finger bears the jewel,
The tear that would have been lost as salt on my face.


In the fire of my passion
people say I will burn my wings,
And then I will not be able to fly,
How mischievously society takes a dig sly
at those who dare to be different,
For rutted path’s stranglehold is luring,
doling out short-cuts aiming massive gains,–
The ordinary paths avoiding the penanceful pains.
Burn I’ll myself in my own fire
to ashes and ambers,
Or the inferno will bake the skill raw
To turn gold in my soul’s chambers,
Either ashes or gold—
Though the path full of miseries untold,
But even this treacherousness has exceptional charms,
Its forlorn sand is pregnant with virginal solitude,
Its uncluttered loneliness, a mine full of possibilities!
Far away from the crowd
How brilliantly shines that prospect!
The solitary walkers on this path
either die a lonely, ignominious death,
To become the unencumbered particles of its ungutted earth,
Or if somebody carries through the desert,
He arrives at an oasis of gold,
where the creative bliss takes him in charming fold.
These sufferings might turn me into ashes
or turn me into gold,
If the ash is my fate
then I should not hate
my passion’s flame,
For I turned out to be a horse lame
that lined up for the toughest race,
Or with inferno lurking on my face
I play with the fire
and make it my mistress to sire
the golden-winged off-springs;
my consummation signs with the infernal houri,
That wedding night’s taming with creative fury.
The moth is aware of fire’s fury,
Still it doesn’t hover
around a desirous flower’s utility,
With passionate ambers smoldering in its guts,
It goes for a dazzling display around fire;
Its perilous, exciting, flirtatious orbit around the glow,
And the flame laying snares for the deadly blow,
Yet with intoxicated zeal
nearer and nearer it comes to kiss and feel
that finest nectar hidden behind the fiery eyes:
The honey sweeter than any flower for which a worldly honey-bee dies.
Fuelled and fired by every ounce of its instinct
it buzzes around with ecstatic swirls,
It lives life thousand times more
than the ones lured by worldly flower’s lore,
Even its death isn’t just painful plights,
It is merely the pinnacle of its
gradually graduating love flights,
And when it meets its end that explosion of its flesh
is the acme of its fiery passion.
Likewise, I’m the helpless satellite
of the sun of my art,
Hardest I might try,
but from it I can’t part,
Its my life and source of light,
Without it everything is a blind flight
and nothing of purpose in sight,
Hovering around my inspirational sun
is the only form of my fun,
Even if it means the final
crashlanding into the fiery ball,
For the artist it is still a regally carpeted hall.


How possessed the show of life floats away!
Self-absorbed and self-satiating eyes
perpetually ogling at that last ray,
Shines which with trayful of exceptional mundanities,
delicious crumbs and specks of pleasant trivialities,–
Prize’s lesser essence exaggerated manifold,
How deceiving has’n this mirage since times untold!
The rioting mob, meanwhile, creating a stampede and storm—
Thirsty, hungry, eating and breathing sand,
Trying to outpace each other
to reach that coveted oasis land,
where the mirageful sweet speck lies
and the supposed spring of will never dries.
God created us to walk brotherly
on the lush green pastures hand-in-hand,
But we take the path lost in treacherous sand
to out-run each other,
Leaving each other dying
and lying to be buried under those sand dunes,
So much we lose and force others to lose
while running to catch those boons,
Blindly we trample orchids
to catch up with the call by those sandy sighs,
And see, so many die with sand in mouth and eyes!
See that fellow huffing and puffing like an animal
going after that ever-escaping destination,
Like an oxen sweating out the precious drops
to drain out even the last ounces of humanity
from those strained innards,–
The orchid inside suffers a drought,
Aah! How valiantly he fought,
But unfortunately always had’n taking unnecessary shot,
And then the chase became unbearably hot,
Desire’s hallucination sparkles in his eyes as the loser’s dot.
Ever pretending to kow-tow the pious injunctions,
most often we do the opposite,
How coquettishly we keep God
unaware of our motives true!
The characters outsmarting the creator’s real hue,
Betraying thus God and trampling orchards,
whose seeds He planted,
we move ahead,
Unaware the spirit is already dead,
And the title deed with the creator
torn and tattered to its last thread,
Then we go out without any dread
and tread over each other in blind race,
Spit each other in the face
to stop (or made to stop) finally at a place,
where there isn’t those presumptions’ single trace.

Highway Murder

Listen you all, men and nature!
They are killing me!
As the iron hisses, and kisses
across the rings of my age,
I stand benumbed in daze,
This end was not supposed to come so soon,
Wasn’t I fulfilling all the duties assigned to me,
entitling me another wintery full moon?
In self-imposed anesthesia
I just feel the saw’s butchering
into my bloodless flesh in my guts,
There is no blood in me
to give the evidence of a murder,
The sanguine darkness of my mass
is worth only stone for you.
On this hazily sun-lit winter noon,
The hounds are around me,
My murder has been sanctioned
by the state authorities!
For decades I stood for both nature and man,
During those beautiful days
this road was a simple friend
leading to common journeys and destinations,
Now it becomes a foe and highway
leading to some illustrious ray,
And I become redundant old,
standing in the way of progress
with my few square-feet of foot-hold.
If a healthy mass like me is no life;
no more than a mile-stone,
I hope to tell my murder story
till the axes, scythes and saws
send my tiniest of branches to be turned to ashes.
We trees never wince with pain
as your axes spray around chips of our flesh,
I understand we had equal rights
till mankind was just part of nature,      
Now this saw going deeper and deeper
into my bloodless guts,
reminds me of our inevitable fate,–
Every tree on earth now has a deadly date
with the greedy most, treacherous and unforgiving mate.   
They know that I’m massive and big,
So they are afraid of my fall,
Haa! The cowards!
They don’t know, while they rob me
of my few square feet of space on earth,
My saplings are still doling out oxygen
under this winter sun,
Even my murder can’t change me
because I’m helpless due to my nature.
Now the saw has gone sufficiently deep,
And I get some signs of that eternal sleep,
I feel some unbearable pain in my painless mass,
For death is death after all,
Hope you will understand!
Like hangman’s noose, thick hemp ropes
are tied to direct my fall,
From a safe distance, the tractors pull
to bring down this wooden bull,
And now I feel the pain
as cleavage breaks through that portion
still holding me to my mother earth,
From softest saplings to rock hard tissues
my whole body is panicked,
Saplings are crying like purely innocent children,
Hardest of trunk tissues are shamelessly crying
like battle hard, handsome soldiers after losing a battle,
But who cares!
This big snapping sound is my death cry,
And I fall with a thud,
Yes, man you win,
I’m dead before I thought I will!


?and now the April has also gone,
Where are the seeds that I’d sown?
Like a ploughman I worked
in the summer almost melting bones,
Removed the stones,
Rattled which the spirit like someone
caught in desert’s sandy moans.
Then during winter my toil lit up a bonfire
amidst blinding blizzards and nature’s icy deeds,
These were my spring seeds,
embedded, impregnated in earth through my earthy deeds,
Spring seeds meant to
conceive, germinate, grow, ripe, flower and fructify,
But the spring came and went with a sad sigh,
Sorrows in my barren fields hit another high,
My spring seeds thus lost,
And me the farmer standing forlorn
without that harvest of which I used to boast,
Now the scorching May sun
beats down the dusty land with a fiery pun,
Peasant and his field thus stand mute,
Almost complete has’n the plunder and loot,
To gallows was sent my crop,
The hangman just mechanically pulled
the handle at the hanky’s drop,
Efforts’ dead body hangs from that noose,
And even the last strains of
faith, will power and hope getting loose.
People say that too much is my browbeat,
‘Why not clear another stony plot
to get something to eat?’
Perhaps they don’t realize
the blind, illogical passion’s treatise
which I wrote over stones with a pure soul,
Impractical, insane I stand out
with cracks and brain’s hole,
How could I expect fruits from this very plot?
And now I stare at the nullifying dot,
The desert storm meanwhile hisses with its lust hot,
Seeds have most probably been killed,
Aah, with amazing precision
the Goddess of infertility drilled!
While the songs of my fertile efforts in a chorus trilled,
But She has’n successful in its swipe,
Its blinding gung-ho and macabrous hype,
Lolloping its greedy tongue to
dejuice and deflower everything ripe,
Now I lay my back against a
hard, hot, unshaded rock,
My weariness, fatigue and torture
put me in a sleepy dock,  
In that short uneasy sleep
I get some relief from the pain of this injury deep,
A luxuriant crop I see in my dream
and nearby gurgling goes a stream.

The Invisible, Untouched Debris

A painful churning goes on
in the deep, deep recesses mine,
Outwardly I manage to look well and fine.
On my skin sweat beads shine,
These tiny outpours of my desperation
are the struggling vestiges of battles
that I failed to win.
There is a salty sea of sufferings inside,
which the clothing and the mask hide,–
The sea of tears accumulated from yores,
Here mournful, tragic waves strike
the forlorn sand on gloomy shores,
There were deep, hollow pits and spaces
that could have’n easily filled up with
sweet freshwaters and lifeful braces,
But that wasn’t to be,
Rather the tears of endless traumas
made up the sorrowful sea,
Outwardly I just tread on the ground,
And even try to dance
to the social puppetry and civilized sound,
But in the deep recesses of the sea of my being
sharks shred the flesh like the bloodiest of hound,
Thousands of leeches suck the soul’s blood,
And the salty sea gets another torrential flood,
Surrounded by such deadly gloomy waters,
My being’s lofty peaks
shudder with protesting shrieks,
In those vales, precipitation born of miseries
sends down dark showers,
Creating mudslides and breaking stones
from the lofty towers,
Deep echoes of this sea’s triumphant storms
go rumbling through the inner being,
Rains, floods, earthquakes
storm the soul’s citadel,
Their combined fury unleashes mud and sleaze,
Carries which the ensnaring breeze
towards the salty sea of gloom,
Even though outwardly I manage to
keep up some bloom,
But the tremors from inside
reach new high day by day,
And the afraid soul runs helter-skelter
to find some solacing ray
that might say
a valiant nay
to the horrible avalanche pouncing on my soul,
But unmindfully the rocks of
my ideas and principles fatally slide,
and painfully the debris glide
towards the salty sea.
If the erosion from inside
goes on like this,
while I try to maintain the appearance
worth a lady’s kiss,
Then it will leave a huge
cavern overlooking the sea,
Collapse it will then,
And that shiny façade and that wren
will crash with its glittering,
broken eyeglasses still facing the sky,
With the last imprint of final worldly
shot with a cry,
What difference will it make then?
Perhaps, people will still
shed tears over the shiny shell,
And muse,
‘He didn’t die as a broken man.
He was as starry as anyone can.’
Their analysis will just
mull over the debris shiny,
But nobody will give solace
to the agonic corrosion going inside,
Because those who couldn’t
see it while I was alive,
How can they now
when I take the final dive?
 Obituary lines will be written
on those broken shiny shards;–
Farcical symbols of my worldly struggle
and puny success,
While the real struggle
thousand times valorous remains unsung,
For it lies scattered at the lowest rung,
What foolhardiness!
Soul’s sanctum-sanctorium
remains in deadly pals,
while they kiss only the temple’s
outer walls.

Golden Noose

With that invisible love story
tied with an unseen cord
to my tightly sewn lips,
Let me kiss the last drops of her memory
from the cup still brimming
with her image.
The last spiritual door
opening finally for His light,
Preparing for something more,
somewhere in some other world and form,
Where down the distanceless
space-time continuum
lies the timeless face of an
untold, unrequited love tale.
The tiny waves of breathing
can now no longer carry the boat of life,
Last moment’s stormy seizure
quickly subdues the feeble efforts to stay afloat,
And down goes the body,
Hanged by the cord
of a painful love story that was never told.

The Defeated King

The night was very long
and all moments thronged
with frustration, angst and despair,
The darkest faces yelled for anyone to dare.
Like a terribly lynched mule
sluggered away the day
without bringing a new ray,
Now, the night’s long sinewy hairs
cast ghastly shadow over the battlefield lost,
And battle scars get bandaged with frost.
A cumbersome long-long day
when his efforts got butchered
by some mysterious force’s riotous ray,
Now stars shine on darkness’ face;
Like tiny lamps they twinkle from
some fallen hero’s mace
and point to hope and smile
somewhere still holding onto tiniest of trace,
Their poking raylets brace
the frozen blood around scars,
‘The day will come’, they say,
‘and the next sun will light up a new ray!’
‘You will then forget these days dark
and still fearsome nights with a terrible hark!’
The wounded, handsome soldier’s hands
clenched a fistful of earth all blood-soiled,
There were more moments to be toiled,
Somewhere fire in his blood still boiled,
The enemy’ll return in a couple of hours,
‘Let me see how many heads my club covers!’
For the mace handle his hands fumbled,
But once again his feet stumbled
and he fell down,
But that effort’s majesty shone on his face,
Succumbed he then to his injuries and died,
Aha! Immortal was that last shot of pride,
It was found frozen on his face
when the victorious hound
arrived later on the trophy’s trace.

Invisible Scars

Too often I’ve stumbled, staggered
and fallen headlong,
Cuts and wounds mercilessly throng
the bodily stranglehold mine,
Deep fissures reach
where the soul’s diamonds shine;
Injuries so deep—
Aaah! Invisible, invincible dragnet’s richest reap.
Nobody sees the gaping holes in my spirit,
Here the destiny’s blind force
so venomously hit!
God!  Why is it that deepest scars
are invisible to the society’s eyes?
Why remain unnoticed
cuts and wounds of such mammoth size?
Injuries like deepest trenches on sea’s bosom,
Above on the surface
the worldly water waves normally,
Below the scars lurk dreadfully
and darkest of dark roam
in the gloomy, depthless womb.
I, the perpetual peasant,
Always engaged in the sacred labor duty,
While the foe doing
its undoing spadework continuously,         
Its ensnaring checkerwork grinning cunningly,
I meanwhile rise up again
to get some littlest bit of gain,
Alas, my mountainously bulky efforts
only but go haywire!
Not even a little mice I find,
And sorrowfully the tiny lamp goes blind,
The invisible scars
get enlarged and multiplied, of course,
But not even a single eye
sees the bloody bath and the loss!!

Being in the womb of non-being

Aha that solitude's brace
with full grace
on one's hassled self!
The fragrance of silence
away from the mind's violence,
Smell it,
Enjoy to the last bit,
But never forget 
the scent of humanity,
It has its own beauty,
The sweet-sour smell of attrition
of life against testing odds,
Of pleasure, pain, sighs, moan,
The soft brace of a flower
and the divine shower
of smiles and tears 
also bears
the stamp of the unwritten laws,
Nothing'd exist without humane flaws,
The heavenly bliss
and peaceful kiss
prevailing in the vales
won't have any meaning without
the strife and humanity's travails,
Silent whispers in a forest
and the noisy outpours in a bazaar
share deep roots,
Life is impregnated in deep chambers
of silence and solitude
and the mystical beatitude
somewhere far away,
It's then let loose
to seek a higher meaning
in the congested, overbrimming,
cacophonic, struggling bazaar,
Life comes out of a deep cave
to brave 
all that blood, sweat, smile,
tears, love, guile
and hate
that berate
we humans,
We have to pass the test
and be our best
in the crowd
and then wear the shroud
of the eternal sleep
as undisturbed silence motherly creep
to take us deep 
again into the silent womb. 

Among the mountains

Away from all guile,
where the stones smile,
And silence sings a song
to mountain wind's gong,
With disarming translucency the sunrays
seep into the stones' heart cold,
The eagle flying so bold,
A new reality hitherto untold,
Morose and weary,
and the soul all teary,
I walk on the stony path
with needle sharp memories
frozen in the mind,
like the glacial ice behind,
With a cunning discretion
they slowly creep
by inches over the years,
jarring the stones,
rubbing boulders and crags,
I want to escape
from all that breeds pain
for some soul's gain,
And the stony solitude
seems to feel my estrangement and platitude,
It embraces me,
Bares its secrets for me to see,
Furtively slide a few pebbles,
Dead grass breaks its drowsiness,
It sways
and prays,
With a resounding laughter,
the wind runs after
the stony peaks,
Bubbling and gurgling
a little stream from a glacier,
A huge boulder greets,
stifling a yawn,
in its clumsy, gruffy voice,
I just stand there,
My soul ready to bare
all pains and listlessness,
And looks at the icy summit
standing there like a peaceful hermit,
For comfort, solace and guidance.

A little bouquet of soft treasures

A little child's soft touch
is healing much,
Almost an atonement for all grown-ups' sins.
An old person's smile,
innocence beyond all youthful guile
is fresh, honeyed and young.
The gentle touch of a kind heart
is a mightier support
than the rock-solid calculations
in a scheming mind.
Simplicity a far better
ornament than any cosmetic make-up.
Truth is the best representative of God
than any rituals and customs.
Joy is soul's most suitable food
and happiness best food for the body.

Broken forever

It has been a slow burn
and a painful churn
going in the innards of my being,
The blades of those memories
now spin, whir and buzz,
unleashing a tornado in the soul,
The sharp blades cut
and firmly shut
the door to any new bloom
in the heart's gloom,
They cut any new image,
They make noise
to outshout any fresh song's poise,
They unleash winds
to wipe away any new footmarks
of a walk with someone new,
They lick the dew
before a new smile
might grace the suffering pile
and admire and embrace
with grace.

You walked away
with a painful sway
away, away
to be happy and gay
with another heart's new ray
and here I lay,
alone, forlorn and at bay
from all that might give a new day,
Because the rotating sharp blades
whirring in the soul's glades
shake me from inside,
I laugh and smile outside
and cry inside,
I should have known 
that flowers come with thorny bemoan,
The petals and smiles are windblown,
But the thorns remain
as hooks
and nightmarish crooks,
piercing your heart
with a poisonous dart,
Keeping you anchored
in a breached, stormed lagoon,
Shines where the broken moon,
You want to escape from it,
but cannot move even a bit,
You have loved so much
and broken to extent such
that now you can't love anymore,
You just love being tossed away from safe shore,
In love you have given your all
that you love only your fall,
Now you take your pain
as a gain,
You walk in the rain
secretly holding your pain
and pass your tears
as a smile that the raindrop bears,
You are drenched with sorrow and pain
and they think it's just rain,
You are trying to manage the pain inside,
The tortuous heave of the tide,
But they think
you are roiling in joyful pink,
That you are laughing
with the soul happily surfing,
You struggle to pull out the thorn,
while your soul and spirit mourn,
The thorn hooked in your heart
which doesn't allow you to part
from the times gone,
Your soul and spirit bemoan
the dreams broken to pieces,
The hook so firmly embedded,
gone so deep
and going still deeper with a bloody creep,
The hook almost a living entity with roots
and offshoots,
It grows to be a dark forest
without any ray,
Its dark nights hold all hopes at bay,
The long dreary nights
with lonely fights,
Its shadows loom so large
as to barge
into your days
chucking out their rays,
Yoru days are eaten
and smile thoroughly beaten,
You are afraid of a lovely smile
and take it as another guile,
You run away
from any new cuddling sway,
You know you are broken within,
And now you can hardly be a mender
of some lovely heart
seeking your company for a new start,
Looking up to you for solace,
love and peace.

On an icy mountain

Away from all guile,
where the stones smile,
And silence sings a song
to the mountain wind's gong,
With disarming translucency the sunrays
seep into the stones' heart cold,
The eagle flying so bold,
Smiles a new reality hitherto untold.
Morose and weary
and my soul teary,
I walk on the stony path
with painful memories 
frozen in the mind,
like the glacial ice behind,
With a cunning discretion
they creep slowly,
by inches over the years,
jarring the stones,
painfully rubbing the boulders.
I want to escape
from all that breeds pain
for some soul's gain,
And the stony solitude
feels my estrangement
and embraces me,
Bares its secrets for me to see,
Furtively slide a few pebbles,
Dead grass breaks its drowsiness
and sways
With a resounding laughter
the wind rams into the pointed peaks,
Bubbling and gurgling 
emerges a stream from a glacier,
A huge boulder greets,
stifling a yawn,
in its clumsy, gruffy voice,
I just stand there,
My soul ready to bare
all pains and listlessness,
and look at the icy summits looming large,
Peace sparks its mystique charge,
I open the portals of my confined being,
and allow the non-being
to enter my little egoistic hut,
the marks of the customized rut,
The untamed force charges in,
and douses the individualistic din,
It's all there to feel and see
and just be, just be. 


When all the wars will be over
and nothing left to fight for,
The few remaining people
will seek each other,
looking for the long-lost human love,
and humanity's touch and smell
which long ago fell
into the dust
lost in civilizational rust,
They'd recall words kind
inhumanly left behind
in the mad race
to acquire a superhuman face,
Stories they'd share
and go for a solacing soul's bare,
They'd seek music in some bird still alive,
They'd hunt for beauty in some lone flower's thrive,
They would sit under a still intact tree
to spend some moments free
from wars and hate,
and try to rewrite their fate,
They'd drink water from some little stream,
and would dream
of all that the mankind lost,
which mother nature had given 
for free as a kind host,
They'd then sow,
after that typical humans' row,
faith, trust, brotherhood and love
in the barren burnt wastes 
to savior again the long dead tastes,
They'd drop the seeds of love
among the ashes of war,
And nourish the saplings 
with their repentant tears,
They'd hope that the ash bears
some saplings of humanity,
They'd till their little field
with an affectionate shield,
They'd celebrate fistfuls of yield,
It'd be a very small world again,
A tiny flicker of life
among death, destruction and strife,
They'd share the stories
how they unmade
all that had'n made
under a lone tree's shade.

The question

These questions are yours all,
And the answers that somehow fall
in your knowledge zone
are also your own explanatory moan,
The questions go out
with a seeking shout,
The answers that come home,
These're your own queries reshaped after a roam,
Your query is your mind's eye
wandering with a searching sigh,
It goes on a prowl
carrying its reaping scythe for a meaningful sprawl,
And after many an argumentative brawl,
Comes it home
after a restless roam,
Transformed now
after debates and discussions
ending in an agreeing bow,
It now fills up the space
left out when it went out to embrace
an iota of meaning for you,
The same vapors now turned dew
carrying a solacing hue,
The question was all yours,
The answer too is all yours,
Just some medium carried it on,
And simply a medium took it home,
Yours it was,
Yours it's now,
Just a subtle change,--
The puzzling cloud turns crystal clear dew,
Just a shape new,
Receive it as your own,
The missing child that was once gone,
Hold it,
Cherish it
and smile
for it has travelled many a mile. 

Momentary kiss of bliss

Don't ye seek permanent bliss,
for then you miss
its softest touch
on your soul bruised much,
Permanence is too big a load,
Leave it for the God,
Soft, soothing is the transient brace
with full grace
on your restless self,
A gentle song to calm down suffering yelp.
So journeyman,
soak the tiny gentle instalment of bliss,
Allow it to kiss
your fatigued nerve,
Feel a bird's verve;
a stream's ripply wave
so beautifully brave;
a vale's beauty
performing its natural duty;
a dewdrop's pride 
shining like a new bride;
a bird's free flight;
a child's unconditional delight;
the silence singing a song
in hilly seclusion for long;
godliness in a forest pristine and pure
where truth pervades all sure;
hope in someone's eyes;
a lover's sweet sighs.
These are little dollops of bliss
that arrive with a momentary kiss,
Grab them,
Soak them,
Imbibe their essence in you,
Then you won't rue
the absence of permanent bliss,
Allow its little representatives to kiss
your tired self
crying for help. 


Oh, if not for this chatter in the mind,
I won't have been blind
to softly caressing greeting by a flower;
autumnal breeze's cool shower;
a flowery branch's tipsy sway;
a dew glinting in the sun's ray;
a bird's chirpy pun;
another's flight for fun;
slight shift of a cloud in the sky;
a lonely heart's sad sigh;
the unsaid behind someone's words;
the silence enveloping the noisy birds;
pain hiding behind a smile;
tears lurking behind a joyous pile;
the pause shadowed by the mad race;
suffering behind an angry grimace;
the light hidden under the dust;
the imperishable under the surface rust.
Oh, if not for the chatter of this mind,
so many things won't have'n left behind,
unsaid, unseen, unfelt, unheard, untouched, unsmelt,
Oh, if not for this chattering mind
a treasure won't have'n left behind. 

A dawn

On a vintage autumn night
tremulous dewy stars
kiss the seasonless silence
spread over the lips of darkness,
A mysterious hand caresses
the tousled tresses of the night,
Whimsical swirls and ripples
of the passing seconds
in the vast, silent pools of darkness.
Someone's exhausted sobs 
and ceaseless moans
now dive forever into the
measureless serenity 
of the slumbering eternity.
The high tide of darkness
swallowed the star,
And the gloom
added to its
invisible shades to the far.
Then keen and warm light filters from
the eastern horizon,
Flits across the misty, dewy curtains.
I feel a benevolent new sun,
a new fireball
with warm blessing rays.

The mountain eagle

The mountain eagle--
a hunting, humming sophistication--
unabashedly flying in splendor and ecstasy,
Its unquenchable, well-mapped tempests
creating an airy, overwhelming firmament,
But does this fraction of neatly ordered reality
possess anything good
for the prey as well?

A little place

In the hills there is a corner little,
Peaceful, silent and still,
Motherly protects the hill
the daughterly shrine pearly,
The sun cometh early
and kisses the dew-jewelled cobwebs,
Shines upon the watery beads,
Fatherly the sun reads
all that was mysteriously written at night,
Away from all light,
With its softly reading touch
stars shine much,
The dew shines and smiles,
away-away from all guiles,
like the jewellery of bushes and grass.

Herein I walk in sometimes,
Gently seeking permission to be let in,
Away from the noisy din,
And like a smiling host
it feels my weary roast,
And without boast,
the kindest host,
opens her gates
to this little soothing place
set-up by the
free-flowing spontaneity 
of the existential force. 

The moth that burned the flame

O thou lady moth,

Holding 'this' and 'that'

in your hands both,

Accuse thou me the flame

and put all the blame

on my burning male flame.

You say,

keeping your own mischief at bay,

that I burned your wings,

How stoutly self-justification sings!

You blame

fully aflame

that you scalded your skin

in going around my fiery orbit's din.


Dear, let me share this,

Lies lie buried under your kiss 

and a selfish hiss

under thy whisper soft

and the best fakery held aloft.


You complain of scalded skin

and bruised wing,

But what of me?

If you could ever feel and see!

You just feel the heat

of the fire,

o thou liar,

The fire that burns in my heart's each beat,

It was merely warmth,

as your miseries swarmth,

to melt your rigid icicles of pain,

And amazing was the gain,

You bloomed and flowed,

Your face glowed

with a new lovely hue,

And now thou rue

that it was a scalding, furious fire,

O thou my sweet liar,

Know this that,

my wily cat,

you pierced my heart

with your sweet poison's dart,

And drilled a hole in my flame,

putting on me all the blame.


Thou proudly walk away

with all coquettish sway,

leaving a hole in me,

which nobody can see,

A hole more fiery

than my entire flame,

And the crown of shame.


You hurl accusations

with a shine in your eyes,

But you should know the flame dies

hundred times

for each little scald of yours. 


A morning walk in a misty vale

I feel reborn,
After a dark night all forlorn,
When the sunrays come, 
embracing me as a chum,
kissing the early morning mist,
opening the darkness' fist,
The beads of dew
lying like scattered bridal jewellery
after the conjugal night,
The remnants of mischievous bite,
Now they shine under light,
Glittering diamond is the dew,
Real gems left so few,
The air fresh and cool,
Refreshing pool,
There I go,
Birdy songs in tow,
Walk on the little path,
Feeling freshest after the bath,
Silence, peace embracing me,
Softly whispering, 'Dear, just be!
Everything is yours to see, 
Walk your journey,
Sing your song,
Own your feelings,
Accept your wrongs,
Forgive those who hurt you,
Own the choice that went wrong,
See then how light you feel,
As light as this sunlit, misty veil,
Then you will just flow,
with a beautiful glow,
Walk slow
and shake hands with this little flower
beautifully burdened under dewy shower,
Smile, greet as they line up
by your almost untrodden path,
They are the loving, lauding audience
as you reach home
after that puzzling, tiring roam.' 

A deal

Why do most of the
relationships fall apart?
Because a fake buyer
met a simple but eager seller.

When two people meet,
a man and a woman,
and woo each other 
to win their respective favours,--
Some body's delight,
Some balm for the heart in plight.

They tease and bait
testing their fate,
To catch the coveted fish of pleasure,
or gems from heart's hidden treasure,
But baiting naturally involves attraction,
A cute hypnotism and some innocent distraction,
The hook needs a tasty worm,
It's a claw disguised as food
waiting in the stream of varying mood.
It's a sweet tussle of flesh and spirit,
One catches
and the other gets caught
after a nice extravagantly battle fought,
It's a complete play
involving dialogues, drama and plot,
The pursuit should be hot.

For her, the ignition of initial chemistry needs 
a handsome knight in shiny armour
capable of carrying all the colors of her dreams,
While she has to be a beautiful princess
full of promises 
carrying fidelity, pleasure, care and share,
The expectations are high
as both vie 
to fit in the other's eye,

So both adorn a nice costume
befitting the other's brightest dreams.

The man comes with more fakery
than the woman
because he has to catch the huge whale 
of her expectations of a complete man,
He thus dons a glittering costume
to match the stars in her eyes,
While a woman need not fake at all
beyond faint brushing of her physical charms,
as that is all that swarms
the infatuated man's brain and brawn,
Her beauty is all that is there to see,
The man is eying only that with a glee.

Thus a fake customer meets
a simple, coquettish seller,
Promising to buy the entirety of her dream,
Leaves that her in an ecstatic stream,
The deal thus gets done,
Proceeds then all fun,
Sadly, after the pleasure-run
his costumes come off gradually,
She is now surrounded by her broken dreams,
The naked stranger stands affront,
Now she can hardly recognise 
the purchaser of her dreams,
Her soul screams
as she realises that
she'd sold herself on fake promissory notes.

The strangers then fight,
The love-flower bugged with blight,
Darkness where it was all bright,
Hopes now out of sight,
They now bargain a separation,
Guilt, anger, accusations, justifications fly
not leaving any space even for a smiling bye. 

The broken boulder

The promises were all rosy
to make my dreamy world all cosy,
And I believed you,
Believed the blushing hue
on your face
whispered as 'love you' in my embrace.
Believed the honesty of light
in those eyes, big, dark and deep,
They looked a clam, balmy sea
for me
to swim, sunbathe and reach home
to that island bearing the love-dome.
Believed the purity of that kiss
purred with a seductive soft hiss
on my lips
with ecstatic coquettish drips.

Promises are made to be broken,
I should have known,
You think you just broke a little vow,
A tiny promise,
A dewy fragile word,
Or just the brittle assurance of a kiss,
Or a few stars in the eyes,
You think these are small cuts,
not amounting to a big sin or murder,
Dear let me tell you,
These are the major cleavages
in the dam,
Every stone has a brittle seam,
Hit it there with the tiny chisels of
unkept promises, fake stars in the eyes,
lying kisses and feigned whispers
caressing the earlobes,
Hit the mightiest stone with them,
And its stoniness lays bare,
There it lies broken,
It'll withstand a strike
by the head-on strike of a bull,
But it will fall apart 
by the strike of a tiny chisel
that knows where to strike the softest spot.

Clever are the feminine strikes,
They hit deep,
The masculine blind force hits
just the surface to give a skin-bruise,
But yours lays bare the entire structure loose.

All done 
and moving ahead for more fun, 
And clever enough to put all blame on me,
Using the male's kitty of stereotyped blames,
Judged yourself to be the victim
and me the culprit 
in your own court
using your own laws
your own arguments
shouted by your own lawyers 
and the smart verdict by your own judge.

Confidently you broke the stone
and left it scattered with its painful moan. 

A new day

Masculine dark with its handsome, callused charms
melting in the arms
of soft, gauzy traces of feminine light,
to conceive a morning twilight,
Give they birth then to a day bright,
Warm sunrays for
the leaves suffering frostbite,
The soft petals that
stood against the icy might
during the night,
The stars all out of sight,
Now the morning sun arrives 
for a dewy delight.
I also come down from some lonely height
and open my senses
to what is their natural right.
It's lovely to see
and just be
with all that was lost
when darkness was the host,
It's an assurance to find
the same world behind
the night's curtain blind,
Walk, hop, jog and run,
Fatherly smiles the sun,
Dance on the stage till you're done,
Draw all the sweet pun
and ensure grudges are left none. 

The mighty puppeteer

Love makes
then breaks,
From the pleasure pool
goes into a teary sea the fool,
Love, the tireless fiction writer seeking glory,
Writes it then another story,
The stage shifts,
The protagonists drift,
The characters move
in full groove
with the new stage,
And pain in hearts rage
of those who are left out,
Give they nostalgic shout.
It's now a new drama and fresh game,
But the story's moral stays the same,
Love is the puppeteer,
Juggles and shuffles
various characters from different stories,
Old ones pushed away,
New dreams hold sway
for the fresh arrivals,
They excitedly brush against each other,
Spins it out more stories,
They look all different and fresh,
But are essentially the same
boosted by the new crush.
All this while,
love shapes
then reshapes
the same clay 
for its titillating play,
Some tears of pain
to pay for someone's pleasure and gain,
A teary rain
goes in vain
in the eyes now turned a stranger's,
A sad, resigned smile
to pay for someone's new guile,
A cry
for someone's heart gone dry,
Some pieces broken
for someone's completion.
Love, the master, is never short of carriers,--
the vast effulgent sea of emotions
seething, boiling in many a heart,
So many volunteers to bear the burden
on their shoulders with glory and glee,
It's a sadistic delight to be its prisoner,
Privileged feels the carrier,
the poor bearer
of the royal palanquin.
And the show goes on
amidst joyful shouts and many a painful moan,
Some eyes lose their stars
that shoot off and find new
fresh dew
on the flowers in fresher eyes,
The old one just sadly sighs,
Thus, the show of love goes on,
The same old story
but the characters heartlessly ruffled 
and mindlessly shuffled. 

A full moon night in a forest

The full moon
smiles through a canopied, leafy screen
of the chir-pine forest
to light a tiny lamp
for some soul caught in depressing swamp,
To light a heart gone all dark and damp.

The crickets jingle
to mingle
with a broken dream's notes stale,
And compose songs to fill up the little dale.

The mountain wind drums,
Silence hums
a song using hardly pine needles,
An owl mischievously twiddles
the brooding shadows with its hoot,
Unconcerned the wind plays its song,
Unbothered of the mysterious shadows
that throng
the looming swabs of darkness
around the moony raylets
filtering through the canopy,
It's a tune of mother nature's
unbound hilarity
unmatched in parity.

The dew-crowned wilderness,
The music fragrant,
A natural brew against dark fate's bite,
A soft, fragrant heart's culinary delight,
The bushy growths looking up at the trees' height
to become a stalwart tree
and kiss someday the air all free.

There are corners where 
no sunrays come kissing earth,
They miss the morning mists of the valley,
Life and living longing to bloom up
with joy and energetic girth,
The secluded corners look at the moon
for some solace and soul's boon,
The sun is too shiny and still shuns them,
The moon they can cajole and caress.

The peaks around
looming with a pride unbound,
Then the moony beauty caresses
their hard edges,
They melt and abandon their arrogance's badges,
The highest of the high
surrender their arrogance 
with a palpable sigh.

The play of the moon on the darkness,
A mystical combo of white and dark,
Light gently creeps into
the folds of darkness,
Not trying to annihilate it,
Just zestfully temper with it a bit,
So that it melts somewhat
to pleasant shades of gray.

A lovely transformation in a mountain forest
on this full moon night,
There are hearts that can delight
in these subtle shades,
The day hides so many things
which now come out for freedom and liberation,
Free from all prying eyes
and dry, dreadful sighs. 

Ode to an autumnal full moon

A full moon,
shining like the sun on a joyful noon,
on this autumnal night,
What a wonderous sight!
The milky rays,
Whispers through them divinity and says,
'Sleep thou my child
after the daylong hankering wild!'
The darkness is lit,
The milky rays even sneak a bit
into my tired, resting heart,
and stroke to life some sleeping art,
creating a smile on my dreamy face,
A glow, a hope, a new dream's trace,
Its lovey, soft fingers brace
with a caring lover's grace,
The pain gone,
after a soft mumbling and sleepy moan,
The full moon just for me shone.

The milky, translucent nectar
filtering through a veil of dewy mist,
It assuages, alleviates the pain
born of dreams broken
still tightly held in my fist, 
The shattered love pieces
held in my grasp like gems,
The glassy shattered pieces
still cut the flesh on my grasping palm,
and the heart finding this sweet pain a balm.

The night jasmine is all abloom,
all fragrant with a seductive smile,
And darkness hiding in little corners
with a predatory guile,
All and everything relaxed
after crossing another mile,
With dreams of repeating the same
with the coming new sun's fame.

Some lone lark,
fighting its sorrowful dark,
lets loose a pining song
finding its loneliness too long,
The sadly sweet notes awaken me
and ask me to be
a witness of their melodious litigation
in the final court for some mitigation.

The full moon on a misty night,
and the lark's song of sorrowful delight. 

Shy, scared verses

Where does my poetry surface the best?
Where do my emotions aren't shy to come out?
Where does my poetry feel safest?
It seeks disposable scraps of paper,
Ruffled, frayed, crumpled chits of paper,--
An old bill of no use now;
some shopkeeper's calculating scrawl;
some time-worn receipts;
some redundant acknowledgments,
Anything that has no value anymore
to lay claim to something higher 
than some defeated verses.
My poems, my emotions' offsprings
seek these dustbinned items
and cling to them 
like autumnal dew clings to fresh roses,
Both are unrequired expressions
beyond monetary valuation,--
One of a petty task done,
The other just lost pieces 
of a necklace broken by time and people,
Both are floating around to cling 
to some similar worthless fragments.
The scraps and chits of paper look
eager to voluntarily enter their grave,
The verses avoid shiny, sleek pages
and well-bound diaries,
or a flower-bordered, fragrant paper,
or the shiny screen of a notepad,
or costly computer,
or a precious smartphone,
They are afraid of them, these verses mine,
Like a beggar scared of a palatial bungalow,
They seek poor quarters,
where they won't feel 
the shame of their nakedness,
where they can merge 
with the filth, squalor and misery,
They just need a poor quarter 
to hide and feel safe and alive,
They just need poor, soiled clothes
to hide their poor, pathetic body,
They merely seek something
that's of no use to humans,
Maybe they want to hide
even from their own self,
They are looking for things
that are even more valueless 
than the paper scraps in a dustbin.  


You came
and became
a part of me,
Became my own eyes to see
more of living and life
among all this painful strife,
Part of an enlarged me
became thee.

Time's tidings swept away
by the new ray,
Alas, set then the new sun
after its daylong fun,
Joys finished after the sweet run.

Some new heart now you light,
Leaving me in darkness to fight,
sweetest memories out of sight.

With my broken self,
I wander with a piteous yelp,
Still, it's sweet pain,
Memories drizzle sometimes as fine rain,
Nothing goes in vain,
In first adding and then cutting me,
A new version at least I be,
Remodeled, resized reshaped,−
Hidden scars beneath the worldly drape,
Anyway, I'm something new,
Hold my heaven in a drop of teary dew.

Broken toy

You broke me beyond repair, 

each piece lying scattered in despair,

You, a child playing with a toy,

full of joy,

Then on a childish whim 

suddenly went for the bud's beheading trim,

Giving it sorrows full to the brim,

Kicked it away

and moved with swagger and sway,

To make a fresh heart’s hay,

Away, away!

Here the broken toy lies,

Its each broken part separately dies,

Multiple deaths these are,

While you play again far, far,

With another toy,

With marvellous ease and joy,

While the broken toys aren't fit for love again,

Catch they no child's fancy chain,

They just keep the memories and the past

through sad nostalgic blast

lynching their broken parts,

Gain some unprofitable arts,

And then crumble 

with silent rumble

and die finally with a sigh 

and a sadly smiling bye

to the child far away 

playing with full heart's sway

with another toy,

All joy, all joy!


Moving on

Anger should mellow down a bit, 

and melt later to turn sorrow, 

then change into forgiveness, 

followed by acceptance. 

And maybe then dear friends 

we can afford a gentle smile,

And welcome a new day;

anchor the bruised self in a safe bay,

And remember the past with a painless nostalgia,

And move on. 

Journeyman, that's how we ought to

proceed on our path.


A higher dose of love

There I walk in a little hill forest,

A sad heart broken beyond repair,

Broken dreams and soul in despair,

Everything seems just a futile glimpse of shifting mists,

Big questions stare in my face,

is it light embracing darkness? 

Or darkness welcoming light?


Loss, longing and love 

brewing a mist in the morning forest,

I walk on a lone path, 

Then the sunrays streak in, 

Everything turns into love,

Loss and longing glide away with misty vapours, 

Love is nothing but all the lesser emotions sublimated fully.


Ode to silence

Each word is incomplete, 

just an abstract, broken fragment born of 

thoughts arising in the mind. 

And the mind itself a grainy fragment 

of the overall consciousness,

Words are mere grains of sand,

With sandgrains we try to make castles, 

huge castles that we cast in pursuance 

of the ever-missing meaning of life, 

And then the sand slips, 

we go for awkward flips. 

Words are mere broken arrows,

How will one even win a battle with broken arrows?

Words are mere sparks, 

temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence,

They just give a little flash of light around our feet 

as we grope in the darkness,

seeking a way out of our puzzles. 

Words are mere temporary twinklings 

on the vast canvas of silence,

They themselves tell their story of incompleteness, 

their own meaninglessness 

behind all the meanings ascribed to them,

And the moment we listen to their story, 

we arrive at the moral of the final story,--

The moral of their story is silence;

Silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening. 

As I write this, 

huge rumblings of megh naad, 

the rumblings of clouds, 

buzz across my head:

A booming cosmic storm 

that chucks out the outer shell of words, 

crushes the stones to spread the sand 

to go flying with the winds, 

The words getting sucked into 

a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy, 

And beyond that silence, stillness and emptiness.



Rains and more rains,

Mold in the pickle jar,

White coral mushroom on the rotting plank,

Potatoes with spikey sprouts,

Baby frogs everywhere, 

Lots of nests in the trees and plants, 

The sky laden with flying insects,

Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads, 

Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers,

The air with a musty smell,

The railings more rusty,

The sky just a cloudy canvas,

Hot teas and spicy pakoras,



Love and loss in the season of moss, 

Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in 

and take a shelter in the autumnal camp,

Well, it has been too damp,

Welcome now the sunny lamp.


A diet for gutsy guys

Eat all your pains yourself,

Be utmost gluttinous in it,

Don't share them,

And then take long-long sips 

of all the insults hurled at you,

Don't share them as well, 

Believe me fed on this cattle feed 

you will emerge as a 

strong, gutsy, thick-skinned human-animal.


Little stream

Little hills,

A verdant small valley, 

And a curvaceous beauty,--

A stream rippling across the stones,

Its unchained notes singing a song

for the tired traveller who stops by it,

Its divine fluidity melting 

the stony pain in his heart,

Its free will flowing joyfully,

setting him free from the 

prison of fears, worries and tension. 


Bringing life to a still-born morning

A gloomy grey dawn with shades deep,

All silence except the lonely katydid 

who still kept its hopes alive for a mate 

through its unhurried breep breep. 


The sky hung spent,

Looking forlorn with languorous bent,  

Discharmed after overexerting itself in 

breaking September rain record, 

The earth below soaked full 

and lay sleepy like an overfed bull. 


No rockchats for their pre-dawn birdy chatter,

Things are always supposed to be better, 

Then the faint traces of a new day 

filtered across the clouds with a new ray. 


A handsome oriental magpie Robin 

took over the chorus from the tired katydid 

and the dandy black and white bird's 

teasing, naughty chitter broke the ice. 


Instantly a couple of peacocks gave gruffy hoots, 

A crow cawed, 

A dove sent its docile notes, 

A white wagtail chipped in, 

A few sparrows gossiped across the branches. 


The morning chorus singers 

increased in number and variety, 

It's the birds who announce 

a new day most beautifully, 

Listen to their announcement, 

They always seem wishing you 

the best of a morning!


Philanthropy of a common man

I'm a common man with modest means, 

and common people have to be 

conscious of their deeds 

that may justify 

their philanthropic conscience. 

They have their limitations 

and need to look for small avenues 

to satisfy the good spirit. 

I am no exception,

I collect my tiny grains of good deeds,--

A potted rose feeling extremely thirsty, 

its buds and top leaves drooping despiritedly, 

I pour water with care and consideration, 

Within fifteen minutes I see the results, 

The branches straighten and leaves turn taut, 

the buds raise their heads again, 

They will smile fully tomorrow. 

Now who says that 

good deeds don't fetch beautiful results?



A richly yellow, thick, grand old 

guava leaf lets go of its grip 

on the branch and tumbles down 

to create a soft tonk on the car's roof. 

The completion of a journey! 

Well, I believe some stately wise old man 

also died peacefully in sleep, 

after completing a joyful, meaningful life, 

in some corner of the world 

at exactly the same time.


Crawling for a new day

The day 

holding its last ray,

The dusk 

at its mellifluous cusp,

The breeze stops

to welcome dew drops,

To the nest

birds return for rest,

The leech

also has to reach

a place safe,

To crawl

cling and brawl

on a new day.


Ode to solitude

Embraced by the pining silence 

and stillness of these mute hours, 

my detached self grows more detached 

and aloof like those misty distances 

virginally spread out under the star light.

Thus, the lone pine

felt absolutely fine.


Love Sutra

The shape of my love 

is like water. 

It will fill up 

any vessel you hold...