Her panama reminds

Her panama reminds.

She adjusts her souwester with her hands,
the blister in her hands in comparison with
her soft silken hands that thrust some sweets
into her popping out bag.

The cotton panama flies in the wind,
She concludes the sunset of her life,
Dusk intrudes, no more brightness,
All pervading sun’s rays straight on her
Sunburnt face, she forgets one moment,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

Hopefully she can feel the sunrise,
Again she adjusts her souwester in her hands,
Her mouth watering, the smell of
Sweet tempts her,

Hope heals her swelling heart of sore,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

The thirty minutes in the Lift---


The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Made me a dead plank, the power failure
ran down a tremor into me.

the suffocation, the sense of my being lonely,
the thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
sent a shock of despair and trauma.


the thirty years of living in this world
with atheism creeping in me,
agnosticism, all shattered into nothing.

I am one with the POWERLESS now,
I am one with the POWERFUL now,
The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Turn a powerless into a powerful now.

Hope

Hope

Hope sits on the top of a full branched tree,
Green leaved, in the grip of full-blown Spring,
as green as prosperity in a glass vial,
till yesterday, jollity struck
swinging along with the jubilant parrots,

sudden glimpse of a bleating cow,
Hope sees on the other side of the mountain,
environment goes berserk,
hope is slowly melting as ice cubes,
transparent white chunks thaw and liquefy,

do I have a future, where do I go?
Hope introspects sad and bemuse,
Ageless rocks of the mountain, ready to
disband the inhibited tears of hope, say,
look at us sturdy, even mighty waves
cannot shake us, hope! hope!hope!

who needs prayers

Who needs prayers?

Sitting on the broad branches, broad
as big as a drum, though felled and dead,
Still seemingly alive, for the wetness is green
with brownish color, for the soil struck roots
are strewn are here spread idle on the corner,

looking up at the sky at the injustice done,
I too look up at the sky, it has forsaken the land,
the gurgling waters of the pond murmur
we are in the throttles of death trap,
aridity is our slow and frequent visitor,

the horse effortlessly grazing upon the
withering grass, sand and pebbles popping out,
the nearby mango tree has two regular
visitors of parrots pouring in,
counting the life span of the tree, fruitless,


the graveyard is full, people mourn
looking for a burial ground,
the stench and stink rotting the wind,
stack the busy throb of life,
who does not need prayers?

Mother gets a message from abroad.


Mom, when I think of this head ache,
me in my cot within four walls,
this shiver runs through my veins
like an electric shock,
I experience a windy day, ice cold,
chill wind intrude unquestionable,

how often you would knock at my door
barred by my obstinacy, to give a hot
cup of coffee, arrange my assignments,
papers in order, remove those china cups
with left over tea with sediments,

these unwashed clothes in the corner
longing for a washing machine,
remind me those days of your
quick decision of their removal
and cleaning with murmured affection,

these empty plates in my shared kitchen
downstairs mock at my laziness,
for how often I had hurriedly left
food stuff on the plates still held
by your caring hands,

oh! Mom, I miss you for many many
things, the very thought you is
energizing, now I get up and go
close my window for the frost is poking,
Oh! Mom, it is a costly miss.

Indian Summer

Indian summer

It is very hot, here in India,
I sweat, perspire, squeeze my
handkerchief wet becomes
droplets of water, on my handbag,
sweating on my forehead, as if
to shed ego and pride,
giving advice to ego,
as I come out, you too wean ,

I forget this weakfish like,
Green colored, lurking in the
Corner of my bag the umbrella,
as I unfold it, it spreads like a
Cute little girl spreading her
frilled frock, dancing before me,
dancing on the smooth mosaic floor,

I picture my granddaughter who
Danced, dances, rounding, holding
her frock, this is not the age for her
to realize, that life is a mosaic of
seasons and serendipities,
I cool in the late spring showers
Of my London flat, the mild white
Snow, a companion to my bath tub,
Dove is creamy white, with its froth,
Bids adieu to trivia, trivia.

NOW is only time for her

‘Now’ is only time for her.



There is enough grain for porridge,
just for now, just for three,
her eyes reveal no prospects of tomorrow,
her thin wiry hands pumping the stove,
intermittent cough visiting her,
those squirrels jump over the shed,
there are convenient gaps, both for the
squirrel and rats to exchange interplay
in the thatched roof, sunbeams too pass
through as a matter of fact,
the sick nonagenarian,
sits up on the sinking cot, dirty pillow,
the third inmate, the white cat, fondly
licks the plate of porridge,
the grand old woman with a porridge
reaches the old man, looks up,
near the threshold, Now is hers,
she admits, nothing about tomorrow.