A Resolute Stand

A Resolute Stand

Who can control tides when moon’s near?
They keep heaving under that maiden’s gaze,
By scattering sunsets and breaking shores
They promise longer nights in many ways.

At such nights, the wind’s an adopted child,
No more homesick like the darkness,
Rather thoughtless like the intruder,
Or vagabond like the knight at chess

These fateful nights do not make promise
Of a golden dawn or a warm caressing rest,
And ‘cause they head straight from the moon,
You can’t shield yourself even at jest.

A lonely leaf began to flow in these winds,
But like curtains usually do, it kept revisiting.
Briefly to know what loss it’d incurred
Each time to the moon with it’s passing.

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At the break of the year

At the break of the year

In the depth of the night a whistle
Will be blown, and all again shall shoot,
I would not strain my sore muscles,
But escort who left their racing boots.

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Balding in Young Age

Balding in young age

Sweat of burning books in midnight oil
Causes receding hairlines on young scalps.
The mirror becomes a place for refuge
And false trees are sought to hide the Alps.

young minds tremble with goosebumps oft,
And pry to over-hear people’s hushing talks,
Foreign voices get trapped in soul to echo,
In rooms of worry, ghostly knocking stalks

The train of life pauses on rumoring brakes,
The swaying that had lulled to sleep wakes
Up fellow travellers who further leak oil
To burn in murmurs many silent lakes.

Crooked brows try to embrace bare temple,
By feigning needless amazed looks,
Like the bird that hides its beak for shame,
When it’s nest is blown into the brook

None but time teaches a son that true pride
For one’s middling father’s scaled not by height,
But like the balding patch, it’s with ease
He learns to compromise with his sight.

On Crushing a Street Flower

On Crushing a Street Flower

For every humbled flower in the street
One chained tale lies, that will wet the eyes,
Of the self-consoling traveler, whose feet
Crush it’s petals on a misstep’s guise

It’s scent, now no more alive and clinging,
Was once a teaser on the hand-cart that bloomed
Past early village roads, making the singing
Girls, hastily clad, to pause and resume.

When dry summer winds a part of it’s nature
Consumed, it sweat it’s own branch
Wishing a pitying garden to nurture
It’s colors from a plastic stance.

But when the garden of God replied,
With streams from hopeless places,
The cart went mad, with gravity flied,
And placed the flower on it’s folded faces.

Travelers who care, travelers who stare,
All know this sadly tale, this desolate plate
Where both rain and pain, gather near,
Is to be overleaped if journey can’t wait.

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The Hour After Lunch

The Hour After LunchWhen the party had lapped their spoons to shine,
A new clatter of plates begins,
Uniformed but meek, soiled but careless not,
They arrange their well-known things,
Fill queues, like guests at their own houses dine,
Their eyes silencing a long waiting drought.

The hour after lunch appeals to the watchman,
Who runs closing behind the gate’s wing,
Like a duck to it’s duckling warns
Of caution before she’s away corn-hunting.
The lunch’s ending bell brings the librarian,
His fingers still cautious of the pages torn.

The kitchen vapors men, not steam,
As the hands that fed begin to feed
The valleys sated only in dreams,
Where the dam has just been freed.

Like ambitious captives escape tired voices,
As circular hands cleanse their own dishes.
The dense hour keeps our day’s abundance
From eloping with realism by selfish romance.

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Lie of a Genius

Lie of a Genius

He gingerly blends in the sad party’s mood,
Step by step with his nodding pose,
Waiters move like ants stuffed with food
Outside invaded burrows.

Gentlemen greet in happy circles,
In radius of their hands,
While children, carrying birthday bells,
Stick around their legs like sands.

Women with impatient eyes call,
Their daughters bathed with painted baits;
A rich trader’s displayed at the wall,
Unawares of his scapegoat fate

The Genius pauses in his drink’s journey,
Shakes a forward hand,
When asked, “Monseiur, hows the party?”
He lies, “The troupe is reverse of bland”

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Close Analogies

Close Analogies

Everyday I talk through locks and keys,
You, brittle as metal, lend me pillow edges;
Knowing their penchant for tears, you please
Me with a smile, discoloring with ages.

You stutter pauses, swallow words,
Step on close analogies, hoping to sublime
To happy ether the heavy iodine worlds
Of our past, while I accept your crimes.

When you share a merry-go-round city,
Momently I get dissolved in your Jantar Mantar,
Quite like a maze; But when a hive of bees
Bites me, my eyes gravitate to a fixed star.

Our walls fall on neighbors for whom
They’re built, Our roof shatters our footmarks
That, like our thumb-prints, were unique and stark,
And what escape are some parasitic perfumes.

When Young Boys Can’t Be Poets

When Young Boys Can’t Be Poets

A wavy caterpillar crawls on humble earth,
On leaves cosy with morning litter,
Content at outgrowing the egg at birth,
Sated with his semblance of green glitter.

A lustful butterfly makes him stare high,
As it playfully changes hue at it’s flight,
Rustling and bustling it winks from the sky,
It’s stranded friend queries from his plight.

“Can’t I escape the pupa and fly into the air?
Can’t I talk to the bees, up halt and stare?
The butterfly is just a merry state of thought,
For this, who’d have a ten-day war fought?”

And so are poets of this thick speckled age,
Barely twenty, they see the world as a cage,
Write on it’s beauteous walls and shade,
Wond’ring what’s on the other blade.

When freedom is not in the mind’s state,
Poesy is as transient as musing is on slate.

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A Little Boy’s Soliloquizing

A Little Boy’s Soliloquizing

Today I saw a little boy soliloquize
Under his stairway at noon
When the elders were snoring and dreaming
about their last night hangovers.

He chose the stairway because
That’s the only place that didn’t echo
His parents’ thunders, Nor did the elder boys’
homeless kites venture there.

Earlier, when I caught him stealthily passing
And asked his whereabouts;
he lied about searching for his lost kite.
But I didn’t stop him
And waited for his monologues.

Now, under the stairway, his voice
became consciously fragile
I kept watching the drama
Not meant for an audience.

It was clear he was speaking
to his fancies; His facial weather changes
told me who they were.

When he was cold and red,
he was his father;
when he was meek and sheepish,
he became his mother.
And when he gestured about turning
The pages of a book, I knew it was me.

When he asked like his father,
he answered as his mother.
But when he asked like myself,
he answered as himself.

And, that was the most satisfying moment
Of this whole monologue.

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The Smell of New Paint

An old house is painted new, it shines like the sun,
Dust’s peeled off, cobwebs find refuge in the store,
It’s daughter’s wedding is approaching near,
It’s tenants must soon be abandoned.

The family kin lavishly fill the rooms,
Beds join, tables relocate, cloth walls are formed,
Children meet new faces, play bride and groom,
Young men sweat, girls ornament, the house’s swarmed.

The groom arrives, guides away a pregnant cloud,
All fall silent on the sad departure flute, rain in tune,
Repairmen stop and stare, in duty and tears is strewn,
In darkest rooms money change hands, from lost to proud.

Days wait for months, then months for years,
A Diwali speeds fast, another National Flag marches past,
Dust reappear, homeless spiders find work honored.
The paint keeps from falling, glued to a father’s fast.

From distant lands, news fly on many slippery wings,
Some fetch pundits lips, some shadow old wrinkles,
Some, like gravity, pull lawyers; in corners, the paint swings,
Where once had echoed a thousand tinkles.

Lastly, flooded disheveled minds pull the fate,
As hundred kins flock to the smell of a new paint.

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