Samsara

As you make the strings tremble
With chiseled tips playing uncontrolled,
My random thoughts diffuse into one.
Of the image I wake up to; sleep with.

The sound of your music acts guide
Through memories I made of reveries;
Like the happening that reminds us
Of the night dream we forget upon wake.

Though all rise and fall and bends I know
By listening and living your practice
I am touched and surprised every night
Like when I try and steal your sight.

Vainly wishing I had not given another
And thinking secretly to sin the sacred,
I take effort to keep most of the music
To accompany me as I remain by the sill.

~ a wife’s admiration for the pundit across the street

Empty White

With body under cuffs

from days of unrest

and mind poisonously stale

from guilty nights spent

away from my wooden,

I bend over sheets,

for time – the wanted,

the suspect, the robber –

is caught in my grip.

 

I look for light

for my mind wants to fly,

but in the night that sits

I only see empty white.

Parker point scratches

while my eyes stare walls.

I look down for words,

but what I see

my baby could have done.

 

Another wrinkled ball

joins that hateful bin.

My wife’s aroma kindles

the cement doorstep outside.

Surprise rents her face, for

with paper and pen I sit.

‘A story? A poem?’ escapes,

but not from my mind.

A weak smile. She gets it.

 

Four little paws crawl

eagerly to my wife. She,

brightening, picks the doll.

Sounds she makes, names

she calls. More Joy is the reply.

When their eyes meet,

I know something happens.

But what it is, neither says.

Evening. Flowers. Music.

 

Freshened from their sight

I begin again. Words seep:

‘With body under cuffs…’

A tumbler of coffee sits by.

Purity lies on love’s lap.

As two eyes close in peace,

the lullaby carefully shrinks.

Our eyes meet. I know this.

Night.Mattress. Silence.

Partition

The region was splitting into two, one where

Papa was taking me in a bus so crowded,

My mother and sister and home were

In the other, behind us, all raped and dead.

I didn’t realise then, while they happened.

Only flames and cries I saw around our hut.

Shouts against our stay were sloganed,

And not just that, and not just that.

Buses crossed us, as we traveled. Papa told,

Welcome people were moving to places

where their religion, their majority ruled.

I noticed, as only I could, orphan faces.

Clutched in my hands, in that flounder

was the red bound book on renewal

from the library that was now in powder

and that that would not belong, even on arrival.

Sixty years had passed, since our moving;

Dailies remember every year our hardship.

Our countries are still fighting, houses burning,

Maybe they just can’t live in friendship.

The Bounty Hunter

Dr Schultz became a bounty hunter, but only after

Plucking molars for a living did not render

His life even a Quentin pleasanter.

 

In his adventurous rounds he found a slave,

Whose name you can never pronounce, save

Only with silence observed in the ‘D’ of Dave.

 

Unlike the cherished country mango

Was the colour of Schultz’s find, Django,

Who, in search of his taken wife, was on a long go.

 

Schultz found in a White estate the wife

And himself ran into an irreversible strife,

For, in the end, from him was taken his life.

 

Lucky Django escaped on horseback after blowing

The estate and its Whites amidst blood flowing,

To live happily ever after with his dear wife following.

 

 

 

 

A Humble Sonnet

Your finger to me is that of a throned queen,
And its gesture is a law I want to act thus.
My words of praise may flattery mean
To outside beings but never to us.

Your goodness is high when I think of it;
Faults of you are never in my view.
Though you may fault sometimes a bit,
Your goodness is what I still see in lieu.

When do you plan to give me yourself?
in marriage of faith for the crowd by jove.
For you are already my wedded self,
Since I met your eyes and said my love.

This poem may go on for ever and ever,
‘Cause unending are words given me by you.
It’s time I put a dot to it and sever,
As now I don’t want to play with words, but you.

Sorry, Harry!

With pouring sweat blurring my sight,

And puny Harry refusing to bear my weight,

I decided to walk, albeit with a reluctant gait.

 

My legs trembled, for tiring was the hike1

And my gunny sack I found difficult to hike3

Through the harsh land of this vast rike.

 

Far away showed up a stony inn.

We ran the remaining road to happily jump in,

Wishing with all hope for a pony of gin.

 

Looming over me stood barman Bob

With a jug of ale as was his job

And a little watch by a golden fob.

 

While Harry smiled over a pack of hay

Drinking the ale, I said ‘Hey hey!’

Seeing us, what would the sun say?

 

Barman Bob hiked2 the cost of the drink

So much that the pay would push me to the brink

And would even cause Harry’s forehead to wrink.

 

What could I do other than to sell Harry?

And return home with skin so tarry,

To breathe of barmen always wary.

 

Hike:

Noun

  1. A long walk or walking tour.
  2. A sharp increase, especially in price or cost.

Verb

  1. Pull or lift up (something, especially clothing).

Thy Eternal Summer shall not Fade

My resolve to write

dwindles tonight

as I see you bright

lying in the dim light.

 

Alight is a sudden flame

with no definite name,

only your eyes to blame

for lotus petals are same.

 

On you my night is spent

with lips buried in your dent.

Sweat together we vent,

unknown time thus went.

 

Writing is an art

or so I thought.

From you won’t I part

for you are the better art.