Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Lonely Window



The lonely window,
With open door;
Left, untouched, stood there like a widow,
With some iron bars and nothing more;

The wind passes through it,
Making noises, carrying dust;
The iron bar don’t resist the hit,
It degrades, weakens with the rust;

The broken doors hit themselves with nothing good,
They repent on the past;
The past-when they were fresh piece of wood,
Covered by an untainted, painting of contrast;

There is no one,
Not a single living creature;
It’s barren, dull, left undone,
It cries, without tears on its left feature;

In the past, mother used to call her son,
By wake voice through that window;
Her only smiling son,
Who ran in the streets with his shadow;

In the past, the daughter waited for her father,
With teary moments in her eyes, hand on the bars;
Rolling her palms, gazing at street end farther,
Thinking, trying, to achieve her favorite stars;

In the past, the wife stood there for her companion,
With blushed cheeks, blossom lips, hazel eyes;
Searching for her friend with white stallion,
Coming, riding, for her, with an ear ring of small size;

The past was past-it went away,
The present is surviving;
The window is puffy- night and day,
Thinking, weeping, a lot starving;

But, the future is yet to come,
For which many are worried;
And so the window –mum,
It hopes, the past will come back hurried;

The streets will again be busy,
Full with ecstasies;
Full of sweet smelling daisy,
With giggling, smiling, tender fancies;

The bars of the window will again be a colorful toy,
Like a rainbow, like a seven colored chain;
Each color having different taste of happiness and joy,
The new window would not be lonely again.

Monday, March 30, 2009

A Fallen Leaf


A fallen Leaf,
On my palms;
Due to earth’s heave,
Before spring, when winter calms;

I am under the tree,
A lonely boy;
Soiled hands in earth’s sea,
Planting the leafy toy;

Where is the water?
For the tender leaf;
I cry, and shatter,
The tears fall with relief;

I see the sun rise,
Tears flowing in the xylem;
From the lacrimation of eyes,
Salt replaces Sucrose in phloem;

I leave the place,
I leave the tiny leaf lonely;
In such a big space,
The tree and the leaf only;

Time passes-it appears,
How I don’t know;
Days, months to years,
I forgot the fallen leaf a time ago;

I am old,
The glasses don’t support my eye;
I go to the same place to unfold,
The reality, the existence of leaf, with sigh;

There’s no more leaf there,
I think it has become tree now days;
But confusion still prevails in air,
About the truth of leafy tree which lays,

A fruit hits my head and ran,
Rolled on the ground and stopped,
For me- the hungry old man,
I eat the fruit which the tree dropped;


I see, I feel the taste,
Of million tears dropped, and its essence;
From my eyes, his eyes, her eyes- not a waste,
Its sour, its salty, its not ripe-the fruit of adolescence;

I get the proof,
I get the price of my tears;
A fallen leaf - converting in tree like roof,
A fallen leaf- providing shelter for olden dears.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

What Makes a Man



On the road, in confusion,
Walking with me in some delusion;
My son asked, “What makes a man”,
And he hit the can lying in the lane;

The can moved,
The question roved;
I further walked thinking,
Searching any hint or some linking;

“Dad, is it the care which he give,
To his offspring and support him to live;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it his love and affection,
Towards other without any rejection;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it his sacrifice,
For all to rejoice;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it his hands for helping,
For the sufferers who are yelping;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it his offerings to God,
And bowing his head to almighty Lord;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it his kindness and generosity,
And stopping the inhuman atrocity;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

The moving can collided to the front wall,
It changed direction & reverted back to us all;
My son continued to ask with changed question,
And I still thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it the powerful muscles,
Which he uses them to wrestle;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it the ugly fights,
Which he does in the nights;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it the fast racing of cars,
Which he hits on the others with a scar;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it the kill,
Which he makes with his will;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it the abusing,
Which he uses without anything losing;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

“Dad, is it the damn violence,
With which he breaks the calm silence;
Please answer my question”,
He asked & I thought about a man’s profession;

It was not the question of man or woman,
But the basics of the thematic human;
How could I answer them to my child?
About the question which turned me wild.

I thought about a man’s longing power,
Which he is in search for years, days and hour;
I thought about a man’s longing glory,
Which we have studied in the past history;

I thought about a man’s jealousy and hatred,
Which he cultivates for others without regret;
I thought about a man’s love for others,
Which he nurtures for his human brothers;

The can was still vibrating between two walls,
The questions were changing their stalls;
I walked, just thought about the question,
I sighed, and just thought about a man’s profession.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Don't Break....Just Listen The Silence


I am hazy,
And crazy,
I seldom bite;
I staunch,
In ranch,
Like dozy stride;
I pulsate,
And reverberate,
In windy moist;
I rumble,
With grumble,
At tritely height;
I am narrow,
Like an arrow,
With dashing strike;
I kill,
With will,
Like bloody fight;
I howl,
Like an owl,
In scary night;
I travel,
And unravel,
With illusive might;
I am before birth,
And after death,
With continuing life;
I am silent,
Sometime violent,
In the noisy sight;
Don’t dare,
To break the layer,
Just listen the silence tonight.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Festival of Colours



The yellow green and red,
And many others spread;
The water mixed with colors,
As that of natural flowers;

Pichkaris of different shapes,
In hands of kids and face like apes;
Running behind each other,
Shouting, screaming and nothing to bother;

See the faces-multi colored,
In our country- multi cultured;
A festival of- multi name,
Different colors but all mean the same.