out not free

It is out not free
Sun and moon are locked alight
From the wooden box

Passtime

Passtime

Morning works the day,
Sleeps the afternoon,
Wakes up evening,
Over a cup of wind,
Returns night to bray
Like a curse or boon.

Clumsy little things,
Imagine their wings,
Fly inside the frame,
And take it upon them,
To win the losing game
As donkeys without shame.

The circus of the fate,
Entertains the stage,
The chores are not to change,
The dog and the cat,
Forever fight and date
At the drop of a hat.

Sun in the eyes

Sun in the eyes ..
Images reflect everywhere
Snakes coil in the holes

They have the heaven in them

They have the heaven in them

They have the heaven in them,

For years of blessed seed and sperm,

Grown and sown to breed and feed millions

Of countless saints and villains;

All born of mothers,

Fed by farmers,

They have the heaven in them.

The nurtured children,

Create horrors everywhere,

For ages kill with skill,

Shoot and poison;

Borders burn with deadly scare,

Mothers and farmers decide

To break the delinquent pride!

The blue seas and oceans surrounding the world

Have turned red with wombs that once held

The germs now there are no mothers no tremors;

The waters are salty red with anger

Have devoured all the ploughs with a hissing livid sound;

Now no lands will produce food

For there are no farmers!

Children are hungry starving have nothing to claim

They have the heaven in them,

Feed them weapons of terrors and shame

They have the heaven in them.

I do not need to talk at all

I do not need to talk at all

I do not need to talk at all.
A dust of the past doesn't disappear
Hangs shapeless, waiting to devour
The limitless supply of boiling holes
Crowds inside with words and dialogues.

I do not need to talk at all.
There are plenty of plants
To be watered and nurtured
My house is full and warm with air
I have no space to spare.

I do not need to talk at all.
Thoughts are thrown inside
Outside they run ruin rain
I have a garden to guard my head
Where nothing is born and nothing is dead.

Our dawns

Our dawns

Indian dawn breaks…

Weak yet steady waters flow from the street tap,

Clean vessels, utensils, and yesterday’s feet;

The milkman keeps the milk in a bag kept at the doorstep,

Or in the bags tied to a rope to be pulled later by their owners,

And glides away in his cycle;

The newspaper vendor deftly throws papers in the

Unsuspecting verandahs of seventh, sixth and third floors;

The spoon dances inside the glass as the chaiwala adds sugar to the tea.

From many other rhythms unrecorded, un-identified and unnoticed,

Emerges the day, sings a fresh symphony.

Sleeper

Sleeper

I now lie with my arms stretched, 
So you could come and sleep on them. 
They are looking for a sleeper with unkempt air, 
To wake them up, give them a hand, 
And make up for their gloomy gland. 
  
My legs are looking at the sky unattended they lie; 
Where are yours so elusive and soft they cry, 
Come unto them with your healing touch,  
Let the pairs move and fight and love as much, 
Am not in chains yet static still, 
Grounded, cold unable to feel. 
  
My lips are buried frozen un-used, 
My chest is there not there confused, 
My waist my back my face go waste. 
If yours never could come to me, 
I wait and lie look up the sky, 
Uncap the eye and help me fly, 
In prison am I come set me free. 

Yesterday continues to be today

Yesterday continues to be today

‘Aujourd’hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier. Je ne sais pas.’

I read the line was confused,

wondered on the broken intent

of a child indifferent

in many leaving days past and used.

Now when she is gone before the sun could shine,

From before the on-looker and outsider of a son,

When everyday seems today that are neither his nor mine

I break when I read the words again and again.

Days that are dead are dying to come alive,

Yesterday continues to be today.

I spit on me

I spit on me

the hands that held me fed me once
are itching a body so fragile with germs
it was worthy for just a glance
whom my bro and I would know as mom
medicines are shooting inside her now
of no use at all we know not how
she's lying alone on a hospital bed
we're wishing with love so she's dead
how horrid is this to see those hands
the body that's dying to come to us
I have no words I spit on me
I kick my *ss I let her be


she changed her costume on Sunday 24 November at 5.35 a.m.

my mother didn't want to die...she wanted to go to Darjeeling...

when I wrote this poem, my mother was still struggling to live, her heart was still beating... sad that medicines couldn't help...kilos of them... I saw my mother as an on-looker...unable to do anything... I wonder if ever we could come up with some healing medicines which can cure a failing liver kidney lungs... there's so much to do

at the temple gate

Urchin fakes its limp
Trees full of monkeys hungry
Temples smell of thoughts