Treasure

When the dawn breaks
You roll down to me,
A soft ball of wool
Gently tied to
The unfinished pullover
Beginning to see its day;
Thanks to those
Nimble hands of
The engaged Grandma,
I feel your presence.

You are the wind
Whispering in my ears
For which I hear,
The light in whose
Benevolent bounty
I flawlessly see.

The warm, comforting
World
Like my Grandma's pull
I can wear and sense
Fixed in time and place;
But the affection that
Made it happen
The kissing wind,
The dancing light
To be felt everywhere
In transience,
A constant source in the air
Beyond compare.

The world
Made of both
The work and the cloth,
Gifts me another dawn
To treasure.

Merry Christmas

'Hate the sin, not the sinner'
'Love thy neighbour'
These are the words of Jesus.
We all love Jesus for sure
But let's drop our ego
And examine if we follow
Him from the bottom of our heart
Without any crafty art,
If our answer is no
We have work to do
Without much ado,
If the answer is yes
Then please show your grace.
Share it with us
To make the world
A heavenly place,
So we could all wish Jesus
Merry Christmas!

If followers make leaders
We could show them through our actions
That we  can do without weapons
We don't need to fight any wars
We're all brothers and sisters
Wishing each other
At this time of the year
In tandem, in chorus
Merry Christmas!

Jesus, Prophets and Saints
Will then consider us
As their true followers,
Sins will leave
Us, In neighbours we'll believe
They will break those walls
Fromwithin and wish us all
An enormously gorgeous
Merry Christmas!

Making a move

When all the scientists
Engage their ignited minds
To develop a technology
That channels to feed
The thin mouths
With excess food,
Then the expeditions to
The outer worlds
Will make sense.

Map the distance between
The food and the hungry heart,
Measure with flawless perfection
Than making a mark
On the colorful planets;
Calculate the shelf life of the
Not-yet waste grub,
Let it travel to its starving hub
Sparking priceless smiles.
This trajectory is worth
Thousand times more
Than those
Lightyears of
Meaningless,
Meandering miles.

Dry food, wet food
Oh! The huge Stomach
Is waiting to eat them all.
Before it reaches the garbage
For heaven's sake
Let them reach their desired place.

If you could construct towers
In every nook and corner
For the sake of communication,
You could definitely streamline
The excess to the needy
With your effort and gumption.

Every eatery, hotel
Every restaurant, motel
Every house, home,
Every city, from Haiti, Beijing
To New Jersey, Rome
Needs your help dear
Scientists and engineers
of the world to ensure
That not a morsel of food,
Not a drop of water
Be drained,
We don't have the means
You see
To let them rot and squander
Without care and empathy.

When you solve this challenge
Of this blue terrain
With your gifted Brain,
When all its famished residents
Are replete, thanks to your brilliance
Can you rest to wander
In outer space.

Else it's rather
Superfluous
To make a move
In Moon or Mars.

In words

I speak with words
Yet the sense
Precipitates in a land
Beyond their world.

I've never chosen
Green for grief,
Gray for gaiety
I have never said,
'I'm tired'
With an expression
Of exhilaration.

Words
Murderers,
Saviours
Of the soil.

It is the non-words
That make words, words.

Still
All of this
Had to be unearthed
In words.

Humble wish

The tongue is in between
The heart and the brain
Let my speech draw
The strength and balance
from both,
Not from one alone,
For then it could be either
Too dry, too wet, too in vain.

Let it be colorful, soft, sure
Warm and humble, yet very high
Let the lightness of the tongue
Touch the sky,
its sharpness so sound
Peacefully poised on the ground
Like the rainbow that's seen
As an effort of delight
By the sun and the rain.

France factor

France factor

France is fuelling!
No to football?
Is France failing?
Frustrated with
The rising fuel price
They're fiercely paying
A heavy price.
Damaging their own
Priceless possessions
In Paris which, even
Hitler hesitated to hurt?
All this just to
Get a message across?
France has lost its gumption.
To protest against Macron
Parisians, or 'Pharisiens'*
Are behaving like Morons.
O Saraswati! Goddess of learning! Save this mess!
Bless this modern Kalidasa**
So he resurrects into consciousness!

Pharisiens* - Pharisees or hypocrites
Kalidasa** - One of the greatest Sanskrit writers of India, author of  'Meghadootam'. The legend goes that he was considered naïve and ignorant, known to have been cutting the branch of a tree where he was sitting. He fell off the tree and was weeping helplessly when Goddess Saraswati came to his succour, blessed him and thus hehwent on to become the wisest man history has ever known.

Being in touch

Being in touch

Speak less, speak slow

Speak sweet,

Even when you're

Feeling low.

Let vibrations of

Happiness be sent

To all the priceless

Five elements.

From dawn to dusk

Let all the organs

Sing of love

Not of judgement.

Being light, being sound

Beneath the sky,

On the ground

In every moment.

The unpaintable

Heaps of livid leaves
Lying loose on the ground.
A deaf and blind artist
Visibly challenged,
With the tired brush,
Frozen paints,
Frenzied fist,
Was trying hard
To draw people,
Who, in their mind
Are deaf and blind.

Br-aching news

When the moribund world
Is wailing of walls
Of false, deadly habits
Beyond its wits,
We are in the lounge talking,
Breaking our heads
Over Brenrty or Brexit.

The guest

At times I realize
That the country
Where I work, doesn't
Belong to me.

Here the rains appear strange
Petrichor smells foreign
They fail to make me happy
I wonder why!

I do love to see those huge
Red autumn-leaves,
They look beautiful;
But I've grown up seeing
Catkin flowers talking
To the feathery clouds,
Priests are hired for the
Durga puja* which is celebrated
With enthusiasm and grandeur,
And I've also made friends here
Still in me a sense
of emptiness prevails.

Then where do I belong!
Cannot ignore money, good life?
That's why I'm floating here
Singing the immigrant's song!

Despite the number of shops,
Neighborhood,
No matter how flawlessly
I sing 'On the country roads'
Or a Jim Reeves number
I'm always out of tune
A signed off intruding prune.
If they don't find anything
They'd look at me, in a metro
They'd stand for miles
Yet not sit beside me
Or they'd simply say,
'O I love this accent'
Until I realize I'm a guest.

But when I go to my
own country, there too
I'm made to feel like a guest.
Relatives, friends
Carry for-how-long-you're-here
On their curious faces
I'm pound and dollar for them
Passers-by look at me strangely,
Roadside teashop owners
Call me sir, but hesitate
Calling me by my name
No matter how flawlessly
I recite in my mother tongue
Lines of Tagore so dear
'Where the mind is without fear
And the head is held high'
Looking up in the azure sky.

In this world I guess
The only consolation
That perhaps eases
Is that we all are guests.

I also have this voice
In me which says,
'O boy, chin up, head high
You've made a choice
Make it right without guilt or shame
Both the beautiful countries
Are gaining as much as you are
No worries, you've come this far.
Don't cloud your head with insipid stories
Accept the game
Do not sulk, do not blame
Anyone, neither the petrichor, nor the graceful rains
You've come here for your growth
Your places of work and birth belong to you
You also belong to both.
Red leaves and catkin flowers
Too fall and bloom as guests
We're all visitors here
Love it all just as they are
And keep on doing your best.

Durga puja* - A Bengali festival that takes place in every autumn.

The deadliest terror

Thousands of books
Written on
Growth and development,
Despite Nobel Laureates
Renowned economists
Scratching dead, re-read heads,
Notwithstanding
Millions of seminars
Conferences arranged
Good and kind words exchanged
Year after year
Rich are becoming rich
Poor poorer.

The deadliest terror
The world has ever known
Is disparity amongst
The rich and the poor.

The rich cannot survive
Without the poor
By design poverty is alive
So rich can gain more and more.

It's a global shame it's a pity
Since time the endemic terror
So openly dirty and vulgar
Is spread as a red carpet so dear
So characteristically pithy.

Standing up

Standing up

My parent, an activist who founded a hospital
In a remote village of Bengal,
Stopped having milk
And dairy products
To stand for the
Mal-nutritioned children.

A worthy child,
I actively
And furiously refuse
To indulge
In any competition,
I believe in playing my part,
Not in being apart
For the sake of perfection.

Trying to be better than others
Phew it's such a vice
Trying to improve self
And fellow brothers and sisters
It's out-of-the-box thinking,
It's pricelessly nice.

The poet

Poppies
Hibiscus
The poet thought
Were lying like
Eyes, ears, or words
Written, scattered poems
In open time and space.

The child

Leaning against a huge wall
A child was playing with sand,
Built a castle
But was constantly
Building and breaking
The borders that surrounded it.
The child then looked at the wall,
Gave it a punch,
Ouch! It hurt.

Meanwhile the waves came,
Took the castle away;
The child didn't cry
Waited for the sands to dry,
The hands did pain
But the child started
The work again
With the thought,
Maybe true or false
There must be a palace
A golden garden
Beyond those weirdest walls.

Once upon a time

An extraordinary peace
No bonds, no treaty signed
No one blamed, none fined.
In absolute silence
Without bombastic words
Weapons of the world
Getting their place
In museums of all charming countries.
A do-not-touch tag attached
to those instruments
of wars and worries
For posterity to watch
How insane we were
killing ourselves mindlessly
In land, water and air.

Let today's world see
Yesterday's deadly destiny
In those grave asylums
We were committed to the crime
Once upon a time.

হৃদয় বিতাড়ক

আমাদের দৈনন্দিন জীবন
থেকে আমরা খুব সহজেই
হারিয়েছি, আমাদের স্পন্দন
সবকিছুই কেমন প্রাণহীন
যন্ত্রের মত চলেছে,
সকালবেলা ঘুমভাঙা থেকে
রাত্রে ঘুমোনো পর্যন্ত
সবিই নিয়মের তালে
আমাদের কেমন বেসুরো
বেতালা করে রেখেছে।

অন্যের দুঃখে আমাদের সুখ
ওপরের হারে
আমাদের জিত
অন্যেরা গরীব হলে
আমরা বড়লোক...
এই রঙ্গমঞ্চে চলেছে এক অসাড়
পাহাড় প্রমাণ যন্ত্রনাদায়ক সার্কাস,
সাফল্যের মধ্যে থাকলে
এ বোঝার ভার বোঝা অসম্ভব,
কাজে, কর্মে, প্রেমে, সম্পর্কে
ব্যর্থ হলেই বোধহয় এই অর্থহীন
চলার শব্দ এসে বাজে কানে
কবির কলম বেয়ে বেরিয়ে এসে
পাতায় বসে
নানান ছন্দে, সুরে, গানে।

আর সেই সুরের রেশ
যখন আমাদের হৃদয়ে প্রবেশ
করে, তখন ভিতরটা হাহাকার
করে ওঠে, আমরা চিৎকার
করে উঠি, কি যেন হারিয়েছি
বুঝতে পারি, বা না পারি,
তবে সেই সযত্নে লেখা লাইনগুলি
বারবার পড়ি, কিম্বা গেয়ে ফেলি,
ক্ষণিকের জন্যে হলেও বুঝি
সে আছে, ভিতরে আছেই আছে
দুপদুপ, দপ দপ করে নাচছে
কি যেন একটা বিদছে...
বলছে, ওরে চেয়ে দ্যাখ
আমি যে তোর আয়না
একবার, বারবার, শতসহস্রবার
আমি আছি, তোরই কাছাকাছি,
আমাকে তাড়ানো যায়না।

আমার ভিতরে

আমার ভিতরে
আমারই অগোচরে
সহসা জন্মালো
একি অপরূপ আলো
এ এক সাহসী জমকালো
দীপশিখা নাচে নিঃশব্দে
আমার মধ্যে আনন্দে
সহিষ্ণু, নির্ভীক, চিরসত্য
স্নিগ্ধ, সুন্দর, চিরশান্ত
অফুরন্ত, অনন্ত
এ কি আলো, এ কি আলো!

Back on track

I was walking
on the busy road
with others
picking stones and feathers
that weren't my own;
suddenly,
I started running
wanting to collect
more of those
faster, alone;
but
when I was supposed
to be much ahead,
I took a recess
from the race.

Strange!

Being away
from the tricky track
I found myself back.

Fallacy fantasy

The silver moon
was dancing on a river
when the wolf
was looking for a swan.

The night was howling,
it sounded as if
a nocturnal nightingale
was singing for the dawn.

An ignorant flower
was storing dewdrops
to extinguish
the afternoon sun.

The painter

In a village,
a painter at night,
underneath
the only street lamp post
crowded with flies,
was painting a beehive.

Bengali translation by the author
চিত্রশিল্পী
রাত্রে, এক গ্রামে
ঘুরঘুর করা
শ্যামা পোকায় ঘেরা
ল্যাম্প পোস্টের আলোয়,
নীচে বসে এক চিত্রশিল্পী
আঁকছেন
মৌমাছির ঝাঁক।
Greek translation by Nic
Σ’ ένα χωριό
ένας ζωγράφος μες τη νύχτα,
κάτω απο το μοναδικο φανοστάτη
γεμάτο από μύγες,
ζωγράφιζε μία κυψέλη.
French translation by the author
Le peintre
La nuit
dans un village,
un peintre,
sous le seul
lampadaire urbain
encombré de mouches,
peignait une ruche.
Translation in Swedish by Gothicman
Konstnären
I en by,
en konstnär, på natten,
under gatans enda lyktstolpe
surrande med flugor,
målade en bikupe.
Translation in German by Alfie Shoyger
Der Maler
In einem Dorf,
in der Nacht,
unter der einzigen
von Fliegen umgebenen Straßenlaterne,
malte ein Maler
einen Bienenstock.

Witness

When the shooting star
was trying
to pause between
life and death
it was calling for help;
the sky was silently
watching.

When the severed leaf
was trying to rest
between breaths
it was screeching for help;
the tree, a witness
became its shelter,
but it was too light,
way too detached
to stay put.

A somnambulist writer
was watching the sky
underneath the tree.

অদ্ভুত / Strange

আমি আমার প্রতিবেশী
ছাড়া সবাইকে ভালোবাসি
আমার পরিবার ছাড়া শুধু
সবাই আমার পরম বন্ধু!

I love everyone other
than my neighbor.
Other than the members
of my family
everyone's dear to me!

Hmm...

We cannot conceive of something

we have never experienced
however much we draw the lines
on the canvasses
or fill those leaves
with letters willing
to reunite as words,
marry tunes with them
until a holy hymn is born;
we may hum a thousand times
walking up and down the aisle
waiting as grooms
for the unseen brides
a myriad times we may sing.

Still
we’d wed for good with war
forever rest in peace.

Smile please

If you could capture
your angry face
in a picture
you’d be horrified
at the image,
perhaps know
why, before you click
you say, say cheese
or smile please
so you don’t
look like a burnt toast
you shine and glow.

But the artificial smile
you camouflage
may not be of help
in the long run.

The rage you hold within
could ruin your style
also, your profile,
it’s bound to affect
your health from inside,
the junk, like an ominous sin
will take you for a ride.

Throw up the stubborn dirt
from the bottom of your heart,
the world is not picture perfect
however, the nature is always at its best,
so don’t let anything make you angry;
be at ease, even if you have to cleanse
professional or personal malice or disease,
you could even address
the most depressing social injustice
but first and foremost, be at peace
from inside, smile please.

At one go you may not succeed
even if you fall or fail, practise.

আজও বেঁচে আছি

'হাজার বছর ধরে'

আমি হেঁটে চলেছি
তোমারি সাধা সূরে
আমাকে তুমি দূরে

ফেলে রেখেছো

আমি চিৎকার করে

জীবনের মঞ্চ থেকে

নেচে, গেয়ে, এমনকি মিনতি করেও

বলেছি, আমি চিত্রাঙ্গদা

'পার্শ্বে রাখো মোরে'

রান্নাঘরের আওয়াজে

কিংবা নিদারুণ ঘরোয়া কাজে

তোমার কানে এসে বাজেনি

বোধহয় আমার আর্তনাদ।

আজ দেখো, আমি

ঘরের সিমানা থেকে

বেরিয়ে এসেছি,

আর অমনি আমি সীতা হয়েছি

গন্ডি অতিক্রম করেছি বলে

রাবণ হয়ে এসেছো তুমি

সবাই দেখেছে সীতার দোষ

তারা দেখেনি ধার্মিক ছদ্দবেশে

ভিক্ষার পাত্র নিয়ে আসা সন্ন্যাসীকে।

আর কত ভিক্ষা দেব তোমাকে?

কোনো সময় দেহ, দুধ, রক্ত

তোমার নির্মম দৌরাত্ম

কোনো সময় মান সম্মান

আবার কোনো সময় ‘অবলা’ প্রাণ

এক সময় আমি সতী হতাম,

মনে আছে কি তোমার?

আজ এই যুগে দাঁড়িয়েও

মুক্তি পাইনি আমি

এখনো তুমি করো আমার বিচার

আমার আচার ব্যবহার

আমার ওঠাবসা কথা বলা

বেশভূষা, চলাফেরা

তোমারি মতো হাসি আল্হাদ

প্রমোদনের নেই আমার অধিকার

চিরকালের হাত-পাতা ভিখিরি

আমার মালিক হয়ে বসেছো।

এতো কাণ্ডের পরেও মরিনি দেখো আমি

আজও বেঁচে আছি।

অবিশ্বাস, অশ্রদ্ধা, ঘৃণা, হিংসা

লাঞ্ছনা, প্রতারণা, অন্যায়, ধর্ষণ,

বঞ্চনা, পণ্যদ্রব্য-ভাবা মন

তোমার এই দশ দোষ

দুই হাতে আমি করেছি বহন

যুগযুগ ধরে,

এখন তারা অস্ত্র হয়েছে আমার

আমার দূর্গা রূপ

তোমাকে করবে সংহার,

বেরিয়ে আসবে তুমি

এক নতুন রূপে

আবার জন্ম দেব আমি তোমায়

এই ধরার বুকে।
তোমার যত অজ্ঞ অন্যায়

তোমারি কাছে ফিরে, করে হাহাকার;

তাই শিকার করবো আমি এই রঙ্গমঞ্চে

একে একে তোমার সব বিক্রম বিকার

বিদায় নেবে তারা সুনীল আকাশে

আমার হাতে মৃত্যূ করে স্বীকার।

এই কবিতাটি তিলোত্তমা ম্যাগাজিনে এ প্রকাশিত হয়েছে

Undefined

I cannot see

what I've not seen

before, the scene might be

dancing right inside
my meandering mind,

yet the screening eyes

will not recognize.

I cannot hear

what I've not heard

before, the sound might hum,
or might beat my drum

up and down,

yet the conditioned crown
cannot pinpoint the plot
the ersatz ears will fail to spot.

I cannot play

what I've not played

before, the act might seem

possible on the enduring stage,

yet in the repertoire of the insipid intellect

the performance will not recollect.

O boy

O boy!
You say times
when it is time.

Your world stops.

The hands of the clock
become the needle
to put you to sleep
when you should
wake up, and walk.

The chimes notwithstanding
you say times.

Your world stops.

O my bird

O my bird

I painted you
much before you came.
A past cadaver
your shape, your nature
your songs were recorded
on the page of my mind.

Now when you are here,
present, right in front of me
I find you wrong, strange
I can hear you speaking
singing in a language
beyond my image.
My borrowed intellect
from white volumes
of knowledge
made me a living dead.

You came, you sang
you sat, you danced, you walked
nearly in my heart
you went passed
so close, unconquered,
your being, your tongue
to me was unseen, unheard.

Disobedient stain

The most disobedient stain
In your costume is guilt,
You cannot delete
It's so stubborn a bane;
Unless you seek for the detergent
From your guide above
Who'd clean it in a moment
With the magical rays of love.

Delivered

I was taken hostage

on the stereotype stage.

There wasn't an exit

couldn't quit,
all doors, red
had entry marked in black
on its head,
face disengaged
from inside, deranged
uttered some same
seamless, shameless
onerous words,
actions marched blindfolded

had to play willy-nilly
trained thoughts, rigid, rhymed silly

everything seemed dull and done
to the core
from one to four
from four to one.

I was on the road,

walking…but tied to the floor

legs hurt walking the traveled way.
Jackass! I was still indoors
star-gauging, bored
rude at night, shrewd during the day.

I tried high and low
to break open from a window
what a kick-ass of performance
happy from top to toe I became a witness
in the audience,
watching life and death from the infinite stage
made perfect sense.

Out into the brooks drenching in the rains;
sun-bathing on the beaches,
singing to the mountains;
new stories fell in love, all around
brown leaves razed to the ground
wrote fresh tales on the patient page.

With marks on my legs I was delivered
from the captivating cage.

War is a crisis

War, spread all over the world

like a blue horror; it gallivants on the red carpet
respected, revered; it is a strait that’s troubling
existence, yet it is the weather without which
the tonsured world cannot breathe.

Weapons, arms are disastrous - stillborn children
of civilizations over the years; but their parents
are the blackjacks we carry within, explode them
in all walks of life on a war footing! We seem to be
in love with war, riding on a mindless monster.

We hide behind words replete with
superfluous ornaments; produce,
market weapons on one hand,
while on the other, we talk and write
volumes on disarmament.

War is a crisis, a red bed
on which we cremated peace.

Never mind what is

I am in heaven
no matter what
never mind what is
I am inside my
golden garden
with you
talking, playing, wandering
situations
good, not so good
are only ways that dissuade.

Never mind what is
I am at ease
in my blue sky
walking with the stars
in the golden garden
under the shady trees
writing on the leaves
talking with the birds.

Your love

There are sleepers
inside me
your love made them
dreamers once
your hands comforted
theirs
the ones that wanted to
write, work, play, and think
now deep inside
meddled in the murk
they have gone into
silence
in deep sleep…
your presence
made them
sing, dance, dress
in the green room
come up on stage
in their performance
to show their lulling eyes
that borrowed the
spark from the stars
now, no more
looking at the gray thoughts
of the world
hypnotizing hypocrisy
repeating defeating frozen actions
these bubbling visionaries
inside me
have become
those up-and-corners
they rest inside
as though they never existed,
they never were!

Wait
the dreamers
the star-gazers
will wake up
to wander on the same roads
that they abandoned
sleepers inside me
thanks to your love
will soon restart their
conscious journey.

A push and a pull

You are growing,

receiving punishments from life - 

disproportionate ones

your character is questioned,

your competence destroyed,

you fail in all your roles:

parent. child, spouse, friend. colleague,

you become an embodiment

of nonperformance.

You are condemned to be inward

withdrawn into a prison

from then on
your journey starts;
you thank every fiasco,

you bless those hurling

abuses, calling names.

Faux pas becomes

a push and a pull,

you think of punishments

as blessings.

Thank you

My dear Trevor Maynard
what a wonderful person you are
you have created
such a sublime space
for bards to chirp here
with happiness and grace.

Some like us maybe amateurs
learning to write
while some like you are
seasoned, experts
helping us hone our skills with delight;
but we have the same feathers
with which we glide and sing
writing the lines is a pleasure
here, we take a bow Trevor Maynard
for gifting us such a winsome wing.

Poetry Review and Discuss

what a garden of a place

you created for us

we are together here

from wherever we are

to express our thoughts

beyond caste and race;

as friends we can never lose here

we can only win

thanks to you Trevor Maynard 

thanks to you LinkedIn.

Less traveled

My heart
walking through a
less traveled road
singing like an old
stone, playing
like mridangam*
to beat the humdrum
of life, talking like brooks.

I am in a bush;
in a strange little nook
shrubs everywhere
unruly, unknown buds
innocuous fruits, flowers
chirping mates there
playing willingly
sounds of inner organs
without any paging art
falling on this field,
with the stars, being a part.

I never knew
I could even meet
the sky that has fallen
here to embrace me.

*mridangam - a barrel-shaped double-headed drum with one head larger than the other, used in southern Indian music.

You are not alone

You are not alone

If you thought
you’d get a call
from your dream job,
or you’d crack that
cat exam with flying colors
to see you seated in
your secure coveted throne,
you’re not alone.

If you thought
you could date and espouse
that girl next door
a carefree sophomore,
or your spouse might dump
you anytime, throw you
from your dreamy home
you thought as your own,
you’re not alone.

If you thought
your hurdles will end
your struggle to pay the bills
to make ends meet,
you could count on your salaries
they won’t fly away, but would multiply
even after those monthly
payments of superfluous loans,
you’re not alone.

If you thought
one day, your children,
your parents will understand
and recognize your relentless
work, in and out of home,
from dawn to dawn
so they could go to schools,
watch TV, play in the lawn,
if you thought they’d talk sweetly,
not in a condescending tone,
you’re not alone.

If you’d always expect
good things to come your way
in spite of being in a blind lane,
or, even if you were drowned inside a well
you thought all will be well;
for as long as you lived
if you stood for what you believed,
your skills with willful resilience
you’d constantly hone,
you’re not alone.

contrast

Lover

I was looking
at the white flower
swinging in your hair
like the silver star
floating in the night sky

ex

I was looking
at the white flower
hanging in your hair
like a fish
out of water

your hand

thanks for giving
me your hand
nothing can touch
me now

Life is too short

Like rainbows, life is too short
for conflicts, disagreements
disharmony; hurdles
heinous huddles, false judgments, 
that do not help us grow.

Like snowfall, life is too warm
for cold war, feuds, battles
bloodshed, hatred,
utter meaninglessness 
anger that makes us low.

Like dewdrops, life is light
the halo that shines behind
is too full with healing glow
to sulk in the disease of darkness,
that disallows us to let the germs go.

Like raindrops, life falls in love;
when hearts do not concur
let them be, when smiles do not confer,
not to worry, know that differences 
at times don’t mellow.

Like falling leaves, life is too giving
to be snatching from others
power, pelf, position, possession
that we seek, like beggars;
nature, the benefactor, we fail to follow.

Everything outside is way too transient
like those footprints of a camel
in a desert, life is walking away
in every moving moment
yet it pumps constantly inside.
like a voice that alerts, draws us into the present; 
redundant emotions, unkind words, like worms
that weaken the wise and lively organs
are not of any worth.



I should have named it 'Unconditional apologies'

And yet I am not a somnambulist

When I go for my walks,

long ones,
it feels I am going
to the mountains
to meet the magician
who marries all.

But today,
as I was coming back
I heard a cracking sound,
in silence, I sensed
doors were opening
with my heartbeat
doors, doors, doors
for years shut, closed
now opening
like those flowers
that bloom in those gardens
in most unnoticed bushes.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

They were all doors
of places of worship.
But it was strange
to find people
to have swiped their spaces
known boundaries
the walls they thought
as their own,
they're out of their comfort zones.
But they’re not feeling
as strangers, as intruders
as mere visitors, as outsider
they felt not any different;
familiar welcoming warmth,
equally positive vibrations
from the walls.
I am willingly walking over me,
walking past, with my feet
above, enjoying the journey
winning on years of self-defeat.

 How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Gurudwaras, Mosques, Churches
Synagoues and Temples;
now full with people,
who’d suddenly discovered
today, without guilt, fear or shame
the teachings were in essence, much the same.
They’re not seeking pardon
not even those Nazis seen in synagogues;
once and for all
seeking pardon seemed over and done;
they’re all engaged in seeking
retraining the teachers’ teachings.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Majority of them
seemed tired of breaking
their own religions into pieces
fighting, and only fighting
with themselves,
but today, after years of hatred
bloodshed, mindless wrath,
with the cracking sound of opening doors
they heard the disapproval
of those saints they loved and adored.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Followers decided to walk the talk,
the teachings of the Magician
which the teachers taught
with openness, experiencing the feeling
from deep within.

How could I’ve imagined this
I’m not that much of an optimist
and yet I am not a somnambulist!

Hitlerization

Buddha and Jesus
chained in words;
good, kind, pious
positive letters
emotive expressions
chosen Ps and Qs
conscious hints and clues
chanted, written
in unending volumes
revered, measured,
relived, treasured,
for years and years;
inside the holy premise
the outstanding guys
worshipped as the supreme teachers
remembered without fail
in every celebrations.

But their teachings?
For Heaven’s sake,
who applies them!

For that my dears,
please ‘lend me your ears’
we have the infamous delinquent dude
we may know him as unkind and rude
he may be the harbinger of terror and war
from the bottom of our hearts, we may hate Hitler!
BUT o please don’t get hurt
we follow and apply his tricks to the letter!

Wake up friends…open your eyes
he’s in us as Mr Hyde
who comes in every walks of life
 diligently, in disguise,
he directs, he instructs, he wins
all over the world, we hate our neighbors
love the sin, hate the sinner;
like herds of hypnotized sheep
we follow him and his teachings
weird it is o my ostrich brothers and sisters
that yet, we certainly worship Buddha and Jesus
as the most undisputed, respected teachers.



I may not be competent, I may not be compliant, but the voice that's floating inside may not coagulate.

The salient

Talking of noble things
writing to break open the door
winning arguments
are songs that sing aloud
clearing the cloud
beautifully, charming the firmament;
they could even provide food
for the mind and the heart
with all their craft and their art
noble, pious, just as they should.

Application is silent
but it shows in the way
one behaves and beholds
the world.

The indomitable

Hungry world.
Beggars all around.
The rich and the poor,
the young and the old,
the weak and the bold,
men, women, children
perpetually cursing, blaming each other
the one thing they have in common
is that they’re all in need for more.

Refugees and land-owners,
vagabonds, nomads, 
city-dwellers owning one 
or multiple
high-rises, skyscrapers;
all are busy begging from beggars
some taking, some snatching alms 
milks, meats, meals
dishes of deals.

Pages are dark with ink
leaves are turning brown
written stories draining the crown
drying with drought
like dying warriors; soldiers
beyond any doubt
never seem to be in sync.

In this drama of life
I am also starving
never to lose the appetite
to write; trying forms and norms
to shock-shift frozen thoughts
it seems I am set
words are failing, yet
there is this one energy,
that of love, pouring on the stage
guiding, guarding, greening my garden
raining from above, at every little stage.

Karma

When you hit the invisible ball

on the silent out-of-sight wall

know on you it will befall

until you take a conscious call.

It could come back to you

after many births, or the following day

or later than a decade,

on this you can hardly have a say

but this ballgame per se
is sure, certain, lucid and true

with it, you can never ever trade.

By showing your fear or guffaw

while receiving the ball's inevitable law

you create your next destiny

boon or bane as it might be!

!Heil Hitler!

It is easy to sing

with perfection

inside the sacred wings

'love thy neighbor',

'hate the sin, not the sinner'

or memorize the eight-fold path;

it is a challenge to live

upto these, for in application

do we follow Buddha and Christ?

They are completely shelved aside!

To walk the talk, we dread

reading the road that’s red

in Greece and Myanmar.

              .Sad.

Out there on the field, most anywhere

the air is surreptitiously hissing
          !'Heil Hitler'!

Being in addiction

Approval and acceptance
from the 'other'
are the alms one begs
from everyone around
going round and round
to friends, colleagues, parents, sister,
brother, spouse, children, lover, stranger
until it becomes a habit worse
than a grass.

Awareness
helps one to return
to one’s religion
of seven qualities;
happiness, peace,
power, love, purity
knowingness, bliss
and bring each one of them
into action.

It delivers a being
from the worst addiction.

Unanswered questions

Red tears, hurting the earth
every day, spreading like rage
pages unread, buried with
raindrops, dewdrops
trying to heal the wounds.

Words wanting to conceal
failing into sophism
getting clouded, cluttered
in volumes of useless methods
to wipe the fears; to numb the queries
they question the color and the pain.

Far off, a shepherd
just left his flute on the field
that was singing of love,
now outdated, captured as painting
like a deadlock that’s adorning
the walls of several museums
obedient asylums
standing in tandem
without questions.

Out on the two-thousand-year old field
beyond words and methods
young clouds are breaking into waters
just born dawns, softening the earth
with dewdrops.

The painted shepherd looks at the herd
then, at the flute, he wants to come out
from the place of the dead, live and be heard.

Ceremonies prevent the event beyond doubt
starving words have to eat the truth
they are, as it were, famished;
in the middle of salty waters  
uninvited intruders
spreading like a red carpet
the ostentatious supper begins.

Only some buried questions
same hidden questions
unanswered, remain.

Ignoring the salient truth
is clouding the crown,
taking refuge in nature
seems to be the only option
questions harness
hiding, hanging, hurling, hissing, humming
everywhere in medias res
truth blooms outside though into fruition
inside is blind with darkness
a field tonsured
turning the flutist jobless
with questions unanswered.

Un poème bête

Un poème bête

Les cons par conséquent

courent après le qu’on dira-t-on

sans qu’ils sachent que la vérité

depuis l’éternité

ne se trouve pas dehors

qu’elle dort bien à l’intérieur

désormais les bêtes ils aiment

vivre dans le mensonge

ne pas se réveiller
de leur songe

c’est le jeu que ces anges
adorent jouer.

Hitler is the shepherd

Jesus was crucified.

Hitler committed suicide.

While the former
said, ‘hate the sin,
not the sinner’
it fell on deaf ears, went unheard,
the latter, a genocide ruler
has herds of sheep
to take care.

Hitler is the shepherd
a true leader
living in action.

Jesus has long disappeared
we worship HIM without fail,
especially on Sundays
in big mansions.