The irreverent

Scene: A court

You are one man without basic manners

Minimum courtesy is to use salutation for the aged

Don’t you know it matters?

Use Miss, Mister, Madam and Sir

It’s a civilised world here.

And what the hell are you scribbling there, show!

 It’s a contempt of court, don’t you know

(The man chuckles)

What? You want to say something? (Looks at the jury, laughs)

“Yes.”

Say!

“I am sorry, but age matters little to me

It’s so unkind to remind one of those years

Salutations, merely decrepit, a superannuated thought

People disrespect with feathers of the sort

I respect all, would want to make it clear

The gray hair and wrinkles, visible lies, you see

For me, it’s a bluff.”

It’s a civilised world here. Your staffing is enough!

If you don’t salute, it only has one effect

A mark of disrespect!

Again?? What the hell are you scribbling there!

Hiding like a criminal, inside the court, how do you even dare?

“No, it’s just a letter... a lie... not of any worth to you”

Give the damn thing to us, we’ll read what is not so true

(Snatches the letter, everyone to their hearts’ content, grinned)

“Mr. Jesus, Madam Durga and Reverend Allah

Please accept my apologies, all through the years, I have sinned.”

Ha ha ha... behind the bars you will your lessons learn

For today, the court is adjourned.

The fall

flowers

in love with the grasses

detached from the holders

the sounds of waters

from the nearby brooks

and those of the birds

marries the fall

the garden

a stage of fallen flowers

a bed, full of lovers

with fresh brown whispering leaves

night and day

ceaselessly unite here

in moments, bloom

through millions of dawn and dusk

the numerous cracking, befriend,

celebrate the falling

waves of time, fall on the shores
folks write, written

seeds of love-thoughts, drop on the ground

this is nature, in permanence

loving and making love

in multiple folds, old anew

o sense, loud and mute

a sad wall, an island

accursed, live and stand

a death that does not die, ages

perpetually distant

its height cannot smell the grass

from where waves wither its cold feet

a non-living, inert symbol

trained, groomed, never to fall

all around, surrounded by

breaking, falling

sounds of love

ready to lose

a bee just pierced a hole

at the bottom

a cracking sound

with an ouch,

it went to the other side

busy

in the same way

falling,

failing, and

falling
in all of this
the sole wall 
looks old

Times

No holidays since long

Days rest tired, somehow go

Night-eyes stare up, blank

Hope for a tomorrow

Work might never start

Holidays might never wait

At the crossroads

The last shadow

the last shadow

disappears from the trees

the sky sheds off the clouds

complain rains

melancholic day

drowned in alcohol

stays sunk

until the dog at the corridor

of my garden howls

brings the intoxicated day to a halt

everything around changes

for some moments

a gap

an in-between

it will eventually get back

clouds will hang again

shadows will re-appear

water is the rock of Sisyphus

curse, curse, curse

what bliss this curse is

I walk down the corridor stairs

my legs have rain-sounds

jhhum jhhum jhhum

filled with the glory of falling

all absolutes become obsolete

blurred, nonsense

I lie flat in my garden

rains cover me...

moments with openness

without shelter

the dog howls

the sound, blunt and content

In this gap, curse or bliss

I know

Last is never the last. 

The source of entertainment

Literature of the world

Wounded, hurt...

Operas weep,

Sense engrossed in the narration

Pain becomes the healer.

Dying mind, history’s only hero.

People who fight, put behind the bars

In worship-cages, locked for good.

Dearth, horror, scarcity re-appear into the fore

Poverty, a permanent guest, hoists richness

Insanity, which is beautiful, mesmerising, becomes ugly

Weapons re-surface as the only truth

Imprisoned fighter, banished in the pages,

Wars and destructions, followed with awe

With utmost care, and sincerity

Bought and sold

Flawlessly, all over the world.

Operas re-weep

Literature re-wound

Senses drown

In the mindful, elite entertainment

the relentless poet

with high sugar, bp and other physical plights

the poet writes

through the dysfunctional ears, myopic eyes

the poet types

in an armchair, with a stick that wobbles

the poet scribbles

with wilting legs, quivering hands

the poet dares to stand

despite migraine and toothache, the poet giggles

the words on those pages scrawl, squiggle

despite wars in the air

in every corner

stony tones that joke and smirk

the jerk, with the restless mind

writes

what drives the poet, no one knows

would the poems anywhere go

to the insane, matters the least

out in the sun or in foggy mist

drying, drizzling, or pouring

tools aiding or ailing

the writing continues

of the sighs and the hues

in the world around

with the spirit of wonder

yet untapped, unbound

the broken rhythm

 

in the world, there's only this slow, stress-less pace

the muddy heart, water-beats of peace

no race, no dolour, none at all

quiet, sound is the world, authentic, every moment

no bloodshed, brawl

life abounds in the air, replete with existence

yet

essence picks up images of horror, scarcity

nurses, nurtures, mirrors nature-less discords

as insipid truth

hollowness intrudes,

a stranger with an unwholesome passport

marks boundaries in horizon-less minds

breaks into lies, with wide open eyes

a lilt fast, hurried, abrupt...a cadence queer,

disquieting still

the tuning back into the pristine...

the attractive, abounding whole

could journey its way

through cleansing the lot

wishing away

outlandish thoughts.

Pervert

Water boiling... morning tea in the making

My east-facing kitchen and my bedroom get the morning sun

My wife also suggested a glass door in the balcony

From where comes every morning the soft sun

My wife, asleep... half of her body is sun’s

The rest, shadow’s...my world looks beautiful, complete

I smell her hair, my black nest

She’s my married wife ... Married wife? What kind of an expression is that!

I am standing...looking empty and hollow...am I a pervert?

Suddenly a rage ran through my nerves

Desdemona! What on earth are you doing with him? O, that’s why the glass, is it?

Wait...kill him I will... I pull the heavy curtain

She takes the quilt and embraces it inside her

O the quilt, the bed sheet, the pillows

All seem like scattered handkerchiefs... Desdemona! Am I a pervert?

‘Hon, where’s the tea?’

Just a minute darling... about turn...the mirror traps me in horror

I rush to the kitchen. Boy! The sun has washed all the water away

‘Honey...where’s my tea?’I know a full honey is not so sweet.

A wind blows through the leaves of the tree that my kitchen covers

The one we planted some years ago. Honey!

Just a minute love! No, no... I am not going there until the tea is done

Through the breezy branches, the sun winks at me sniggering in the roaring chirps

‘Pervert’!

we can do without weapons

This poem is in response to the most alarming screech ‘I will shoot you’ by a child in a school. Where it happened is not important, because it happened in my world, your world, our world.

‘I will shoot you’, a child says to another child.

The trigger pulls, the child kills and is killed.

Children reflect grown up children’s wild burden,

Destined to hate, hit, and hurt with the excuse of a reason.

Ye civilized world, worthy women and men!

Did you hear the sound, the alarm, the screeching siren?

If this doesn't trigger to lock out weapon factories

and convert them into flower-houses, then what would,

my dears,

with how much more bloody tears?

What is your fear to do away with those

think anew

you need to,

put an end to these shows.

Weapons are free, and they’re on the loose

Children o heavens be; let them play, amuse.

Drop those hoity-toity toys
For the sake of those budding girls and boys

Children are shooting stars,

weighed down, heavy, with our sad scars,

change your mindless, reckless game,

help them shoot out love, without guilt or shame.

Eons of years have gone by,

failures of primitive outcry

attraction still is to repeat,

humankind’s utter defeat.

Think afresh and choose

a weapon-less winsome place

the world will win its space

none will ever lose.

Dive in deep to know

its useless disastrous root

the need for weapons would go

children, all ages, would never ever shoot.

join the world

Weapons are injurious

to the health of the world

Ban the need for weapons

from the beautiful minds