Poems
scarecrow—
regardless I get
a rum-jelly
(on Halloween)
half moon—
we catch it after dinner
overfed
such gloom—
even the gulls fly home early
squeaking
(on Haiku Dialogue, Haiku Foundation)
burned pan—
his scrubbing rises
in waves
(on Haiku Dialogue, Haiku Foundation)
stopping midway
the hare looks equally
surprised
(Haiku Netra, 1.3 issue)
Navaratri—
the priest tests speakers
for mantras
(Haiku Netra, 1.3 issue)
excited—
grown-up son brings out
his sparkles
(on Diwali)
out of turn—
autumn snow has it
all covered
Chai, Cinema and Cricket
Unusual trios, it may seem,
commonality, hardly will you deem,
except the first letter in the name,
but that’s nothing to start a poem.
First, a drink we grew up drinking warm
second, we watched in theatres, now at home,
third, a game, that also has changed its form,
let’s see if we find something common to affirm.
From the history we sure can wrest,
all three came to the east from the west,
then all three got spiced up in the east,
and circled back to the west with a twist.
Went in, the first, as tea and came out as chai,
with milk and sugar, had a few faces turn wry,
now the same at Starbucks, to ask, none is shy,
how it has changed now, and I wonder, why.
Eastern movies, came with song and dance,
like opera moved from stage to films by chance,
then, I saw a couple of figure-skaters’ prance,
how their act, a Hindi movie song, did enhance.
Cricket, the English played for days five,
when they brought it to the east in their hive,
theirs were the rules but the game did thrive,
now shortened, five days have games five.
Churning is what everything goes through,
little changes to the three changed their hue,
small things they’re, still a sample of the crew,
changes there must be to keep the world anew.
(Contemporary Literary Review India, Vol. 10. No3:CLRI August 2023)
Winter Haiku...2022-23
green comet―
fifty thousand years
passed sleeping
Snowed pine―
clouds line up on
night sky’s edge
Buried under
snow and sun… deck chairs
huddled, warm.
Amid snowbanks
sun-washed sidewalk—a line
of shoe prints
Two windows
curtained before evening—
still winter
Blue, green, black
trash cans… out of line
by snow heap
Blossoming
They grow in the forest,
and in the cracks
of the sidewalks,
or the walls
of ramshackle buildings,
untended,
un-groomed,
and they blossom,
that can’t be helped,
unlike
some flowers
getting into a wreath
for the gallery.
Calgary November 23, 2022
Who can tell why?
Running into friends away from home,
just an acquaintance seems closer,
distance of places inversely correlates with
intimacy and at one gathering in a place in the
land of dreams, a visitor arrives uninvited,
tagging along to another, sees many—
some new, some old, some just known faces
who might have hung out in the same college
in different companies; many seem settled,
some settling, some trying to make it — mostly
young families, and one of them introduces
his beautiful wife who is in the family way —
small talks, stray reminiscing of some common
strands, an evening well spent, oceans away.
A few years down,
the visitor hears from his friend about
another gathering filled with happy guests,
happier hosts for the child’s birthday, the
hospitable hostess swirling around, bubbling,
like a songbird, checks with each to make sure
they are having a good time, makes sure foods
keep flowing as do the drinks, old buddies and
their families hang out late, as usual, a few may
have been slithering down in their seats rebelling
against the five days of slavery to their watches—
fully reliant upon the verbal and physical tugging
from their better halves, and after they are gone,
the din has flattened out, a calmness descends,
fatigue wakes to show its might, yet the hostess
cleans up, asks her family to go sleep as she goes
about putting the house back to order, perhaps
resetting it to its primordial state where
potential would have its full chance,
and in the quietness detached from drunken stupor,
a void rises out of smoke from the smouldering
woods which might have been seeped in a wetness
that rains from the sky have nothing to do with,
nor the sun of the sky has ever seen to dry them.
A quiet house,
almost dark house,
almost the wee hours:
why does the sun take long to wake up,
why do the rains take time drenching,
why is the cool breeze of the evening tardy,
why the smoke keeps snarling —a snake
from a different garden lures the silent bird
into the depths of non-echoes,
why she leaves mixing up her homes, and
why she chooses to board the rail-tracks
instead of a train and leaves an empty house
stripped of its home?
Published in the Anthology “Suicide-vol2” by “Poetry for mental health”
https://www.poetryformentalhealth.org/suicide---vol-2
A lawyer lost his status
A lawyer away from home,
trudging along like everyone else,
nothing extraordinary,
when he discovered his voice,
not a rumbling one,
but potent with a pleasant tone,
that was heard-
just his stubborn voice,
adept in multiplication,
and unusual was his fight,
for never did he have any enemy,
turning foes to friends in disagreement,
then, he came home,
to adorn an altar.
He worked hard
shedding skins,
baring his core
but the harder he tried to be a man,
as born,
the higher he got
on the altar,
strangely
from where,
he had a fall, a fatal one,
as his folks had firmed him up above,
and written standards for a superman,
for those were god fearing people,
always ready for miracles,
and the poor man could never reach the bar,
though a religious man he was,
and as had happened to many before him,
he burned at the stake,
losing his struggle to be
just a human.
Calgary October 02, 2022
Gandhi Jayanti, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s birthday
body leaps
so mind finds its feet―
change
Calgary January 19, 2023