regardless I get

a rum-jelly

 (on Halloween)


half moon—

we catch it after dinner



such gloom—

even the gulls fly home early


(on Haiku Dialogue, Haiku Foundation)


burned pan—

his scrubbing rises

in waves

(on Haiku Dialogue, Haiku Foundation)


stopping midway

the hare looks equally


(Haiku Netra, 1.3 issue)



the priest tests speakers

for mantras

(Haiku Netra, 1.3 issue)




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



They grow in the forest,

and in the cracks

of the sidewalks,

or the walls

of ramshackle buildings,



and they blossom,

that can’t be helped,


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”


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,


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―



Calgary January 19, 2023