parched leaves--
she straightens out
a crumpled letter
Rain at twilight
Have you noticed diamonds
para-trouping
Have you watched the rain
trickling down the broken face
of a loony rag picker
resting over cobblestones
He watches the crows shaking off
in a flurry
what they cannot hold
Fractured clouds allow the last light
to glitter in his downy eyes
Yet he slips and falls
Darkness deepens the moss-
-covered walls of the city
amid people and cars hissing around
He feels his stubble
the stubbornness of coarse bristles
growing on his soft flaccid skin
the oddity of bright halogens
lighting up the potholes
Crickets drone their night song
a lullaby to his ears
para-trouping
Have you watched the rain
trickling down the broken face
of a loony rag picker
resting over cobblestones
He watches the crows shaking off
in a flurry
what they cannot hold
Fractured clouds allow the last light
to glitter in his downy eyes
Yet he slips and falls
Darkness deepens the moss-
-covered walls of the city
amid people and cars hissing around
He feels his stubble
the stubbornness of coarse bristles
growing on his soft flaccid skin
the oddity of bright halogens
lighting up the potholes
Crickets drone their night song
a lullaby to his ears
Haiku
temple bells
again and again
the beggar’s call
***
boundary wall—
three guards and a dog
basking in the sun
***
again and again
the beggar’s call
***
boundary wall—
three guards and a dog
basking in the sun
***
The man lying next to my bed
He's obese, double-chinned, middle-aged.
He can mumble a few words as and when
his memory allows him. Met with a mishap
in some early spring in the altitudes of Himalayas,
and lost his locomotion. Days are only numbers now,
so are the nights. He lies composed in a hospital bed
next to mine.
Each day his wife visits him, a frail woman
with a morbid face, and begs him to utter her name.
He observes her in silence. Maybe
all he remembers are the pines and rhododendrons,
the wildflowers and the dictionary of birds in the lap
of ancient moss-ridden rocks.
He takes scarce notice of me, with his eyes glued
to the ceiling fan. Gulps down food, water, medicines
when told. Sleeps when told.
I watch a physiotherapist folding his arms, limbs.
Up and down. Up and down. Then sideways-
left to right, right to left. The man struggles hard
to stir up the patient, to somehow impart a rhythm
to his stiffened existence. The patient mutters at times
the names of places of an earlier world
where morning fog gives way to the splendor
of icy peaks
but then he shudders
as leaves do
amid the shivering tone of autumn wind.
He can mumble a few words as and when
his memory allows him. Met with a mishap
in some early spring in the altitudes of Himalayas,
and lost his locomotion. Days are only numbers now,
so are the nights. He lies composed in a hospital bed
next to mine.
Each day his wife visits him, a frail woman
with a morbid face, and begs him to utter her name.
He observes her in silence. Maybe
all he remembers are the pines and rhododendrons,
the wildflowers and the dictionary of birds in the lap
of ancient moss-ridden rocks.
He takes scarce notice of me, with his eyes glued
to the ceiling fan. Gulps down food, water, medicines
when told. Sleeps when told.
I watch a physiotherapist folding his arms, limbs.
Up and down. Up and down. Then sideways-
left to right, right to left. The man struggles hard
to stir up the patient, to somehow impart a rhythm
to his stiffened existence. The patient mutters at times
the names of places of an earlier world
where morning fog gives way to the splendor
of icy peaks
but then he shudders
as leaves do
amid the shivering tone of autumn wind.
empty hall
Haiku :
empty hall--
a black ant roaming
for morsels
Tanka version :
the hall
sans the usual crowd
and hubbub--
an ant searching out
leftovers
empty hall--
a black ant roaming
for morsels
Tanka version :
the hall
sans the usual crowd
and hubbub--
an ant searching out
leftovers
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