Separated... (3 Tanka)

footfalls
in the corridor...
my dreams
open a door
to the past



peeling
a tangerine
by the window--
the emptiness grows
with each ripped segment



i built her a home
and a garden bedecked
with azaleas,
then i put a fence around
my separate life 

June haiku

1.

starry nights--
do you know how distant
we are




2.

at sea no more
the still eyes
of a marlin




3.

returning
to the nest...
the song she used to sing

Gloves

‘Doctor, I find nothing unusual
in a person roaming with his hands
hidden in gloves in this sticky month
of May; you should judge the outward
versus the inward feeling of passion,


One needs to nurture the warm within,
since the first time my path crossed with hers
My life had been a torture, dangling
in tenterhooks. Till the day I gathered
these gloves, these woolen ones - you like the color?


Last week an ant brigade terrorized
my woeful love- you can’t see them,
They don’t squirm on the surface, yet I
feel them piercing into me, and yes,
taking my gloves off are of no use,


I told you, they are stabbing into me,
All I want is some pesticide, you got it?
Its been a whole week of burn, and somehow
I’ve stopped short of ending my world
in some suicide forest, believe me,

...hey, what’s bitten you?

Losing my sleep

Its not the patter of rain
but murmurs throughout a journey.
Its not the warble of green frogs
but peevish sounds like wind scratching
dry leaves. Or the anguish of a tempest.

I’m no sailor to worry about storms
or whether the Great Bear is on its hunt
for a suitable winter refuge.

I’m ready to believe that we’re journeying
by bus, and it’s nighttime so we can forget
the petulant glances staring at our chuckles
and laughter.

Yet she’d surely disagree - it is rather
a waterfall narrating anecdotes
for so many eons…

feather breeze (3 haiku)

feather breeze
at the end of night
a bird call


obituary--
i owe him more
than i imagined


morning rain
merging with the ocean
my prayers


[ R.I.P, filmmaker Rituparno Ghosh ]

Ripple in the pond

Have you seen the moon
breaking up into ripples

my world broke
when you dropped a pebble
and said you'd be off
the day after

even now
i see moons disintegrating
into smaller ones
till the pain dies out
and mist rises

yet i no longer fear
for further dissolution
of my being

the 'plop' does not stir
my composure

i relish the fading away
of minor details
forms merging to formless

the moon hardly sounds
being split up to pieces

You (tanka)

following you
to that corner
of my mind--
is it the dream
that tells a lie?


your eyes
fail to notice me
consciously
… a humble bee flirts with
wobbly chrysanthemums


again the urge
to rekindle these embers...
with a soft smile
you stand arms akimbo,
in a vale of fire florets

Cinquain

someday
you will make out
the meaning of my smile:
now there's mist and clouds ruling
the dawn

Haiku in May

looking at you
without looking
... a bumble bee


blue dragonfly--
folding the sky
into its wings



reclining upon
dad's wooden armchair
wasn't there a bolster

Tanka

the rancor in your eyes
and in your boyfriend's--
how can I
get rid of the albatross
around my neck?



petals fall
in the soft glow
of paper lanterns
-sakura at night
or the dust of moon?

More haiku

our leisure talk...
a butterfly forming
within its pupa


a prayer-note
against a blizzard
butterfly wings

green Sunday--
when did last we count
the dragonflies

Haiku

a ruru calls...
how long will
the last leaf last



clouds pile up--
hoping against hope
for a glimpse



your soothing words...
sip by sip
the storm disappears



back home...
pots of chrysanthemums
waiting

3 Tanka

how does one
speak without words...
once again
the twinkle in your eyes
breaks our silence



making the pup
learn rock'n roll
Elvis
cries hoarse all through
Thanksgiving Day



the cat
roams around apples
on a table--
how long can we chat
about the weather?

Tanka

concealed
between the cracks
my anguish
will the blizzard spare 
our prayer note

Spring Haiku

leaves in March
eye contact with my
new neighbour


still i
hang on to your thoughts
a broken dream-catcher

pale faced day

colours of Holi sticking

to your palm lines