counting the days...
raindrop ripples
on a pond
Traveler
As I look behind
the road seems to have emerged
from a ribbon
As I look ahead
the road appears to end
into a similar one
Who's holding it straight & taut
this mid-portion of life
I recall visiting pyramids
the tombs made of stones
and wonder
Who could have lifted that last block
up there
I'm told that the wind though gentle
is capable of eroding memories
and I've witnessed the vagaries
of sandstorms
And still I have doubts
how the cool zephyr of dawn
can transform itself
I've wandered through towns
and its market places
I've traced vinegar in the smell
of a cobbler's hut
And I've roamed the graveyards
with their rows of white crosses
jutting out of the auburn grass
of autumn
I've questioned me
Do you see yourself amidst them
the sleeping warriors
I find myself on the bridge of my destiny
One end the bridge
seems to have emerged
from a quiet dawn
And the other lost to a rising mist
blurring every thing lying beyond
the road seems to have emerged
from a ribbon
As I look ahead
the road appears to end
into a similar one
Who's holding it straight & taut
this mid-portion of life
I recall visiting pyramids
the tombs made of stones
and wonder
Who could have lifted that last block
up there
I'm told that the wind though gentle
is capable of eroding memories
and I've witnessed the vagaries
of sandstorms
And still I have doubts
how the cool zephyr of dawn
can transform itself
I've wandered through towns
and its market places
I've traced vinegar in the smell
of a cobbler's hut
And I've roamed the graveyards
with their rows of white crosses
jutting out of the auburn grass
of autumn
I've questioned me
Do you see yourself amidst them
the sleeping warriors
I find myself on the bridge of my destiny
One end the bridge
seems to have emerged
from a quiet dawn
And the other lost to a rising mist
blurring every thing lying beyond
2 haiku
1.
a sand dune
furrowed by the wind
grandmother’s face
2.
silent movie—
she refuses
the rose
a sand dune
furrowed by the wind
grandmother’s face
2.
silent movie—
she refuses
the rose
The woodpecker drumming
The woodpecker
has been tapping on a nearby oak
since the daybreak.
Its persistent beating
a hollow branch, echoes the bareness
of autumn :
Am I simply a countable head in a crowd,
a leaf on a tree, or a branch,
empty inside?
Am I a poet scripting verses for the wind,
or am I similar to an archaic coin, tossed
to a pauper’s bowl, rattling along
throughout the season?
What about the faces I meet every day
in the marketplace, are their lives
marked by price tags?
I feel for the bird, which needs
to assert its identity
which keeps on drumming
at a roadside park
since dawn.
has been tapping on a nearby oak
since the daybreak.
Its persistent beating
a hollow branch, echoes the bareness
of autumn :
Am I simply a countable head in a crowd,
a leaf on a tree, or a branch,
empty inside?
Am I a poet scripting verses for the wind,
or am I similar to an archaic coin, tossed
to a pauper’s bowl, rattling along
throughout the season?
What about the faces I meet every day
in the marketplace, are their lives
marked by price tags?
I feel for the bird, which needs
to assert its identity
which keeps on drumming
at a roadside park
since dawn.
Travelling down the road with you
So often I dream about a summer:
a slim road paved with cobble-stones,
wriggling its way through age-old dwellings
with you by my side. We're both hushed, both
pensive, with hands tucked inside our pockets.
We arrive at an emerald pond
with its population of ducks: dabbling,
quacking, diving into depths of the only syllables
they know. We offer them our sympathy.
Dusk grows, and the alpenglow reflects in your
eye. Soon, a soft fog would further blur our surrounds,
and you'd mingle into dark, much like an apparition.
My lethargic footfalls would ricochet off the walls
of a half-lit bylane, with one or two street-lamps
near its bends.
We are strangers at each others’ door,
yet some afternoons burn into evenings
with our shadows traveling
alongside.
a slim road paved with cobble-stones,
wriggling its way through age-old dwellings
with you by my side. We're both hushed, both
pensive, with hands tucked inside our pockets.
We arrive at an emerald pond
with its population of ducks: dabbling,
quacking, diving into depths of the only syllables
they know. We offer them our sympathy.
Dusk grows, and the alpenglow reflects in your
eye. Soon, a soft fog would further blur our surrounds,
and you'd mingle into dark, much like an apparition.
My lethargic footfalls would ricochet off the walls
of a half-lit bylane, with one or two street-lamps
near its bends.
We are strangers at each others’ door,
yet some afternoons burn into evenings
with our shadows traveling
alongside.
Another dawn
The invading eastern glow
makes me self-conscious and withdrawn,
a purring cat in cozy hours.
I imagine tip-toeing to my attic,
opening an iron chest stuffed with reveries.
Making the minimum of noise, lest the world
discovers my larceny, I bring out
yellowish photographs : our cottage
in its youth, me and my younger brother
busy playing basket ball, mother in her kitchen,
the sausage in our breakfast, father's gruff voice,
slow whispers of cutlery, the fresh heady scent
from our garden, all the trivial details of a Sunday
morning, warms upto me.
A sudden quake disrupts the scene.
Why does the place swing like a country boat?
Or is it me barging against my memories?
There! A thieving magpie enters the room,
snatches my jewels and leaves in a flash -
I'm left with a cruelly lit day.
makes me self-conscious and withdrawn,
a purring cat in cozy hours.
I imagine tip-toeing to my attic,
opening an iron chest stuffed with reveries.
Making the minimum of noise, lest the world
discovers my larceny, I bring out
yellowish photographs : our cottage
in its youth, me and my younger brother
busy playing basket ball, mother in her kitchen,
the sausage in our breakfast, father's gruff voice,
slow whispers of cutlery, the fresh heady scent
from our garden, all the trivial details of a Sunday
morning, warms upto me.
A sudden quake disrupts the scene.
Why does the place swing like a country boat?
Or is it me barging against my memories?
There! A thieving magpie enters the room,
snatches my jewels and leaves in a flash -
I'm left with a cruelly lit day.
in your absence (Tanka)
in your absence
months have piled
into years …
the leaf freed by the storm
now a dot in the sky
months have piled
into years …
the leaf freed by the storm
now a dot in the sky
5 haiku
1.
thunderbolt--
discovering myself
in the mirror
2.
my nascent love --
the fragrance of tilled earth
after a shower
3.
the fungus
on moist bamboo--
growing jealousy
4.
the violinist
builds up a tune--
clouds swell
5.
monsoon dusk--
her polka dot umbrella
fading
thunderbolt--
discovering myself
in the mirror
2.
my nascent love --
the fragrance of tilled earth
after a shower
3.
the fungus
on moist bamboo--
growing jealousy
4.
the violinist
builds up a tune--
clouds swell
5.
monsoon dusk--
her polka dot umbrella
fading
Last night's rain
The night drizzle
for me is more than
simple ecstasy. I realize how
quietude pronounces with each
plopping sound; ripples grow
and die out in intersecting cycles,
similar to my entering your domain
and you into mine.
I pore over the small world
of a puddle. In the mayhem of melodic
raptures, syllables entwine. Words dawn,
echoing my lonely feeling: I'm stranded,
alone in a crowd.
After the rain dozes off, remnant drops
measure the distance
between us.
for me is more than
simple ecstasy. I realize how
quietude pronounces with each
plopping sound; ripples grow
and die out in intersecting cycles,
similar to my entering your domain
and you into mine.
I pore over the small world
of a puddle. In the mayhem of melodic
raptures, syllables entwine. Words dawn,
echoing my lonely feeling: I'm stranded,
alone in a crowd.
After the rain dozes off, remnant drops
measure the distance
between us.
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