Ode to an autumnal full moon

A full moon,
shining like the sun on a joyful noon,
on this autumnal night,

What a wonderous sight!

The milky rays,

Whispers through them divinity and says,

'Sleep thou my child

after the daylong hankering wild!'

The darkness is lit,

The milky rays even sneak a bit

into my tired, resting heart,

and stroke to life some sleeping art,

creating a smile on my dreamy face,

A glow, a hope, a new dream's trace,

Its lovey, soft fingers brace

with a caring lover's grace,

The pain gone,

after a soft mumbling and sleepy moan,

The full moon just for me shone.

The milky, translucent nectar

filtering through a veil of dewy mist,

It assuages, alleviates the pain

born of dreams broken

still tightly held in my fist, 

The shattered love pieces

held in my grasp like gems,

The glassy shattered pieces

still cut the flesh on my grasping palm,

and the heart finding this sweet pain a balm.

The night jasmine is all abloom,

all fragrant with a seductive smile,

And darkness hiding in little corners

with a predatory guile,

All and everything relaxed

after crossing another mile,

With dreams of repeating the same

with the coming new sun's fame.

Some lone lark,

fighting its sorrowful dark,

lets loose a pining song

finding its loneliness too long,

The sadly sweet notes awaken me

and ask me to be

a witness of their melodious litigation

in the final court for some mitigation.

The full moon on a misty night,

and the lark's song of sorrowful delight. 

Shy, scared verses

Where does my poetry surface the best?

Where do my emotions aren't shy to come out?

Where does my poetry feel safest?
It seeks disposable scraps of paper,

Ruffled, frayed, crumpled chits of paper,--

An old bill of no use now;

some shopkeeper's calculating scrawl;

some time-worn receipts;

some redundant acknowledgments,

Anything that has no value anymore

to lay claim to something higher 

than some defeated verses.

My poems, my emotions' offsprings

seek these dustbinned items

and cling to them 

like autumnal dew clings to fresh roses,

Both are unrequired expressions

beyond monetary valuation,--

One of a petty task done,

The other just lost pieces 

of a necklace broken by time and people,

Both are floating around to cling 

to some similar worthless fragments.

The scraps and chits of paper look

eager to voluntarily enter their grave,

The verses avoid shiny, sleek pages

and well-bound diaries,

or a flower-bordered, fragrant paper,

or the shiny screen of a notepad,

or costly computer,

or a precious smartphone,

They are afraid of them, these verses mine,

Like a beggar scared of a palatial bungalow,

They seek poor quarters,

where they won't feel 

the shame of their nakedness,

where they can merge 

with the filth, squalor and misery,

They just need a poor quarter 

to hide and feel safe and alive,

They just need poor, soiled clothes

to hide their poor, pathetic body,

They merely seek something

that's of no use to humans,

Maybe they want to hide

even from their own self,

They are looking for things

that are even more valueless 

than the paper scraps in a dustbin.  

New

 You came

and became

a part of me,

Became my own eyes to see

more of living and life

among all this painful strife,

Part of an enlarged me

became thee.

Time's tidings swept away

by the new ray,

Alas, set then the new sun

after its daylong fun,

Joys finished after the sweet run.

Some new heart now you light,

Leaving me in darkness to fight,

sweetest memories out of sight.

With my broken self,

I wander with a piteous yelp,

Still, it's sweet pain,

Memories drizzle sometimes as fine rain,

Nothing goes in vain,

In first adding and then cutting me,

A new version at least I be,

Remodeled, resized reshaped,−

Hidden scars beneath the worldly drape,

Anyway, I'm something new,

Hold my heaven in a drop of teary dew.

Broken toy

You broke me beyond repair, 

each piece lying scattered in despair,

You, a child playing with a toy,

full of joy,

Then on a childish whim 

suddenly went for the bud's beheading trim,

Giving it sorrows full to the brim,

Kicked it away

and moved with swagger and sway,

To make a fresh heart’s hay,

Away, away!

Here the broken toy lies,

Its each broken part separately dies,

Multiple deaths these are,

While you play again far, far,

With another toy,

With marvellous ease and joy,

While the broken toys aren't fit for love again,

Catch they no child's fancy chain,

They just keep the memories and the past

through sad nostalgic blast

lynching their broken parts,

Gain some unprofitable arts,

And then crumble 

with silent rumble

and die finally with a sigh 

and a sadly smiling bye

to the child far away 

playing with full heart's sway

with another toy,

All joy, all joy!

Moving on

Anger should mellow down a bit, 

and melt later to turn sorrow, 

then change into forgiveness, 

followed by acceptance. 

And maybe then dear friends 

we can afford a gentle smile,

And welcome a new day;

anchor the bruised self in a safe bay,

And remember the past with a painless nostalgia,

And move on. 

Journeyman, that's how we ought to

proceed on our path.

A higher dose of love

 There I walk in a little hill forest,

A sad heart broken beyond repair,

Broken dreams and soul in despair,

Everything seems just a futile glimpse of shifting mists,

Big questions stare in my face,

is it light embracing darkness? 

Or darkness welcoming light?

Loss, longing and love 

brewing a mist in the morning forest,

I walk on a lone path, 

Then the sunrays streak in, 

Everything turns into love,

Loss and longing glide away with misty vapours, 

Love is nothing but all the lesser emotions sublimated fully.

Ode to silence

Each word is incomplete, 

just an abstract, broken fragment born of 

thoughts arising in the mind. 

And the mind itself a grainy fragment 

of the overall consciousness,

Words are mere grains of sand,

With sandgrains we try to make castles, 

huge castles that we cast in pursuance 

of the ever-missing meaning of life, 

And then the sand slips, 

we go for awkward flips. 

Words are mere broken arrows,

How will one even win a battle with broken arrows?

Words are mere sparks, 

temporary flashes coming out of the endless coffers of silence,

They just give a little flash of light around our feet 

as we grope in the darkness,

seeking a way out of our puzzles. 

Words are mere temporary twinklings 

on the vast canvas of silence,

They themselves tell their story of incompleteness, 

their own meaninglessness 

behind all the meanings ascribed to them,

And the moment we listen to their story, 

we arrive at the moral of the final story,--

The moral of their story is silence;

Silence and emptiness behind all this noise and happening. 

As I write this, 

huge rumblings of megh naad, 

the rumblings of clouds, 

buzz across my head:

A booming cosmic storm 

that chucks out the outer shell of words, 

crushes the stones to spread the sand 

to go flying with the winds, 

The words getting sucked into 

a cosmic cascade and whirlpool of energy, 

And beyond that silence, stillness and emptiness.

September

Rains and more rains,

Mold in the pickle jar,

White coral mushroom on the rotting plank,

Potatoes with spikey sprouts,

Baby frogs everywhere, 

Lots of nests in the trees and plants, 

The sky laden with flying insects,

Well-fed serpents and croaky long-limbed toads, 

Thickly overgrown trees and promiscuous creepers,

The air with a musty smell,

The railings more rusty,

The sky just a cloudy canvas,

Hot teas and spicy pakoras,

Smiles,

Gossips,

Love and loss in the season of moss, 

Well-bathed caravan looking to sneak in 

and take a shelter in the autumnal camp,

Well, it has been too damp,

Welcome now the sunny lamp.

A diet for gutsy guys

Eat all your pains yourself,

Be utmost gluttinous in it,

Don't share them,

And then take long-long sips 

of all the insults hurled at you,

Don't share them as well, 

Believe me fed on this cattle feed 

you will emerge as a 

strong, gutsy, thick-skinned human-animal.

Little stream

 Little hills,

A verdant small valley, 

And a curvaceous beauty,--

A stream rippling across the stones,

Its unchained notes singing a song

for the tired traveller who stops by it,

Its divine fluidity melting 

the stony pain in his heart,

Its free will flowing joyfully,

setting him free from the 

prison of fears, worries and tension. 

Bringing life to a still-born morning

A gloomy grey dawn with shades deep, 

All silence except the lonely katydid 

who still kept its hopes alive for a mate 

through its unhurried breep breep. 

The sky hung spent,

Looking forlorn with languorous bent,  

Discharmed after overexerting itself in 

breaking September rain record, 

The earth below soaked full 

and lay sleepy like an overfed bull. 

No rockchats for their pre-dawn birdy chatter,

Things are always supposed to be better, 

Then the faint traces of a new day 

filtered across the clouds with a new ray. 

A handsome oriental magpie Robin 

took over the chorus from the tired katydid 

and the dandy black and white bird's 

teasing, naughty chitter broke the ice. 

Instantly a couple of peacocks gave gruffy hoots, 

A crow cawed, 

A dove sent its docile notes, 

A white wagtail chipped in, 

A few sparrows gossiped across the branches. 

The morning chorus singers 

increased in number and variety, 

It's the birds who announce 

a new day most beautifully, 

Listen to their announcement, 

They always seem wishing you 

the best of a morning!

Philanthropy of a common man

I'm a common man with modest means, 

and common people have to be 

conscious of their deeds 

that may justify 

their philanthropic conscience. 

They have their limitations 

and need to look for small avenues 

to satisfy the good spirit. 

I am no exception,

I collect my tiny grains of good deeds,--

A potted rose feeling extremely thirsty, 

its buds and top leaves drooping despiritedly, 

I pour water with care and consideration, 

Within fifteen minutes I see the results, 

The branches straighten and leaves turn taut, 

the buds raise their heads again, 

They will smile fully tomorrow. 

Now who says that 

good deeds don't fetch beautiful results?

Synchronicity

A richly yellow, thick, grand old 

guava leaf lets go of its grip 

on the branch and tumbles down 

to create a soft tonk on the car's roof. 

The completion of a journey! 

Well, I believe some stately wise old man 

also died peacefully in sleep, 

after completing a joyful, meaningful life, 

in some corner of the world 

at exactly the same time.

Crawling for a new day

The day 

holding its last ray,

The dusk 

at its mellifluous cusp,

The breeze stops

to welcome dew drops,

To the nest

birds return for rest,

The leech

also has to reach

a place safe,

To crawl

cling and brawl

on a new day.

Ode to solitude

Embraced by the pining silence 

and stillness of these mute hours, 

my detached self grows more detached 

and aloof like those misty distances 

virginally spread out under the star light.

Thus, the lone pine

felt absolutely fine.

The Baggage

I carried the load of victory 

and the next time 

when I lined up for the run 

I lagged behind like a burdened beast. 

I carried the baggage of defeat 

and perspiring under the load sat down,

gasping for breath, 

and could just manage to see 

others lining up for the run.