Sand Grain and a Water Drop

 

O thou cattle herder,

What forces thy migration?

‘Save life’ instigate

And thou become a wanderer:

Exiled like a sandy grain,

Flew which too high

And far with an ‘aye’!

Found not, but, rain!

Where ist thy family?

Sandy message they groan,

And thou quench thirst daily.

 

God made cattle for graze:

Easily, without haste,

Battered them, but, with dusty chaste,

Now, harvested stumps they erase,

Outsiders they feel,

Thus the hurried pace

In the land distant,

Abhors which, even, hot western brace,

Helpless, thou ponder over the emigrant's rent,–

Waterbodies too small;

Only the dried crofts for all.

 

How far have ye trodden?

Weight on thy feet

Looks if hoofs beat;

Heavy, wearied; seem broken,

Chin thou support on

The lathi standing faithfully along:

Cool companion thine,

Its fearful strike blown,

And they needn’t its shine,

For the animal energy gone,–

Weakly they swing horn.

 

Urge the rains!

With thy lips more parched;

Personify thy cattle’s soul nerd!

Pray which can’t, only feel the pains;

Join thy family chorus!

O herder, leave them not,

Needy cry can make Him porous,

Sand grains forming 'need dot',

'Rain here or there,'

We also await it like thee,

Single drop falling makest glee.

Where shall I make a home for you?

 

That little paradise in a small vale,

Where a joint family flowers,

Brightest buds open for the elders pale,

Where green sloppy pastures

Hold upper rocky chin firmly,

And big neighbouring trees give lease;–

Terrace only for the family,

Whiles they from theirs sloppily appease.

 

Paradise where a small brooklet

Sneaks childishly from the parent’s flow,

And sky’s paradise all set

To do anything for the terrestrial child’s glow.

 

Dear, let only thou accompany me there,

Disturb as thou not the heavenly air.

Whom should I ask about her?

 

Shall I tell thee reality about a woman,–

It is exact opposite of what others of her species

Narrate to the hopeful man;

No other query gets such misses.

 

O thou woman,

Why ye misperceive thyself

Before the true heart of men?

It is, but, mischievous wink about the self.

 

Why thy court can’t find judgement fair?

That statue claim not to see,

Why then cheat by thy eyes unfair?

Why only the lie makest thee glee.

 

Thus, let every man find his own answer,

Listen upside-down to the self teaser.

Musicity from Lips, Fingers

 

Humans bray so many voices:

Hard talks and linguistic vocal chords,

Music but is His voice,

The sound organised

In melody, harmony, rhythm,

Fingers when touch string,

Banjo, violin, viola, harp,

Vibrate all with tones sequenced,

Lips when protrude and puff,

Clarinet, cornet, horn, tuba,

Wind changes to divine pitch,

Or be it thumping fingers

Upon cymbals, drums,

Or harmony from harmonium,

Music speaks language one,

Cultural relativity binds it not,

Thus folk and music classical,

Music gets itself done,

Involuntarily they sway to it,

The aborigines and the civilized,

Pious, pure, lyricisd moments those,

Leave they tension theirs’

In divine one of the strings;

Blow their passions inside

The Godly air escaping;

And beat out fists, fingers

Upon those surfaces musical.

Hearty Flights over Our Heads

O birds! Thine world is fantastic,

Feathered tails, plumes ornamental,

Thine forelimbs modified as feathers,

Bones hollow, jaws elongated to bills,

Keel shaped breast bones make fliers strong,

Thou colonize different habitats:

Terrestrial, freshwater, marine.

Humanity’s flying colours thou are,

Be it the cooing call from the dove,

Plumage soft, small headed female;

The lark singing through its bill slender,

Making flying clarinet; singing,

Or the strong magpie fighting crows,

Female strong; the exotica winning.

Be it the swift sparrow, high speeded,

Scimitar shaped wings and thrusts;

Human’s urge to fly high and high,

Robs eggs when intelligent jackdaw,

Shows it our nasty snatching moods,

Or heron seizing fish from the water’s edge,

With body slim and legs longish,

Proves it our artificiality for the survival.

Wood pecker prising off bark, probing crevices,

Shows the labour sense trunked around,

Or the wren, small and swift,

Feeding on small insect flocks beneath bushes,

Realises it millions bushing for bread,

Kookaburra pouncing upon snakes, lizards,

Or birds of prey; hunters nocturnal,

Their strong hooked bills, clawed talons,

Airs high speed dives on targets.

Perform acrobatic display for females,

Feathers thine drop over our ladies’ hats,

And of course game birds for hunting;

Plumes, pillow and duvet stuffings.

Birds! What if we emerge the winners?

Innocence thine is still greater;

Damage crops or foul buildings,

Thou air humanity’s flying colours,

Birds! Thine world is fantastic.

Pa’s Flower Bed

 

Some flowers have grown,

Watch as my father’s eyes

Like fairies from the skies,

They glimpse his perfection; full blown,

 

Originated like earth; few seeds thrown,

Life hovers there, now, as butterflies:

Ecstasies on petals and good byes,

And his Godly muse over the beauty flown.

 

Father theirs, caresses bud each,

Expecting their arrival time, worried

Pours he dewy drops of smallest size,

And gentlest they sway with daughterly reach.

He ponders like the sun; they get energised,

Together even in dreamy nights, and then arise!

Bridal Gifts from the Maiden

 

Lo earthlings, heaven was never so near!

Indra’s thunderbolt enlighten and clouds cheer,

Child bride of yore;

Young lass returns for the marital bliss;

Aha! The rain returns to kiss

Forlorn, hot sighing partner ruing summer long,

Who out of excited warmth singths a song;–

First monsoon rain comes jangling,

Musical arrival upon the leaves swaying;

Small dances, embracing in dust still praying,–

‘Come! Come! Can’t bear more frying’.

 

Universal harmony pours upon mortals,

Many buds are here, awaiting to open petals:

See! Country maiden gone all wet,

Her heart thunder under her bosom to let

Loose, attire’s control sticking around,

Also, the social constraints squeeze and bound,

Thank thee O rain! She overcomes the latter,

Gyrates to see her contours natural; no bloater,

While, drops almost mate around her full fishy lips,

So many, of course, mischievously pat upon shaking hips.

 

O lone outsider with thy cattle herd,

Thank thy local deity for being heard,

Thou look so rainy in those shaggy clothes;

Suck up so much water to desert’s loathes,

Look at the reach of falling rain,

Even the hardest horns feel some lovely pain!

And they shut mouthed, stoically muse over the rare

Rain, which shrinks from the native land, as if not dare,

Then a sad reflection by closing heavy eyelids:

‘Gets my village same big drops, or not?’

 

 Birds still flutter around to chill,

Rain is hurtling down for life; not to kill,

Cares not the smallest world disaster floods,

Sacrifices it for cause greater, and no bloods,

Children run naked in the streets,

So many playmates fall with greets,

The rain is falling to rejuvenate again

Some sparkling in oldest eye for another begin,

Yes! First monsoonal harp is at our doorsteps,

Visible become as our footsteps.