Ode to the Autumn

 

Autumn, thou stand betwix

The summer and the winter,

Still, like divinity thou mix

Contradictions: The soul and the matter.

 

Summer still warms during the day,

As, takes it paddy to its youth,

Winter too sneaks in after the sun's last ray,—

Dew almost rains to water their mouth.

 

Summer's last ripening and windfall;

Last gift to that lonely little lass,

Looking eagerly into some tree tall,

'What'd I offer', the winter guess.

 

Autumn, thou save that farmer from weather bite,

Which the two extremities try to force by fight.

Moony Mother's Light

 

Look how the night milks

The whole landscape spread infantly,

Like a mother breastfeeding her child gently,

And everything hazy eyed by winy maternal sips,

Vow! O moony night thy motherly lips

Kiss the sleepy panorama; the mother saintly

Strokes everything lying in her lap faintly,

O sleepless mother thy head never trips!

 

Look how whitish the love bathes the shadows!

Aura such that even ghosts seem friendly,

What fear has to do near love such,

Thus, every soul opens all its windows,

So that mother's light enter grandly,

And still she never finds it too much!

A Newborn in a Himalayan Cave

 

A sanyasi in the cave,

Where the Himalayas pave

The highest path; stony silence rave

Rhymes musical, as Ganga brave

Boulders, which gave

Into the ascetic wave.

 

And his beard grows

Like the flora unchecked across

The edgy vale; happy of course:

Who lovest not cravings loss?

And there sits the man; legs cross,

Static they forget dashy furrows.

 

The rain when drips

Through the roof, perhaps to frisk

The human through trips,

Urvashi but fails in its tricks,

Him, the stone, Ganga's monotony grips,

For billion faiths, prayer only lips.

 

Comes when the sun,

Or the day at its final run,

He perceives not the job done,

And the fauna making fun

Leaves him as if none,

Who knows? Maybe with some pun!

 

This child in mighty father's womb,

His soul chants 'Om. Om. Om................'

Delivered once by mom,

Now the second through father's dome

To a world ebriated with Som.

And where souls freely roam.

Rhyme's Crime

 

Aah, the era of hard talk!

Each and everybody vies for

The worldly stretch across the pages,

Depict which paged humanity;

Words, only words, queuing

Along the social misdeeds,

Still, each counts for millions!

Alas! The soft talk;

The words which lit up

Invisible illumination over superficiality,

The language which only

A flower can sense,

So few words!

Still, saying the epic tale

Of humanity's glory,

But, they fetch nothing.

Perhaps, the soft talkers have

The sixth sense,

Enables which the common five

To mix up and come out

As an apostle of reality,

Understands which nobody.

 

Why then a bard should create a rhyme,

If all dump it as an economic crime?

Where's Love Gone

 

O gem, why thou shone

Lovely in my eyes?

Why thou were born of aeon,

If beauty's reflection surely dies?

 

Even memories have gone

To the deepest burial,

Faintest memories sometimes moan

Over the love's funeral.

 

Why they say

That love never dies?

It, of course, does on the dooms day,

When someone so lovely, heavenwards flies.

 

What is the use of fragrant shower?

If you do not see the flower!

The Farmer and the Night

 

The night was spiritually lit; milky,

Aha such a beautiful night!

But, still not lucky

To dazzle in a couple's love delight.

 

 

Perhaps, alone with its misty milky light,

Hey Look! A farmer is there,

Irrigating his wheatlings amidst frosty bite,—

Ritual holiest by this agrestic seer.

 

And water here or there shines

To a chilly chide by the moon,

While, milky loneliness pines

For its brave son a harvest boon.

 

His feet numb in freezing water,

Amidst 'warmly sleepers' he seems a martyr.

Mysterious End of a Song

 

Life is a song,

Which soul singths;

The spirit playing matter's lyre,

Melody starting with first cry,

Goes on and on,

Till completion of the journey,—

Notes high and notes low;

Beats ecstatic and tragic most;

Sometimes fast and sometimes pensively slow,

The soul goes on playing

The strings in body's harp,

And then the barely audible;

The last twinge at the death bed,

The soul as if in a hurry,

Plays the mysterious rhythm,

Which, though, completion of the song,

Stands distinct for its abstractness.

Aah! Why is it that

Most of the songs end on a tragic note?

Why not the escaping soul,

Plays the most rhythmic tone

At that moment last?

Consoles which those eyes

Where pain creates furious storms.