The Little, Mossy Stepping Stone

 

I am a round, moss-clad stone

laid as a fording step on this small, shallow riverbed,

I am glistening white on my face,

And moss-skirted around my base,

Sways my stony heart to the gentle tugs

of the shallow, rippling waters,

I, along with my brethren,

Line up to define a path,

across this little pebbled valley,

Humans, you may have a stony heart,

under the soft muscles in your breast,
But mine is definitely

a soft, mellifluous, mossy green one,
And I wear it on my sleeve,
While you step over my clean white face,
And scamper away,
I just pray,
Safe you reach,
Without any further breach.

Small Farmer

 

The shifting shades under the sun,

The poor farmer’s fate fluctuates with the same,

God watches detached from far,

Test’s His creation’s performance

through endless nature’s play.

 

A misfit in the modern world,

He desperately tries; turns unfit,

Greater is the loss,

for a misfit can have a hope of salvation,

The unfit loses his rights to dreams all.

 

Still, the dew shines daughterly,

The morning breeze sooths motherly,

The rising sunrays enhance the small self,

The brave shadow treads bravely afore,

Implores him to be happy and live just for a day.

 

The birds pass joyfully chirping;

Large becomes the small world,

Walks as he in his little world,

The insects line up to honour,

Confident becomes the poor man.

 

Fading sounds from the village,

Again remind him of his real worth,

As home is there,

Storehouse of all deprivations and anxiety;

Much to be extracted from the plot small.

 

Big-hearted he becomes,

Till he reaches the last night’s dream,

But alas! Too big for his little parcel of land,

Passes the sweat-drenched day,

only to repeat its old version with the next ray.

Little Angels

 

Little angels, swim in the pond

till the lazy days of late winters,

Flew the elder ducks to reach the hills,

For the nature’s law to survive,

Ducklings but too small to fly to the hilly lakes.

 

Earlier, started the monsoonal song above,

The pond got fed to be a tiny lake,

Secluded and safe turned the adjoining land,

For, no foot treads there

through the chilly winter whole.

 

And the ducks far in the hills

smell the heaven waiting motherly,

They feel the aroma of peace extreme in the plains,

Despite being so close to the agents of noise,

Arrived they with birdie songs and quacking notes.

 

Little ones, you were then just hopes,

Eyed the parents the village pond to breed,

Many dreams thronged the waters,

Swam throngs of tiny ducklings among the elders,

Quack-quack started the great birdie game.

 

Passed the winters; the early born grew,

Many more were the big ducks now,

But alas, the serenity lost,

The silence was conquered,

The spring brought the conquering foot.

 

Now, your elders sip peace in the hills,

You here; being the last to be born,

Unable to take the flight long,

Pray I, grow thou strong alone!

And conquer the hills with a brave song.

Nothing Isn’t My Village

 

Testy, desultory or heavenly,

Bright as theism or atheistic blind,

Devoid of twenty-first harum-scarum,

But not a dormouse of the nineteenth,

Nothing is my village, yet all.

 

Perfect are a few weeks of spring here

even without the famed flowering flora,

The acacia prickles smile

among the lush green branches,

Nature’s soldiers last; the green army retreating fast.

 

Not nature’s compassion soft,

Nor concrete’s girdle hard,

Soil’s warmth scent or burn,

Villagers enjoy the extremes both,

While, the oxen envy the master’s stamina.

 

Law abiding, if they ignore,

Awareness shows only the opposite,

Rises humanity with the sun,

Skilled and unskilled

live here lifefully most.

 

The summers pass, remain as they

cool to the facilitated islands,

Easily strolls the cold, stay as they warm

to the icy deprivations,

Such are the people here.

 

Aspire they only a harvest good,

Loss-gain being the sequence,

Teasing nature throws them

on the hard but motherly soil,

Live where they as simple villagers.

The Human Coronet

 

So strange are we humans,

Rule a swooning world by faking consciousness,

Take us to be the Kings but slaves we are

to the self-perpetuating mind’s yarn,

And always bowed down by the whirling emotions.

 

A tyrant is this human trait,

But compensates with coronation;

The humans rule with a heavy diadem,

Happy we are to be supreme in the food chain,

But fodder we are to our own selves.

 

Make we fun of the beasts

for being bald without the coronet;

The crown finds them too low,

So taken they are as light-headed and funny;

And we high with a loaded head.

 

Lashed is the master by the desires unstoppable,

Cries, wails, neighs, but cannot deny

as a revolting ‘no’ needs the head’s shake,

which the King’s craving avoids,

for any browbeat will turn the head bare.

 

Dressed we are with the shiny fabric

of chronic self-importance,

So much is piled up by the ‘thinker’

that it turns a creaky, complaining wagon,

Throw we then our load at others with hate.

Zeroed Self for the Crane Couple

 

The winter is ageing,

The small heaven sulks here,

Wheat’s seedlings strong now,

Dew feeds grass healthy,

Meekly await they, only you,

Yes, away you are! But where?

 

Winter always seemed natural,

Started with your arrival—

Legs long, wings big and beaks strong,

Made you look a bossy bird,

Echoed the horizon with your resounding cree…k,

Nothing is same without you.

 

What is this poor night

without those clarion calls?

Sailed which across the dark,

Now, the same night with

countless twinkling lamps above,

Alas! Missing is its pride.

 

So dull is the cold rain,

Drops waste without wetting your fur,

Ah, what luck of those

mingled which in your shabby coat!

Now die they in earth,

Tears are they for a chance missed.

 

Moon cared not about its diminishing size,

As you turned the crescent brighter,

Your gentle movements under

the chilly night played with solitude,

You alone were there to share its sorrow,

Empty now, and suffers alone.

 

Then, the sun played with earth;

Your shadow proved its essence,

Now, looks it timidly below,

Lost is its identity without you;

Nobody big like you is here

to play with the shining rays.

 

Red adorned you around the head,

The sky lost its colours in yours bluish gray,

The humans may envy size and

the stormy wind around the wings,

Even other delicate feathers looked strong,

Now, just poor birds are they.

 

Those long flights brought

the fragrance of land distance,

United was my country,

due to your migrations across it,

We felt unity in diversity,

Landed you down as you here.

 

Thy long strides measured the land,

Its vastness was proved by you,

Alas, lies it worthless now!

Unfortunate mother, without baby

to measure its maternal depth,

Away are you! Survive or not?

 

Little was your world,

despite all those bigs about you,

Bird’s vapour eyes you were not,

As, lesser was that scary alertness,

And still more, and more, as

I approached you with my humanness.

 

At a certain night

you tugged at my heart through the ears,

Heart’s imagery it was or else,

Maybe just a deep sigh of the past,

I don’t know:

At the zero hour

zeroed my imagination and reality.

The Weeping ‘Dead Place’

 

Solitary is the place,

Left out almost as a grave,

Comes nobody to live here,

As if a cemetery it is,

Beyond the nature-human tussle of life.

 

Pulled it never the time’s leg,

So passed it swiftly most;

Nothing blossomed here,

Which could drag along,

And force the time to stay and pause.

 

Shrubs, arid semi,

Rocky foothills small,

Faded grass, poor earth’s robe,

Sulks which in clumps,

at places here and there.

 

Chokes the wind to sing

the prayer for the dead,

Sunrays fall in impassivity,

And wail burningly,

Above is the sky forlorn and discharmed.

 

Thorny branch sheds tears

motherly for the birds,

But come they not in

the poor mother’s clumsy lap;

Play they in gaudy shades elsewhere.

 

Calls it the humans;

feebly crying to catch someone’s attention,

But, unbothered is everyone;

Man as well as nature,

All avoid this place.