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 glutinous 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 traveler 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.