The storm in the night

 A furious night windstorm,
An angry dusty smash 
at the back of our head,
Some poor, weak roofs gone,
Injuries, deaths bemoan,
Broken panes, trees uprooted,
poles twisted, wires mangled,
Birds killed, injured, blown away, separated, 

Nests broken,

A poor family losing its mud thatch,

They cannot sleep,

nor can they weep,

They have a little way to kill the dark,

Subjugating it

and make it an ally

in cutting wood from fallen trees,

The trees that belong to someone else,

The day would show their ownership,

So they cut through the night,

The fear, the excitement, the rebellion--

stealing--

makes them numb to their loss,--

an anesthesia,

getting high on a paltry illegality,

A bitter pill,

And a practical drill 

for the young ones:

How to take small outlawed puns

in the face of miseries of life,

They cut with hard purpose, focus and labor,

They are used to hard work,

The chop-chop sound 

takes them in its sweaty grip,

The heap of stolen wood grows,

Caw then the morning crows.

They lost their humble house in the dark,

But they can be called lucky

to run out in time and avoid death and injuries,

Destiny can do only this much for them,

Now they balance the loss

with the heap of wood,

Then they quickly carry

the wood to their trashed home

and mix the stolen wood with the

house's mangled remains,

It now doesn't look a total ruin full of loss,

Carries it now the dusty gloss

of gain in the dark,

That little theft is the check dam

across the river of their misery,

They have saved something for a new day,

It doesn't feel a total loss,

This little illicit gain

helps them to forget the pain

of their busted little house,

The heap of this loss

covers their little nightish gain.

That's how the poor people live,

They use the heap of their miseries

in hiding their small short-cuts and stolen gains,

They then work hard on it

and knead it well

to make a weird concoction,--

the dough of life:

A mixture of hard work, sweat, focus,

tiny thefts, iotic cheatings

against all destiny's beatings,

They are busy again

to somehow stand against

some another storm

in the night. 

Life Beyond a Storm

It was a terrible hailstorm,
The ice clods thudded with mad frenzy,
The rich rued car's broken glass,
The poor hadn't enough glass to lose,
But they had enough to be
beaten to trash in the open,
Their crop was trashed,
So they could feel each strike
as a stony hit,
Some farmers even thought of
calling it quits from the game of life,
Too much money to be paid
to settle the lease hold
and the entire crop in trashy fold,
Many birds also perished,
Nests, wings and eggs broken,
Trees bashed and stripped naked.

But there was a rainbow 
after all this was over,
The children played with ice marbles,
And there were enough birds alive
to carry the exciting chirps of life ahead,
The rainbow, surviving birds and playing children,--
The vibrant soldiers of life,
Carrying the message:
Life is above such momentary interjections;
The song, the excitement, the colors
take just a little break
during such momentary lapses,
They take the centerstage again
once the storm is over.

The storms don't define life,
they just affirm the strength and resilience 
of life against all momentary interjections.   

Love's truth

 When you are floating in love,
O my dearest dove,
You get another illusion to live
that you are here to give
a chance to someone to live,
But that's a polished, pious mask
to accomplish a humane task:
To cover the need to take
something moral from the fake,--
The pool of desires, needs and fears,
A smile offered to hide one's own pain and tears.

We are very-very needy

when we are ready

and run to fall in love's embrace

with full apparent grace,

The ugliness of our needy self remains hidden,

Run as we love-bidden,

We cover our pain with smile,

Paint selflessness on the needy guile,

We are looking for a hiding hole

after getting bored with journey sole,

To sneak in

to run away from the ever-chasing sin,

To run away

from the miserable self's sway.

We are a very poor dove

when we go seeking love, 

But we suppose ourselves to be rich,

So much for that illusionary itch,

In youth a body we need

for desire's feed;

In the middle age

caught in the cage,

we are looking to boost our faith

in greying, weakening vitality's swathe,

We feel cheated, deleted

and defeated

by the youth's passing clouds,

Struggle we to come out

of the grey shrouds,

We look for the confirmation

of our weakened vigor's strength

from some other soul;

In the age old,

our power and strength on hold,

Just a story already told,

Haunted by fears,

Tormented by pitiable tears,

We are seeking cushions

against falls giving broken bones,

To beat the loneliness ghosts

and avoid destiny's roast.

Love is a very sweet bargain

in lieu of all the sweet sounding 

treasures of fabled emotions,

The strength of love 

lies in confirming the needs and fears

as pure, pristine emotions

of just give, give and give,

While in reality,

we are merely there 

to take, take and take.

 

Gone

A little clump of trees
on the margins of a village,
A last refuge for 
some birds, squirrels, lizards and reptiles,
A mere dot of a forest,
A mere drop of green in the natural ocean
carrying a tiny essence of
the raw face of nature,--
Playful chirps, survival game,
hunting, mating, nestmaking,
dying, births--everything.
The sparrows raised 
the songs of dawn and dusk,
The little haws and coucal hunting till late,
The squirrel stole eggs,
The angry tailorbird threw abuses,
The cat too leapt for chance grabs,
The snake slithered around,
The peacock kept a stern watch,
The robins, rockchats, sparrows, flycatchers,--
the denizens of this tiny glimpse of a forest,
Lovemakings,
Births, 
Deaths,
A composite life 
throbbing with varied, chirpy excitement.
Then the humans again felt the need
for more land,
Arrived the clawy hand,
The mighty earthmover raged the place
with its metallic, predatory brace,
Gone was the little dot of natural grace,
The birds flew away,
The squirrels scurried around,
A snake with a futile crawl
and the panicked human brawl.
It's all clear now,
Ready for our developmental touch,
Silent mornings without bird songs,
The dusk too settles stealthily
without the goodbying chorus of sparrows,
It's all clear,
Finely levelled,
The wood taken,--
A fine plot 
with economic prospect and financial shot.
A cemented, plastered building will come up,
A stony castle of the human will,
To stand rock firm
against the time,
But I miss the sparrows
and their morning and dusk songs,
I miss that tiny stage 
bearing the raw game of nature
and life
among we humans. 
 
 

The futility of worldly love

I thought I loved you more,
But you too were sure
of your love as more pure,
The testing time but played smart cards,
and beat illusions by several yards,
With its neutral chime
wrote it its own rhyme,
Bared, naked, trimmed we stand,
No longer holding each other's hand,
Each other's faults we now weigh,
having eaten and spent the golden ray.

The inflated paradise
and the infatuated sighs
now cut down to paltry size.

The card castle on the heap of lies
sobbing with painful cries
and burning sighs,--
Sweet to sour,
Heavens to teary parting hour,
We humans first make
then break,
First make love
then eagle turns the former dove
and make war
for some negative excitement more;--
Just a long series of
little births and deaths,
Tiny beginnings and endings,
All these links form the final chain
between 
the first birth and the last death.  

The exiled darkness

The developmental lark
with its growth songs and financial hark
waging a fight against the dark,
Billions of bulbs in fight
against the night
to cast away shadows out of sight,
Now every nook corner has light.

We just want to have a day
with 24-hour ray
with our manipulative say,
But dark is the womb,
Flashes in which all this boom,
zoom
and the materialistic bloom,
Prevail it will
against all this human-centric hoot shrill,
It--the dark--transforms with a trill,
Wow what an amazing skill!
Dives it into the human heart
playing too smart,
The exiled darkness of night
keeps its fight
and throws a tart
ensnaring dart,
It stabs the human heart
with its shadowy, selfish art.

So into humans sneaks the gloom,
as they fornicate in full light and bloom,
Outside light, light and more light,
While inside us the ghosts dark fight,
Outside we turn rich,
Inside we carry a beggary itch,
Outside we seem to brightly smile,
Inside we frown with a dark guile.

The dying leaf

A dry leaf rustles
as a youthful gust of breeze hustles,
Says the leaf
full of wisdom untainted with grief:

"Dear don't feel proud

of this young, stormy shroud,

You feel that you move the world,

Thy stormy vanity funnily curled,

Drunk with age and passion whirled,

Jesting with someone like me

blown away and crumpled.

I too was once luscious green,

An exuberant teen

with new-age glean,

A prince lost in his sheen,

Realities buried under the screen,

and pride prancing with haughty preen,--

Someone like me

nowhere to be seen.

Thought I was the entire forest

and me the dearest.

Meanwhile, chuckled time

at my childish chime,

Blew it away the flowery spring ray,

And here I lay,

having spent--or wasted?--my day,

The pride and boast tossed away,

All dusted, crumbling on the way,

With whom you now play,

But listen mate,

Everyone has a date

with the inevitable fate,

So as you celebrate

with youthful gusto great,

Walk chest out, spine straight,

Look at me crumpled

and trampled,

Remember you should always

as you sashay through the maze

that a mighty storm you are not

which will burn forever hot,

You too will trip

and slip,

And helplessly lie

to die,

And look at the sky

with a remorseful sigh

for having run

with fruitless fun,

Too vain and lost

without looking at the host,--

The ever-welcoming 'Now'

always fruitlessly waiting with a kind bow.