A playful birdie guy

 

White-browed, fan-tail flycatcher,

A big name for a little bird,

But it’s a sweet, playful birdie

you ever heard,

For hunting is its play,

A lucky bird indeed

for having the survival duty

as a playful booty.

It chases the houseflies,

Dips, dives, sallies,

curves, twists, dallies,

moves, shakes and turns

for many a fabulous airy churns,--

Just a pleasant game

in survival’s name,

The flies don’t fly far and high,

Among them its playgrounds lie,

It chases them along

their zigzag flight with a playful throng,

Seeing it earning its bread,

as if chasing a playful thread,  

one may mistake it

as a cutely drunk birdie guy.

From a little distance in the yard

lucky is the bard

to watch the antics of this little hunter,

a funny, frolicking punter.

You don’t see the fly it’s after,

You just marvel at the

airy hoops, loops and even somersaults,

The fly is very quick

and to catch it with a childish squeak

one has to be the master of airy display.

It doesn’t mind your presence much,

Soothing, friendly such!

A very friendly bird,

It’s just bothered

about its playmate, the fly,

And isn’t shy

to fly near and around you,

You feel the soft brush of nature’s hue

as it sallies very close,

You get an easeful dose

of wellbeing and joy,

An untamed bird so near, ahoy!

An untamed bird flying so near,

So friendly and dear,

You feel good

And come out of your sad mood.

It gives me good company

in my little yard,

A few lines of nourishment

for the thirsty, hungry bard.

A perky, agile bird

it flicks its fan-tail

before going for the airy sail,

It moves sideways even while sitting,

So much full of playful energy,

A happy, lucky guy

to have its hobby as a profession,

A rare bird that

makes hunting look like a play,

All enthusiastic, spirited and gay,

It stirs the same cords in me

whenever I Look at it,

I marvel, muse and forget

the seriousness of life

among all the human strife,

How playfully it carries it survival duty

with playfulness and loopy beauty!

Lonely Trees

These are lonely trees,

Alone and forlorn,

Standing as the last fighting units

of the defeated forest army,

Their long and broad

robust columns of soldiers gone,

Trillions perished with a moan,

Now these last remnants

wage lonely battles in a brutal field:

Metallic haze, soot and dusty crumbling sky,

Outnumbered and surrounded

By the winning ever-axing army,

One after the other

they are cut, lopped, snapped and pruned,

so they fall,

Every single minute

thousands of these soldiers

are cut wounded and slaughtered,

Odds are all against them,

Even their own patron deity,

—mother nature—

now turns against them,

The windstorm aids the enemy,

The cemented houses are very strong

against the nature’s throng

Almost none of them break,

Just a few poor huts shriek,

But the lonely, thin, scattered

units of the trees are fragile and weak,

Staring at a future very bleak,

They easily give in with a creak,

The howling storm eats their jarring shriek,

So they fall

with a painful call,

They are already tired

in the brutal game of survival,

They cannot fight

as a robust, harmonized army,

a strong grove, a little fighting unit,

capable of bearing the stormy onslaught,

So the scattered soldiers fall easily

as their strength lies in groups,

absorbing the storms as a unit,

So the trees that have struggled

to survive and sustain

and luckily still survive the axe,

fall and tumble to the airy push,

Weak they are and lonely,

so easily they fall down,

Just like lonely and alienated humans

caught on the island of depression,

far away from the

lush green of human affection and connection

fall prey to

sickness, suicide and killing madness.

A soft assurance

Although there are cracks in life, 
she but smiles softly 
and whispers an assurance: 
"Don't worry, all is well!"

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.