Earthquake

 

The great hammer of God,

Fault in geology’s abode,

Thousands loose balance to the strike,

And death, destruction prevail without fight.

 

The adjusting rocks

Spew out tremoring locks,

Which win over walls faithful,

And macabre clapping all joyful.

 

Aah! The roofs which sheltered,

And never bartered

The family’s fate,

Now, crush all of them in sadistic hate.

 

The debris around,–

Mass graves surround

Still struggling soufflés,

Alas! The rescuing hand only baffles.

 

Infant’s softest bones get crushed,

Why death only brushed

Aside mother from its reap?

Oh her eyes! Even tears weep.

 

If nature itself brings destruction,

Then who would auction

For the beautiful dreams,

Dreams which now die amidst screams!

 

Whom should we blame?

The nature playing its accidental game,

Or the fault lies with its child,

In rising too high with his knowledge mild.

 

How secretly nature plans

Its mystery to enhance

The unknown about it!

How ruthlessly soft petals get hit!

 

Someone’s eyelids refuse

To come down and thus loose

The singlest moment of finding love lost,

The eyes which once glittered most.

 

Where’d so many soul go?

Wait ghostly in a row

To have the final rest,

Mutilated lies the body dearest.

 

Aah! Painful and fearful death,

For long it hath

Its wait for elders' body system strong,

Now, clutches its prey on foot wrong.

 

Human settlement song,

Which for long

Sang with its social source,

Turned, now, mourning by nature’s force.

 

Courtyard flowers which once smiled

Along with the owner’s child,

Now, they lie rumbled;

Child and the flower in concrete crumbled.

 

Worst kind of death’s artistry,

Oh! Wanton most spread out cemetery,

Lives still alive; lie buried,

How ghastly death hurried!

Flower and a Verse in Grave

 

I have a flower in my book,

A flower paged, levelled, worded

Among words of my verses,

Once its petals smiled fragrance,

Time was when it scented,

My poetry written around,

Like an epitaph now;

Verses of an instant’s immortality,

Dropped which from time,

Form now flower’s eulogy.

Life will dry out of the flower,

With the passage of time,

Dry it will become,

To be crumbled to pieces,

My words meanwhile

Chant its immortality.

The flower among pages,

The words and the verses,

And the book from start to end,

Meaningless and unreal,

Except the page flowery;

Two pages and a flower:

Oh the flowery grave!

Which lies buried there,

The flower or the verse?

Which one is the eulogy,

The nature’s deflorating one,

Or the words from my pen?

Death seems in a puzzle there,

Start it should around the pointed stalk,

To sneak into compressed petals;

Or curve it should,

Around syllables, words, phrases.

A flower is there in my book!

Ode to the Winter Sunset

 

The sunset on this small sandy plateau,

Agrestic fellows turn it in a paradise,

And the red rim with its salutary motto,—

Only from dust pearls arise.

 

Perfect becomes the nature’s artistry,

As nothing changes to time’s hurry,

Except sun amazed at one mystery;—

The lonely perch of a bird on a tree.

 

Happy homecomings of the birds,

Love where sinews the nests,

Purest friendship returns in herds,

While, the air as if in complete rests.

 

White shiny shrine under a peepal,

Enshrines faith in that lamp,

Burning perfect straight without flicker,

Perhaps, God, tonight, will lay here camp.

 

The crane couple passes with a cree.......k,

Echoing conch-shell alike,

Oh, the sacred chant which seek,

Blessings from the lamp; to light the whole night.

 

How calm the path seems!

No one to beat at its door

To reach the farthest of dreams,

And distance meaningless to this lazy-lore.

 

Sweet-sour berries amidst prickles,

Smile with their ripening orange colours,

On both sides; pathway’s anklets

Give life to someone during the long hour.

 

Wheatlings lush green,

Pea’s white flowers get a vegetative fold,

Lone farmer becomes keen

To pass watchful night in the cold.

 

And the sun tries to see

Inside his small hut,

God, let there be

Too much warmth for the frost’s fret.

 

That misty wood of far,

Embanking the canal,

Seems too far

For the fading sun’s rays all.

 

Look, how ascetically that dog walks

Along the lonely path’s solitude!

Away, away from the settlers' barks,

How contently it lives on the farmers’ gratitude!

 

Farmhouse on that gently uplifted fold,

Geology’s smallest of dome

Shines to the day’s rays old,

Seems as if paradise has got a home.

 

And when the sun starts

To go below the horizon,

Heavy hearted it parts

Away; where humanity's other half has arisen.

A Lovely Remembrance: Is it Love Still? Or Is Love Always for the Past?

 

Time was once,

When the flower was at its prime,

Lost love now only feign,–

Immortality which time can’t maim!

 

What a great make believe!

Heart’s no cause of yore,

Today, mind’s cause to deceive:

Hence the lyrics required many more.

 

Celestial to remain in love

With love that once was!

By tongue it creates wave,

Ripples whose get lover ‘pass’.

 

‘Pass’ in keeping flame alive

For others to see it

And credit for negating time’s heave

Against the love lamp tenderly lit.

 

Where art fullest petals?

Which formed earthy beauty; love

Among vast stretches of vales,

Oof! Find them, now, afore toe.

 

Thy wide parted eyes,

Show now the angst;

Vision before them dies,

And thou laugh at the epitapher biggest.

 

Thy soft trysts in my arms

Make the pen stubborn,

Bent on creating charms,

But write they only lover’s mourn.

 

At times thou had tears,

Brooked which thy rosy cheeks;

A flower flooded with fears,

Me now tryst only wordy shrieks.

 

Shaking lips when sent

Tremour theirs in mine,

Very same now hell bent

On paying lip service to that wine.

 

Then, thou sipped worries from my brow,

And the wrinkles there unfolded;

Luck seemed for a charming throw,–

Poet’s lines, now, to be traded.

 

Those hot gasping whiffs

Formed warm passioned air,

Float, now, in cloudy ifs,

And the mystic sucking his share.

 

Aha that sleep thine

In the blessed lap mine!

Those thighs now seek pat,

Claim love’s survival and bet.

 

Crossed I physical limits,

Souls merged to play games,

This lover now hits body

To show the soul lame.

 

Beloved, hardest I tryst

For thy aliveness in me,

Still, efforts to reach highest

On love scale always neigh.

 

Alas, thou art past now!

Historian, but, tries love still,–

New love seeds to sow

New love crop for some crazy will.

The Old man and the Night

                     The old man and the night,

Both of them lie awake.

His life fading out of sight,

Cough, meanwhile, doth a serious shake.

 

Lost out dark world around,

Times ago he was born,

The soul when got aground,

Old, old! Now it is other world-lorn.

 

Night is his companion now,

The day too hectic and bright,

So many of them swiftly passed, how?

Now the night comes, fades as the sight.

 

The night tries to bring sleep,

O mother, child sleepless for too long,

Time may come for a slumber deep,

And motherly it whispers a song.

 

Too much hurried was the day,

While the night has much patience,

The day only for the hair’s grey,

The night doth die it black in silence.

 

The old man and his old mother,

Thus, stand by each other,

Stepmother will come with sunrise,

How will then cope the sun wise?

Perhaps, It will Rain Today

 

The sky is overcast,

Grayish dark clouds

Ebriatedly stoop over,

Perhaps, rain will come,

And the birds anticipatedly fly,

Like the children turned all urchins;

Roaming across the streets,

Shouting with every thunder above.

The breeze comes cool,

To cool down the eagerness,

It whispers, wait, wait ye fellows,

Listen to that thunder,

God is certainly preparing water,

Listen to His bowl.

The trees wait with their wisdom;

Oh, the patience of decades, years!

While, the chirpy leaves, branches;

Childhood with its swinging moods,

Seems it as if an infant

Kicks grandpa’s lap gone serene.

 

Only God knows when it will come,

When the dreams will reality become?

God’s Child Playing

 

Once again I fall,

Fall on my knees,

Like a child after a ball,

And like father, God watches with please.

 

The mighty father sees

His cherub playing, learning,

Helps He not with every breeze,

Exclaims, ‘Thou art just a starter darling!'

 

My mountainous tumbles,

To him just childish rolls,

And complaints just boyish grumbles,

Pacifies, ‘Thou just play son, I worry about goals!’

 

And I go on playing

For the father’s muse,

Constantly with spirits flying,

Till the teacher Himself rues.

 

The child thus goes

For the biggest of tries,

Yes! Smiles only a rose

After the branch gives many thorny cries.