Sunday, 15 April 2018


of promises is past.
Spring of rejuvenation
Is lost.
There's fire
In the squalid air.
And within me.
Flames of fury rise,
Stirring in frantic motion
A placid heart.
Asphalt on the roads melts
As inflamed feet stomp.
The sky burns
With cries for justice.
Hawk eyes
Squint menacingly
From behind
The silver screens,
Preying on
Innocent calves.
The horizon of hope-
Bleak with
acrid, ominous shadows.

You singe.

Will you scorch, too?

Tuesday, 10 April 2018

Elegy To Hope

On the bed
of a sombre leaden sky,
an elegy is written
in sheets of downpour
and hail
to the hopes
of a devout farmer.
Swollen clouds,
wrapped in a shroud
perform a funeral march.

God is
stark blind
to his dreams
and despair.

Wednesday, 4 April 2018


Here's a poem which I had written during the recent Navratra festival. Do share your thoughts about this composition.

A flower garland adorned her slender neck,
New red bangles glimmered in the fairy lights.
She was dressed in a new silk saree,
A shiny red Chunri lent a bright hue
To her dark visage.
The Goddess smiled benevolently
At the devotees bowing before her
In obeisance.

Young girls in shiny red Mata ki chunris
Feted as little goddesses themselves,
Smiled benevolently
At the aunties and uncles touching their feet,
Piety writ large on their faces,
Seeking blessings, peace
and prosperity.
Chanting Jai Mata Di.

Resplendent in their new clothes, 
They exulted over the red bangles, 
Gifts and chocolates. 
After a feast of halwa-poori-chane
They looked full and sated.
The elders rejoiced
Blissful and contented.
Except one of them.

Counting and stashing away coins
And notes in their new bags and pouches
The girls headed home excitedly.
Except one of them.

The little goddess was found-
The shiny red Mata Ki Chunri
Tied tightly around her slender neck-
In a shrub behind the temple,
Mauled and devoured
By a lusty predator,
Perhaps still on the prowl
Among the devout.

Thursday, 22 March 2018


The last yellow leaf
Clings to the blushing tree
Flush with its nascent red leaves,
Tiny, shining fresh and smiling proudly
At the wondrous eyes
Enchanted by the warm aura of Spring.
Thin lips snigger
At the ugly duckling-
The solitary yellow leaf.
They are cruel-
The taunts, the jibes because
The last yellow leaf
Reminds them of the merciless winter
Still messing around.

It trembles,
Terror struck by the afternoon thunder,
Shivers against the savage north-east wind
That threatens to sweep away
The last remaining traces of life
From the last yellow leaf.
A few days, a few hours
Or just a few minutes more?
It wonders about
The not so distant future.
It flutters precariously,
Hangs by a frail thread of hope,
Preserving the last few breaths
Before The Mighty Fall
To its inescapable destiny.

Yet it knows,
To fall
Is not to die.
To fall
Is to accept
The nemesis.
To fall
Is to bounce back.
Bold and strong.
It will return some day,
To perhaps another blushing tree,
Tiny and red, but exulting proudly
To bring joy to another wondrous eye.

Wednesday, 21 March 2018


Poetry is a dew drop
glimmering on a tiny twig
many fail to see.

Poetry is the sprouting of a seed
buried in every heart
but not nurtured by every pen.

Poetry is a four-cornered mirror
reflecting the depths
of a soulful heart.

Poetry is the lotus
that blooms out of
the quagmire called 'world'.

Poetry is,
the proclivity of being humane,
in words.