Few maple leaves
hop
on the wooden surface,
their
burgundy
contrasts with the polished
brown of the semi-circular deck
the playful wind drives them
off,
the grass hugs the dried skins, giving
them a final home, in the back-garden.
they are reborn as tiny
stalks
in the same yard
in
the spring!
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 6:02 PM UTC
Vagrant-heart is like
that pigeon---
fluttering wings against
the glass facade
of a high-rise
in humid Mumbai;
the staircase- light
confusing the avian eyes
frail-body
eager to enter
for
making a nest
in the treeless place.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 11:30 AM UTC
On a power cable
trembling
before the wind
that plays havoc with trees and tiles
of cottages and hovels
a typical feudal lord, violent
power-drunk, indifferent;
Up there, on that throne---
sits a lonesome Kingfisher
regal, haughty, detached
from the ground zero
a visitor from the far-off heavens
a pleasing sight
on this rushed
Mumbai early- morning.
a creature, tiny, vibrant
dressed in a multi-coloured coat
worn earlier
by an agile harlequin
doing acrobats in an Italian court,
for the seventeenth-century audience;
the feathered guest
lightly sitting
on that high perch
a stoic
silhouetted against the
immensity of a dark-grey sky
threatening rain.
@Sunil Sharma
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 11:25 AM UTC
Bring your empty words
I will re-charge them again
And make them potent;
The hollow words---
Bring them to me and
I will make them sing,
In the summer afternoon
On the glistening lips of
The workers in sweat
Working on construction sites;
Bring your faded words
I will make them shine in the forge
Of blacksmith whose sinewy hands
Will form them into forms that appeal;
Bring your sad words,
I will make them smile
On the faces of war-orphans
Street children
And cancer patients,
Because when sterile words
Of poetry come into contact
With unsaid suffering of the
Larger silent humanity,
They become fiery,
Gleam,
Mesmerize and
Truly become
The sweat-soaked words and entire syntax
Great transcendental poems!
@Sunil Sharma
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
The disembodied
Voice from the
Sisters’ counter
Echoing down the twisted corridor:
Ma left yesterday. The house, no house.
Wanted to do the night duty.
At least, got some company here.
@Sunil Sharma
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC
A few drivers,
mid-summer afternoon
lean against the divider,
paint peeling
some perch on it lightly---
indulge in hot group-talk;
the waltzing-shadow
of a banyan tree
opposite side of the
auto-rickshaw stand---
a street-art, delicate, dark-hued;
the phantom arms
hug
the disparate crew
in a tight family-embrace,
its breath tousling their hair
and it---
protects them from
the Mumbai heat!
@Sunil Sharma
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC
---Sunil Sharma
Here she eyes
the poet and the photographer
hiding in the bush
or lurking somewhere
or, maybe behind
a glass-window shut
like a typical ******
pointed ears pricked up
eyes glittering but not cold
as depicted in a horror tale
the bushy tail---fan and broom
to clear the muck around
the long snout primed up
for unusual smells
especially---
of two-legged threats
the lady fox
much demonized
in the human world
free in the wilds
like a bird
ready for the ramp-walk
in the jungle,
her---daily theater!
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC