in dark deep aybss
i caught a little twinkle
and stepped inside it

The continuum of cries
Run through the bruised walls
And the fissures
Open their jaws wide
To gulp them
And then spit them out
After chewing their skins
The windows speak in Bells
As the wind high or low
Passes by and gets in
The roof doesn't cover the head
It sieves the thickest sands
My granny had hung a lamp
In the middle of the door
That makes one cower
To the porch and then out
In the ashes of evening
The building balloons to the city
And people whisper
Sleep, the Dracula is on the move

Poetry
Is
Itself
A ghost
But it doesn't haunt one
Only reminds him he had left him in the drawer to suffocate....

Being able to achieve target is a bliss
And don't do
Is
Only
A
Curse
Upon
One
Caused
By
Oneself

In the death of light
Leave a poem alone

After years
Go back to see it
And don't fear
Like a mother
It will set you thinking
You had dropped it minutes back
Poem doesn't die
Like a leaf, abandoned
In the ground
Or on concretes
And does not have destiny
Like that of a crumpled papper
In a stinking dustbin
Or on heaps of scrapes
Each moment
It emits aroma
And you hug it
Throughout your life
And feel happier
And much blessed

Night is golden
If the day is spent for good deeds......

Swagger
Is everything

It is worth
Spending a lot
For its sake

Are you at a shop
Of your area?

Wait. Watch around.

Buy anything,
But not something red

Very solid or juicy
Or a comb of a hen.

Be conscious
As you make your choice.

Don't buy watermelon
In pieces and without peel.

You will be lynched
To carry beef.

Smell and taste
Are zero for them.

Colour is their criteria.

I am still learning
how to be gentle and kind
in a world that is not mine,
where the flowers sway
in fields of golden solemnity
and the trees shake like a word
that wants to be said.

I am still learning
how to live in a place
where knowledge is but
a means to an end;
a point on the map
to be forgotten once you've
crossed into the blissful ignorance
of suburban accomplishment.

I am still learning
how to look at a sunrise
and feel more than this
transient melancholy
at a beauty that is held alone.
The thoughts that bloom
in exultance just to be borne
lie waiting, ripe with discontent
at the threshold of a room
where no one speaks the language.

Father,
you have been amazing
In giving biscuits
to the little squirrels
At the fall of evenings
in the Golden park
Doling out grains
to pigeons
On top floor
Of the old house
Wiping tears
Of the weeping children
On the pavements
And in the lanes
Holding the hand
Of the blinds
As they cross the roads
In the warm days
And when fog
Pours down
Sharing smiles
Of the neighbors
At their special feasts
And when it is any day
Inviting the poor
To our dinners
And a great welcome
To them at the door
Providing blankets
To those who sleep
Under the sidewalk
In the cold nights.

Father
I am mesmerized
With your special deeds.

Being a father is common
And law of heaven,
But being an amazing father
Is very rare, very, very rare.

I am blessed
You are mine,