It begins with
one's unexpected turn,
When the second wants
to move to other side;
Both keep walking,
but silence looms large,
And the words slip
and get stuck in the throat.
One face wears the wrath,
and no chance of withering soon.
It stinks to the buddy
Who's never imagined
to smell such stench
In the wonderful house
of their friendship.
A bit limping,
a bit scowl, a bit regret,
He stops after a while
and his flummoxed  mind
Sets searching the way
of getting rid of
The companionship
that is no more a bridge
Where they'd stroll smilingly
in the sunshine.

It takes off like the balloon
That desires to touch the moon.

It flies over our heads,
And to the clouds it weds.

It passes like the swan
On water and like the van

When the roads are filled
With snow and life is killed.

It comes down like the eagle
To fall on its prey, very little.

It's love of the rain for the leaf
It's leaf for the alone and naked tree
It's tree for the old and the sheep
It's sheep for people in winter
It's winter for creatures to avoid heat
It's heat to remove moulds of snow
It's snow for the couple to love

O Love, flow, not furiously,
'tween me and my father,
Our feet feel the heat of hate;
Go on, and we'd wade farther.

What he thinks is not mine,
And what I do is not his choice,
So enmity stands strong here;
I'd follow him now at his voice.

Our thread got thin and thinner,
And on separate sides we've fallen;
I'd stitch both with bows and beauty
Of my behaviour, and we'd be one.


He needs my shoulders this time,
Oh, he strolls solitarily everywhere;
O Love, come to us in a flash; I'd
Carry him till he retires to bed there.

Speaking
the truth
is a special
smartness

Circa 2016,
A missive my amigo dispatched:
I sleep to the full extent
When my wife is on leaves,
And his statement,
Out of blue,
Left me wondering
If she's a white elephant
In his well furnished life.
Last weekend,
Insomnia was under the bed,
Purring through its whiskers
Like the doorway bell
In the day,
And it's a meandering mouse,
Squeaking and gnawing
The wood of cupboard
In the next room,
And it's a rumbling, too,
Outside the window,
And mine was with her parents
First time after marriage.

No poet has ever died
of dearth of imagination

Regret is a moral boost

Silence describes your wisdom

Everyone isn't in the boat of luck
Since it sails steadily, unsteadily;
Out of blue, it reaches the harbour
And that's oft finished in a jiffy,
And sometimes it continues circling
At the beginning point or in the middle
Where frustration and fear fly up
And the unlucky is at the receiving end,
While the lucky one celebrates in his cluster.

My son,
You left the flickering candle in the fast blowing loneliness, without a sense that the wingless bird needs cuddling and cradle. Being in the eighties is not my sin nor yours. I am not passing the buck. It's my tail that my body carries where I go, and your turn is in the offing. I considered you to be my handkerchief, but you flew with the gust of selfishness. Had I been not able to groom you well, develop your mind and make you a loyal son? My remembrance hangs in my room: you are crying over bruises in your left leg, and I am beside you smearing ointment in the shades of lanterns. It will not come off even though the walls of my memory are now muddy bricks in the heavy downpour. If your father crawls and then kicks the bucket, in the hope you will not mind disturbing your life, I plead you to bury me close to your mother.
Wishes for your wellbeing and prosperity!

It is on its way;
I hear it neigh, and footsteps,
Flying dust through pale leaves!