A masked politician
comes
with a pack of food
in his gloved hands
for an elderly
squatting
on his fleshless legs;
his overgrown beard
and shaggy hair
infested with perhaps
millions of corona,
outside a broken hut
of a black polythene,
in outskirts
of this silenced city of past noise.
in that deserted garden;
where some caged plants
stood green.

AND
the super creation
mechanically
Wrapped in
web of domains
cissing and crossing
unbridled
gaming foul,
claimed
the global village
interconnected
"no distances"
.....

for "physical distancing"
today,
Of course! today.

distanced
from a twitter
of a bird;
yet
huddled
in a dis-infected room
reading
'Stay Home'
Self- isolate
quarantine
for period of
a half moon circle,
stopping this virulent
the tiniest stain of
Covid-19,
on his twitter account.
AND
In the dark of pandemic
light of candles,
as Indian saints say
Of countlessly nine
Those beats of utensils
Rythmically fine
Alas! That
Destructive closeness
In a disguise,
Distanced
The hope
Which the cruel hands
Of politics
Snatched.
the birds are
Flabbergasted,
And animals
Saddened,
Yet
Scared
Lest their own
Existence
Suffers
And evolution
sets a new era!

Narinder

life went unbridled
from one corner to another
in the busiest cities
full of activities
for luxuries
however
in a dilapidated
untidy
unkept
broken
room
close to a place
where people sang hymns
in service of god
behind the curtain
of tatters
the hunger wrestled
with three daughters
bit by bit
while the avarice
panged
the poor
in those cities
where digital world
shines
abreast
the Moon
beyond Mars.

( Indeed, I felt pained for death of three daughters with hunger in Delhi.)
Narinder Bhangu.

Busy in my bout
of fast life
Mother's day celebrations
I heard around.
Impulsively,
I connected
silently by myself,
my inner soul
with hers in heaven away...

And she firmed the connection
last night
in my dream
taking me back
to the same
terrains and fields,
across the small dried brook,
where she had worked
and I tried to escape
to join the team
of my friends
as a teenager would do;
and..
the same earthen hearth
where she had cooked
the corn chapatis
on those red coal pieces
this motherly bond more firmed
never to break
Of course, it never breaks.

Narinder Bhangu

The night
calls her for sleep
whatever way,
in a hut of dried ,
twigs and leaves collected,
randomly from the woods nearby.
tiring body movements,
the mechanics of mind,
emotional shakes,
blushing faces,
the begging hands,
never plaintive,
quite satisfied with
the fractional mercy
of well attired,
who drives a car to
a mammoth
glass house,
where in
dancing continues
and a game of cockles
till late,
in disguise
to sensual tunes,
on a cosy bed
in a bedroom
festooned
with select tapestry,
readying
for next day's rat race,
away
unknown to
the life
in that hut of twigs
where
the meagre alms conceal
body aches
****** and abusive words
the sunken bellies
and lean skeleton
of a father
guarding the chastity
of a daughter
resting on a
loose stringed charpoy
yet, the next day
calls her to leave
that hut of twigs..

( Chorpoy is four wooden post bed woven with raw strings, and these strings become loose with time )

A petal
sticks to its peduncle,
glossy and turgid
a proud connection
dipping  a dew drops
on a thorn
on the branch
of a rose plant.

the thorn
sharp
yet vigilant
protects petal's
pristine glory
of marmoreal smoothness.
yet
the dried peduncle
breaks
plaintively
the next fall
and the desiccated branch
gives a prickly touch
in a thorny hedge
in my backyard

The early morning chill
of this month
a thin layer of snow
beside the beady dew drops
on the grass
challenged the Sun
rising in the east
from night's rest
and the birds flew across
in flocks
for their mouthful fill
people of my city
cissed and crossed
some in hurry
others relaxed
in a rhythm
as it is a day
of perpetual routine
for all run of the mill.

When the stars set
Somewhere far away
Behind the high mountain

The Sun engulfed
The coolness of the night
Across the river and the wild terrain.

The yellow brightness
Woke the world up
To wage the fights again.

The dewdrops that shone
On leafy, green grass,
Washed the ***** stain.

The kids of all races
Played then hand in hand
And I laughed without refrain.

I was a seed
in the soil
of the courtyard
in a house.
I sprouted
my shoots,
bore my foliage
those very tender
and soft,
blackish green leaves
shining
in the early sun.
The dewdrops
rested
on their tips
reflecting
like pearls
silvery white.
I saw
a blue-eyed babe
in the womb
of his mother
cared for, attended.
One and all
were happy
within themselves.
They were ready
to welcome
the new angel
whose presence
would spread
happiness and joy
everywhere.
Mother would say,
“You are my hope,
my love,”
as she would feel
his presence
in her swollen womb.
In the next
house, however,
A little baby
in her mother’s womb
saw
the sad faces,
felt
her worrisome presence.
She heard
them silently,
as they were
plotting her killing,
and her mother’s unspoken pains.
She smelt
her end nearby
tyrant hands
no longer listened
to her cry.
Thus, she died
She died unborn.
Here in my yard
my shoots
grew strength
opened arms to the sky
unbridled, unabated.
All of a sudden,
the toddler came,
played with my shoots
slept under my branches
in the shadow.
Together
we talked and laughed
saw the world
in the restless race
we were in love
dying hard
for each other.
The boy became an adult
money, money
was in his pursuit.
This is how
our friendship
was broken, our love stories
dampened.
“Where have you been?”
I asked.
“I needed money.
That is what
You cannot give me,”
Came the answer
“Take an axe
To cut my branches
Sell them
in the market, and
get
the money.”
I was ready
for the sacrifice.
This was not enough,
as his demand was so high
touching the sky
Then I suggested,
“Uproot my presence
to make a boat
for a long voyage
beyond the sea.”
He was happy
in the middle of the sea,
unaware of his world left behind.
I felt sorry,
sad in my mind,
worried for him
and of course, for the death.

I was a child
in my mother’s lap,
very small,
unaware of earthly matters.
On the floor,
I toddled
and grew.
Jocund, joyful,
Were my parents
when I looked up at them
with my child’s eyes.
I was in a school
with my book in a bag.
I wondered
what it would
make me,
what knowledge it would
give me
in its word maze
and its labyrinth.
But then,
I started reading
in a routine,
page by page
line by line
word by word.
Soon I felt
a deep association,
its every chapter
a philosophy,
Each word
a lesson of life.
The philosophy
taught me life skills
and made me powerful.
I have known
a life full of groans
ups and downs and stifled moans.
The vision that
life is cyclical
perpetual
ever learning
exploring
moving
like the sun, the moon
the earth itself,
that
nothing is final,
like a plant,
which is cut
today, but will have new shoots
next season.
That
when nature
is bountiful
it spreads happiness,
and sorrows
when it is dreadful.
As I studied what was contained in my book,
coded on its every page
in its every line,
it has felt
my emotions,
shared my happiness and
sorrows as well.
It has had my dust
on its face
felt my agony
in its open arms.
Now,
as and when
I am sad,
weary of life, my soul pent up,
I embrace my book
like a friend
snatched from a cataclysm.
Of course,
it isn’t merely a book;
it is a friend—
indeed, a friend.

Life gets its designs
in the sun and shadow,
the death shapelessly
in the dark hole
to the outer world.

Eastern winds blew
To meet the Western
Again, in the hot season
Thought of their return.

If we won’t meet in this world,
then in my coffin,
after my death,
only your name
I shall carry
to the world next,
on my lips,
as there,
we shall face no blame
for being lovers.

What is love?
Is it caring and sharing
taking and giving
selflessly pardoning?

Is it living and dying
unquestionably trusting
waiting and missing
blissfully existing?

Is it singing and dancing
crying or sighing
hugging or meeting
then painfully departing?

Is it touching and feeling
forgiving and praying
or simply befriending?
Of course it is.

Its depth is unfathomed
of togetherness
across the worlds
listening to unspoken words
while holding hands.

It is a feeling
that emerges from hearts
as God scatters his
heavenly elixir on the planets.

The door cracked open
of a high house,
scattered cries of,
“Help, help, help!
Save, save, save!”
But no one came,
for these cries were
from a high house.
She was stripped
garment by garment,
her last drape snatched,
debased.
She was helpless
craven and lifeless.
Her youthfulness
was dead,
merely a pile of soot.
This was the honor of
a poor man’s daughter.
She was dead,
merely a pile of soot,
no longer able to raise a voice.
This was the honor, the chastity,
of a poor man’s daughter.
The high flames
of her pyre
became a vampire
to **** the blood
of her looters.

The fresh puff of fragrance
of my flowers,
as carried away
by the eastern winds,
unnoticed,
silently, in an instance.
Impulsively, I tried a chance,
with my sublime mind,
to scatter heavenly essence.

I left this world behind
running faster and faster
in a hope to explore
with those wheels of sophistication.

I connected with nature
flying above the clouds
to the place unknown
with those wings of my imagination.

I glanced at the flowers
dancing in glory there
and the birds singing,
with those words of my admiration.

Oh, my peace of mind,
gone away as you are, flown too far,
with wings of progress,
you are gone forever.

My feelings are unspoken
without any noise,
yet the noise is there
down in the street,
of a daughter
when a rascal snatches
her last garment
shamelessly
a noise of hatred,
of venomously gnawing,
when foes of humanity
pull swords at each other,
streaming a gory river,
and of
the cries of innocent faces
hidden in shaggy hair,
sprouting from sunken bellies,
when they long for their lost parents
from whom
they would have
enjoyed lullabies.

But there is no noise
of singing of birds
chirping of swallows
whistling of leaves
cawing of crows
or cooing of doves
or song of a nightingale
as this planet is now,
deserted and morose
my feelings are unspoken
without my voice.

life deserted
in the noon sun,
the heated air above
spread the wilderness
of an arid desert,
the sand
that was
pushed
pulled
scudded
lifted aloft
flown away
by the wind
for resettlement
on a humid sea beach,
invited the kids
to play their life fully

The poem comes with the rays of the sun,
reflecting from the river water
that dances in frolic and fun.
Poet’s thought, beyond his imagination,
with cosmic energy, always passes,
from the moon of marmoreal smoothness
across planets sheathed in verdure grasses.
And then the poem speaks in the dark night
readying for its fresh sprouting
from the poet’s fertile mind.
Silently, without crying and shouting,
a river of words flows
from his as yet dried pen,
whose waves become its lifeline,
surrounding him like heaven.
Then, the poet writes a poem
on a child’s blank mind,
wiping his pearly tears,
to make him a human, so kind.

It was a passionate love thrill,
that gave an ecstasy to their fill.
Their impulse of love played a game,
with all doors shut to douse the flame.
Their warm bodies sweated and hissed,
on each other’s lips as they had kissed.
A pile of their garments, on one side,
it was a passion of love at its high tide.

Narinder Bhangu