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

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

---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!

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

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.

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

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!