Our life consists of
little more
than round figures of
days, years, and decades.
Utter unawareness
of early days
is followed by
helplessness
of latter days.
We become conscious of
the briefness of life
and a desperate
need to survive,
when we love.
The chill of the cemetery
stalks every bed of love,
between breaths of passion
it pants coldly.
it is love's paramour
and partner.
It is everywhere ---
in the waters of spring
in the wayside flowers
in the crowns of trees
in every sensual encounter
in the darkness beyond
in the trails left behind
and in everything
we dream to achieve.

As l lay on my bed
fighting  fever
contracted the previous night,
I spotted
two lizards
on the wall.
They lay in
to devour
moths and insects,
which come in hundreds
round the lighted lamp,
but after rains.
And both have
gulped down
a large number.
Perhaps
in the hope of
saving something
for the Rainy Day.

It's spring !
Day after day
sparrows come with
straw and hay
to my rest
to make a nest.
They announce the day
wake me up
make me feel
I'm living.
With full strength
I get up every day
to un-make their half-made nest
as if to prove
"A nest can't be made within The Nest."

Pink , yellow , white  
square-shaped ,
rectangular
rejection -slips  
I receive for my
cerebral aberrations.

Every slip conveys
in its own trite manner
"  With Regards " ;
Nevertheless
I continue
To create and compose.


   .

My body is
A bag of broken promises
A sachet of secrets.
My complicated past
Is still a joyful pain.
Memories flutter the heart
And readily become brain -***.
The ***-ash dewdrops
On the sands of time
To arise phoenix -like.
I ask myself :
When will you get peace
Seek truce with past time
To start anew  ?

Four score young poets meet
in a metropolitan city.
So many living
in one century
no one country has !
Times  have changed !
So has
their number and
their tete- a - tete !
Years ago:
What were they writing  ?
What was being written ?  
A comment, a lament , a complaint !
Some excitement  !
But now  :
A mere meaningless conversation !
Jobs and jubilations !
Grants and gratifications !
Influences and references !
Honours and honorarium !
But
no talk of poetry  !

For the uninitiated ones
( unlike columnists and politicians )
to find their by -line
huddled in a local mag
or in an obscure daily --
it's very heaven.
And once their name appears
they preserve the page
underline their name
mark the date
procure many copies of the mag
for adulation and felicitation
of their friends and relations.
Even those who can't pen
a piece worth printing,
would rather plagiarise.

      Vanity! O Vanity  !  
       Of being in print  !