"bylane" poems
1.
Potholes
spots of sunshine
wobble
2.
Sudden downpour
noisy trucks at midnight
crowded footbridge
3.
Sipping coffee
at a wayside stall
cockroaches too
4.
The morning sun
fondling with tender fingers
the red roses
5.
Chasing each other
in the bylane
two birds
6.
A girl
between the railway tracks
swings her pony tail
7.
Softness of wind
magic in her nearness
sleight of hand
8.
End of festival:
I stop by her haiku
on twitter.com
9.
A teenager
glides past me on roller blades
her long hair flows behind
10.
A toddler
trying to stand up by the pram—
young mother watches
--R.K. SINGH
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
On my selling on a day in the blazing May
I was looking for a small place for a light bite
when I noticed through my heat dazed eyes
the signboard "Snack Bite".
Inside was the peaceful coolness of a suburb bylane
and I would have pretty soon dozed off
but for the strong smoke of spice, garlic and onion
that shut out every senses except hunger.
No menu card, sir, the waiter cut the silence,
*on our menu at this hour is only fish fingers,
all else sold out.*
No problem I said, I have been here for a light bite.
How many pieces come with a plate?
Ten, sir, superbly fried.
By ten minutes the steaming thing was before me
ten red crispy slices of fish fingers
and I immediately got into business
remembering what my ma used to say,
To a hungry mouth every food tastes fine
and so neat and fine the pieces looked
so artfully arranged on the plate like human fingers
I reflected on the pause having finished the fifth.
Human fingers? I froze in terror,
why didn't I notice
leftovers of crunched bones and nails
on my plate?
The only other man at the table, I heard
was ordering for another plate.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Was it them bubble colours
on the outside,
mellow summer beckoned
cold under the sheets
palm to your *****
Speaking lost in a language
of memories, welling up
genie-like finger tiptoeing
on the handle
or how tea stained the corners?
your eyes, lined black
distant bylane of long forgotten
when in rain we stopped by
porcelain, hands
clay-holding kiln-heated
fragrant vapour rising
morning in the chocolate cup
was it your lips that I
longed to find on the edges?
four seasons, etched
in the corrugations
that bore the wash-marks of time
broken - now lost, forgotten
the polka dots cup
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC