Misty hilltop

There perched shivering and alone on a misty hilltop ,
she poked the dying embers of a long lost flame,
the years had not been kind yet her memories sharp,
her harsh weary wrinkles each had a story to name;

her beauty subtly faded leaving just beauty of the hill,
even they paled, nothing was ever the same without him,
him that took her every care, him that fought with her shrill,
where are you when I want you the most alone in this dim;

a kindly face in the moon seemed to tell her here I am,
waiting for you as always, yet she couldn’t be sure,
he didn’t wait the one time that mattered most, damn,
everyone here waiting for her to pass without cure;

she would have gladly gone if not for his sweet memories around,
unsure if she’ll meet him in death she lingered hankering for his sound. 

Water hit hard

The water hit me hard and fast,

like rocks thrown from high,

as I chattered under the falls cast,

can’t stand long though try;

yet the cold outpour sucks in,

below the water goes in a stream,

silence of nature without a din,

take a dip in the flowing dream;

the black cliff face soars up so high,

rocks and boulders black strewn around,

the tall green trees that silently stood by,

orange setting sun hid by a dark cloud;

nature there so beautiful, plentiful, serene and wild,

that one can be lost there forever playing like a child.

Cliff’s edge

I sit at the cliff’s edge,

a mere push will do,

all that knowledge,

failed me true;

I was afraid at that height,

yet there was a brain rush,

tempted to jump out of sight,

aching a long lost crush;

the misty freezing hilltop calls,

thick green trees and bushes,

gushing water of the white falls,

flowing water and pushing fishes;

the beauty poured numbing senses,

arrested in a borderless world without fences. 

The Hum of the air conditioner

The hum of the air conditioner as it chilled,

the glow of the bright lengthy tube lights,

on my desk, clutter of things, mostly books spilled,

as I try conjure fake images of nature in my sights;

is it not what poets do? admire nature’s beauty,

I float in dream space directed by my inner nature,

a pile of work not done, for what is a poet’s duty,

to dream and write and dream above one’s stature;

does a poet add value to any, apart from himself,    

a true magician though, what trickery, what devices,

what worlds won and with what words he engulf,

what chasms bridged and a taste beyond the spices;

is rhyming verses a job and why poets live in penury, 

he is starving poor but not his dreams, rich in imagery.   

At times – haibun

At times I am one with the world. 

I’ve wondered what is it with nature and poets. Yet in the midst of trees short and tall or in the gentle caress of the waves I’ve felt at peace and an unusual calm and contentment. Our garden is an untamed green of trees and bushes. I cross it daily without a second glance. Even the fleeting gaze is beautiful. I can’t linger for if I am lost in nature folks would think I’ve gone crazy.

My Garden ever fine

why do you shy away from me thus

blushing like a bride. 

There is an ever

There is an ever so mild drizzle,

a soothing aptly chilled breeze,

droplets caress skin without a fizzle,

clouds danced above in a tight squeeze;

the light dim with an ethereal glow,

there was not the usual rush today,

the streets were calm in its flow,

for it was a joyous holiday;

the cows mooed walking dead slow,

unmindful of crows, stray dogs or rain,

every passerby seemed happy, nature was thorough,

the scorching town sang now in a different vein,

what a calm, bewitching, beautiful experience

made possible by contemplation and silence.

I have roamed unclothed

I have roamed unclothed in your streets,

my little well, my world, my hometown, 

high or low, you’ve recorded all my heartbeats,

as a little boy here I’ve been dressed in a gown;

no nature’s beauty, no city’s wonders, nothing proud,

you small are apt size for me novice to handle,

I know only you, so on your virtues can’t be loud,

at times I long to escape from you and light a candle;

I’ve glimpsed shades of magic of other places,

sometimes in a quiet, calm picturesque village ,

or in modern hectic cities with no time to tie shoelaces,

for comfortable that you are, still feel like a cage;

in you everyone is a friend from milkman to big shot,

I want to move, but be here, in distress you are my last resort.

Felt on my face

Felt on my face a calming gentle breeze,

a mild drizzle from an overcast sky,

all worries put in to a deep freeze,

the mind drifting in to a non alcoholic high;

What is life that we treasure and cling to

but a sum of events leading steadily to death,

days like this so joyous but for who?

for likes of me without a care in this earth;

the light is soft and luring in its dimness,

very few people out here on the street,

the beauty of the day very few witness,

for most are locked in fear of nature’s treat;

What if all days were like this?

a mad converse with nature’s quiz.


Selfish Giant

What weird puzzle to try,
a stone or a heart ran dry,
self possessed, deaf to others’ cry,
in a selfish world thoughts fly;

suspicious, self piteous, stupid, shy,
revolting civilization and society’s pry,
frustrated by routine and common fry,
still the need to share strongly weigh;

unheard is the heart’s stammer,
unseen the glow of the new moon,
giggling at the thoughtless murmur,
fun filled invisible shadow at noon;

unable to learn world’s grammar,
is giant’s thoughts thorns in dune.