A New Religion

They shout at the top of their voice,
F*** you Pakistan,
I wonder why,
Thunderous applause from every window, every house,
A sense of victory so strong,
It smells of hatred,
God must be really kind,
That I wasn’t born on the other side,
To be a Paki would have been such a curse,
Hated across nations, borders,
Cricketers, terrorists all alike,
Indians are such a great tribe,
Racists under their secular hide.

Estranged

This is the closest the Moon,
Will ever get to the earth,
What a pity,
They would have been so good together,
The darkened sky can barely contain,
The anguish of an estranged lover,
His silent cries only visible to her,
Often basking in the light of the Moon,
Earth wonders why would God,
Play such a cruel joke?
To see the Moon wax and wane,
Pound and rage against,
The earth longs to touch him once,
To smooth his furrowed brows,
Fill the craters with her dust,
Most of all to whisper in his ears,
How she has pined for him,
All these years,
Looking up every night,
To catch a glimpse of her shining Knight.

Promise me Tomorrow

Words, a heap of them I burnt today,
Not much use are they,
To his retreating back,
I could not say,
Stay,
Watch the moon rise,
Here, pull me close,
Whistle a love song, make me laugh,
Breathe a little warmth in my frozen lips,
Tell a thousand sweet lies,
To my half closed eyes,
The promise of tomorrow,
Thats all I ask.

White lily

In the silvery reflection of a woman’s heart,
Shies a white lily, untamed, afraid
To bare her self,
If a man ever chose to dive in deep,
Empty handed he returned,
There were no treasures to keep,
For in the barren land,
Grew neither love nor grief,
Waning, wilting the white lily lived,
For more than just a lingering glance,
A brush of those lips, the predictable dance,
The sweet smell fades with each breath,
Wafting, waning to a subtler self.

In this lifetime

The sound of her gently breathing,
Drown out the tweeting birds,
Her face inches away,
As if bathed in love,
A vulnerable creature in his bed,
He searches in haste to pull her close,
The warm indent of her lovely form,
Swoosh of an empty space,
She was gone,
A death slow but certain,
She had waited far too long,
For him to return,
knowing he never would.

Not easy

Praying is never easy,
A sentiment so pure,
Yet, the song eludes you,
Hands folded, eyes closed,
A blind man poised to dance,
Hollering for alms,
The surrender never happens,
The cries become loud,
Why me, why now, why this, why that,
To me that doesn’t sound like a prayer?

In her womb

Her tears have dried, heart has shriveled,
Since the little one died,
In her womb,
The hand that held her own,
The father of the child unborn,
Is a stranger in their home,
The tragedy lingers like bad breath,
A hideous memory of the blood bath,
He doesn’t hear her muffled cries,
The stoic silence is killing them both,
No grave to sit by in fond remembrance,
Of a nameless child,
She struggles to let go.

Passe

The trees are unusually quiet today
Not in their element I would say
The shameless breeze dare not tease
So lost are they in contemplation
Vagaries of life easily amuse them
Such as the passing
Of an old tree trunk
Axed to splinters… to pulp
Man, the intelligent species
Goes about inhaling fresh air
Morning walks are a fitness fad
Evenings a time to chit-chat
Too much of green is claustrophobic
A jungle fit for animals
A man must aim further than the moon
Trees are so passe,
Giving only shade and fruits.

Robbed of Innocence

Have you ever been robbed of a smile,
Felt innocence light up your eyes,
Stood vulnerable under an umbrella of stars,
Gaped at the wind shaking big-small leaves,
Have felt comfort in the presence of the dead,
Reached out and touched empty space,
With glee gathered pebbles in your palm
To hurl across a stream,
Have you not always known,
Each one is fated to fade alone,
Yet, before fading we must let the , ‘I’ dissolve,
Pray for a hearth in every home,
A meal on every stove,
Revere each one as the image of God.

A story that is mine

Through half closed eyes, folded limbs,
Wading in the dark alleys of dreamland,
Searching but never finding,
A story that is mine,
The golden harp lures,
The naïve heart down the road to love,
Caught in the reel of tomorrow,
The scent of desire,
The air feels warm,
Naked in the arms of the unknown,
The big mind rests at last,
At peace with the grand illusion of oneness,
A smile flutters on those moist lips…

Some more of him

Hand on his forehead,
Pushing back wisp of hair,
Bony fingers clutching at thin air,
Drifting in and out of a body comatose,
More dead than alive he ever was...
How time flies,
Here I am sitting under an open sky
Watching the breeze tease the trees,
He slips onto the grass where I sit,
Saying nothing,
I must be mad to feel his presence,
Yet,when tears well up,
I know he’s there,
Back from the realm of his choice,
To lift me high,
Just as when I was little,
And started to cry...