My Dear Sagarmatha                                    

May I braid your disheveled hair   

tangled by carcasses – that sting like lice,

caress your silver tresses

and wipe your teary eyes

before, the scorch of rising heat 

melt mounds of icy rocks

and sweep life on the path. 

Allow me to shield you, and me from pain 

of bereavement, hence shall you remain

your pristine self and I: your eternal lover.

(May. 2018)

Sometimes words don’t mean anything

beyond what is said. Uttered

without thinking. Just silly sounds; 

of no significance, no connotation implied.

Words at such times; are nothing more 

than a compilation of letters ‘a’ to ‘z.’

Like the times

you do things just for its sake; 

out of a set routine, nothing you want to do

yet end up doing it, all the same. Those times

actions mean nothing more than 

a mechanically charged moment; you work

like a robot on a task assigned.

I am, the most important part of every

play, art, story, poem;

I am the Audience.

It is for me stories and songs are written

scripts performed, and paintings created

why, I don’t understand is that; it’s me who sits in the dark,

whereas all share the glory.

I am, the most important part of the nation,

I am the Peoples.

It is for my rights the parliament functions

it is for my safety the constitution is written,

hospitals and schools operate for me, and by me,

roads and courts are built by me, and for me.

And,

it is me who gives you the power of the chair, yet

you make me stand in the dark for justice everyday

I don’t understand why, the one for whom I cast a vote

tramples on my basic rights.

Somedays you scribble just words 

 

Somedays you scribble 

words, just words

 

that makes no sense to you, later.

 

Then roll them round and round; little orbs shoot 

the dustbin, like meteors striking the night sky,

 

or fold the pages in and out, and watch those

tiny aircrafts gliding gently from the verandah.

 

Your creation – 

it’s up to you, to make 

 

of those pages,

 

craft a little paper boat, and sail them in the brook

 

or pile those with the logs, and

listen to the flames crackle.

 

Whatever – you do, it’s okay;

 

everytime you don’t create something great, and profound 

 

but that little refuse too, can give the joy that you desire. 

19 may 2020

 

Every time I switch the radio on

I hear these letters: 

l 

o 

v 

e

 

whenever I close my eyes

I see these letters: 

h 

o 

p 

e.

 

I am a believer. Of love. In hope

amidst all adversity,

 

in positivity. Yes I know

 

goodness will not die. Not yet.

 

Love brimming from all our hearts 

holds power to fuel the world alive.

 

 

This is the story of human folly.

Arrogance, vulnerability;

a war of survival.

 

Of panic. Uncertainty.

This is the story of love. Of sacrifice.

Of hope and healing.

 

This is the story of loss and despair.

The time to pray for all we have lost.

The time to be grateful;

                                       for the health we enjoy

                                       for food on our tables.

To think, to thank all, helping us everyday.

The time to learn. Love, and live. And hope.

                                                  Misplaced  

 

                                                A tiny pebble 

                                            in a sack of grain, 

                               

                                        a fly in the king’s parlor

                                   hovering over the pastry tray.

 

                                 A cockroach, and one silverfish,

                                 rummage through a pile of books. 

 

                              Misfits: I cringe my nose, till . . . I see

                                                                 

                                                        I too, am one. 

                                                                         (08.25.2016)

             

                     We are

                    Gullivers

                     tangled

                by little strings

         of love, hope, and desire. 

 

        Trying to free the arrows 

                    of deceit

                  striking us

                   unaware

          from a mask of trust.

 

The insanity
of earth,
watches
a dusky sky:

mountains of rubble,
withered leaves, wilted shrubs

leveled-

by scorching heat of the day,
wet by thunder at nighttime.

Fireflies flutter
a spark to the night;
swarms of mosquitoes
whirl a halo,

or maybe a tornado
ready, to suck the skulls
of a dusky tent.

Cries of crickets, croaking toads
merge
in moan of tremors,

bats, rats;
nocturnal glinting eyes,
wink at the vulnerability
of life.

The unpredictable jolt-
shatter life complete.

The dozer that ravaged my home last year,

is back on the streets in a mutant form

 

that time at my gate it was roaring loud

strangely now, the demon seems a bit silent,

falters too, while scavenging homes!

 

Appears the devil too, is now weary

executing orders of destruction:

that create so many homeless.