Pizza moon

Looks like it’s moontime again
As she comes in behind words
In windows noisy with scooters
And milkmen clinking in cans.

We recall her a big round thing
We had left behind in the sea.
Now she is a half eaten pizza,
A stale crumb from old poems.

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September rain

Rain was an unexpected bonus
An extra refilling of sound world
As far off mountains have washed
Their clouds off in a lighter mood.

The night was a receptacle of joy
Just above the tops of the peepal
That moaned their soft pleasure
Leaf to leaf, groping invisible sky.

Unknown to its stomach the lake
Swelled unexpectedly missing its
Hyacinths that one ruled its heart.
A change of lover this time of life
Took its teals entirely by surprise.

Well’s being

Like the old poet we had a well to look in
With a bucket lowered gently to touch its
Perturbed waters in their broken moons.
Midnight was fearsome with green snakes
Lurking in ghostly hibiscus trees standing.

A boy in knickers could not bend too low
For fear in belly, with no Narcissus -love.
Fear perked up like a piece of balcony sky
And crawled in half-pants to feet below.

The bucket fell to it with deep dull thud
As its rope had slithered down a pulley
Like a vague water snake searching frogs.
The waters came up to sprinkle moons
In tiny puddles on the stone saucer rim.

Sun’s own day

The finger is pointed to a new flower in balcony
And thence to a rainless cloud ,a sprouting sun.
The translucent blue defers to the low-rise gold
In the blankest sky ever eaten by pearly clouds .
The wind plays mischief with yesterday’s flower
And flower promptly drops from helpless mother.
All this while our sun friend would rise slowly
On the lazy Sunday from under a sleeping blanket
Of thick and silky cotton rolls of rainless cloud.
Sunday is his own day,not another son-of-a-gun’s.

Jungle flower

Near the lazy rock and its green sky
A jungle flower would bloom whitely
Like whirring wheel of a firecracker,
A toothed wheel of tiny locomotion.
The breeze stirred its shape into many,
With false feet of anthers , disheveled
Hair of dancing to a morning breeze.

Near its heart is a dash of soft orange
Set in a white crystal of perfect view,
With contrapuntal note by brown bee
Hovering to a hesitant landing away
From prying camera for macro views.

The rock rose grandly to a summer sky
Looking down on a single jungle flower
A white pride in its green rock bottom.
The bee landed briefly on bee outlines,
Many shapes vaguely embracing bee.

Waterfall

Nothing about it is permanent except
Going over edge in the gond land plain
A ninety feet drop in an abyss of spray
A fog of death ‘s hell, a brimstone frame
Serrated like winter sky , a green bush
Hanging slowly, now here , now gone.

Go down to the hellish depths,in its fog.
Look your eyesight up to the pure white
Streak from old sky, a permanent sky
Holding no permanent water ,but a fall
A fall dizzily impermanent, set in blue.

(on a visit to the Chitrakoot waterfall near Jagdalpur in Chattisgarh state)

The Gir lion

The lion turns head back for a moment
As it walks into the shadows of a future.
Kierkegard would look backwards to see
The future endlessly tied up with the past.

You cross a lion’s tracks towards future
In the dark shadows of the Sasangir forest
That hold its vast tracts of past futures.
The cowherds who live in the forest there
Spot a calm understanding in a lion’s eyes
As it looks back each time it walks past.