The road takes it all...

The road takes it all...
The poems of the fall...
A crumpled paper...
A chocolate wafer...
The sun peeking out...
The cottony white cloud...
A pair of lips overturned...
A cigarette held in fingers uselessly burned...
A dimpled smile saying nothing but love
A box with powder, patches and pink soft puff...
Hand placed willfully on the lap...
Eyes closed in pretense of a nap...

The road takes it all...
Poems of autumn...
Proses of the fall...
The wind touching strands of brown hair...
A dream of an angel playing the lyre...
A white horse running across the green...
On the seat a lonely hair pin...
A confessional song full of regrets...
An aristotlean treatise on mutability of fate!
A bunch of roses with dew on petals...
Polished nails pressing a lever metal...

The road takes it all...

The imagist...

A blue blue day
Was it...
Right fit...
Perfect to recoil...
My tendermost counterfoil...

Crossing over the bridge
Ferry ghat...foreshore road
A market...a chocolate factory on  lease...
Huge drums full of sugar...
And a house with a big verandah...
A scooter green with a spare tyre...
An uncle in dhoti and white half sleeved shirt...
A window longish type with iron bars...
A playmate with round glasses over the nose...
A garden with saplings planted in rows...
An alley leading to several serpentine lanes...
A paperwallah trying to put in order fallen cycle chain...
A playground with holes made for wooden sticks
To act as makeshift stumps for a short version of cricket...
Fingers placed on the leather ball...
A catch to hold on to...humpty dumpty fall...

A blue blue day...
Was it...
Right fit...
To hold mind on sway...

Wherever i go...didn't i leave a leaf with you?

Wherever i go...
From this arid desert
To a mountain full of snow...
If i drift away...caught by the wave...
Or if the wind takes me to an almora cave...
Didn't i leave a leaf with you?
A torn page full of dreams,sobs and cries
And rippling laughter and dusk colored sky?
Wherever i go...
From this valley of thorns
To a sea shore greenish blue...
Didn't i leave a leaf with you?
An evening forrest gump kind...
A basket of popcorns never meant to be mine?
A chair with wooden handrests a bit off the shine?
A pot half filled with ink ?
A ribbon made flower absolutely pink?
Wherever i go...
Didn't i leave a leaf with you?

Post conversation trance...

'Go...stand on the open terrace
Of yours...and study the sky scape
And those urban builds...'
telling me,categorically you the conversation sealed...

So I went...climbing twenty stairs exact
If you want to know the matter of fact
The stones colored brown green ash red
Planted and fixed into the mosaic
Stared back at me till I opened the door...
The door to the open terrace...

The blue wide profound skyscape
And the breeze playing about
Raised me above confusions and doubts...
Yes the urban builds were visible...
But the light that on them fell
Made them look like paintworks
Block prints like on the panoramic canvas...
And those heads of trees green...
Supplied varied ideas it seemed...

Then got a hazy glimpse of a distant bridge...
Its towers twin kind of glistening
As if the painter had deliberately left a sketch
Of them on the canvas to fetch
Before the onlooker a hint of life in flow...
The tiny dot like vehicles moving slow...

Then saw at one corner the minaret
Of a sculpture...standing straight...
(As if arabian tales at that corner were made...
Everynight...when the sleep descends...)

'Go ... Stand on your open terrace...'
You told me and I perfunctorily obeyed...

A holiday ride with her...

The young breeze like a clandestine
Desperate lover full of her joyous kisses
Dashed me on my face...
Going up the national holiday bridge
As I was then...taking her into me...

'Let's go up this road...let's just keep going...following this long stretch of highway...'
She whispered into my ears
I felt the ends of her hair
Touching my shoulder...
Got the scent of flowers
Into me like pollen grains colored yellow and white...

So I kept going...
Up the bridge...
At toll plaza the man waved...
Smiling...to me perhaps...
Seeing smile in my lips...

The toll ticket kept on the dashboard
Danced for a few moments...
Before catching my clandestine lover's anchal...
Settled down quiet...

And we rode...
Me...
My youngish breeze...

The bottle of cologne left by you...

You left the bottle
Of cologne
For me standing lone
An orange shape
And a glistening knob like top
Upon which so many images stop...

Images of my face...hands...
My body...the ceiling...the shelf...
Every kind of moving and immobile things land
Without any pretense over it...
And the deep orange liquid
Carry layers...sublayers aromatic...

The top layer is strong...
Musky husky long...
The mid level is so royal...
As if passed by a banquet hall
With people in black ties
Or dinner jackets tight
And fashionable ladies in gowns and corsets...
And a flowing river by the Somerset...
And...

The last layer...
The faintest of the three...
Is that of...not sure...perhaps of a bodhi tree...
A salvation kind...
An ethereal mystery...
A cloud like white tapestry...

The cologne bottle...
That you left...
For me in a deep orange shape...
Has so many incorporated...
Signatures of men...
Horses...polo clubs...
Cigars...
And also of the last stage...
The salvation...

The butterfly on my palm...

For a few seconds...
Flapping her angelic wings
From a flower nectar having sucked
She came and sat
For a few seconds
On my palm's lap...
As if to take a rest
Brief moments that suited her the best...
On my palm...
To keep me captivated...
As I stared at her wings...
Silk like shine...soft like muslin...
With bluish violet patterns wrote
By Him...all over her coat...
The morning sun the blue turned green...
And the green soon violet seemed...
And the violet turned mauve so good
With her on my palm I just stood...

She came and sat...
For a few seconds on my palm's lap...
To help me see how heavenly colors play...
for a few moments she stayed to make my day!

The poet...

I dreamt of him
Last night
In his thick and warm woollen overcoat
Standing brave against the cold sweep of the breeze...
In his hand he probably had
His poem which he wrote
For the purpose so grand...

I dreamt of him last night
Standing in the biting cold
Afternoon without any warmth...
Only the poem in his hand
Held tight in the breeze not to be blown
Away by the gale
his fingers were numb...

But the poem...
His fiery one
With passions in it
Written bold...
Kept him standing...

He just kept standing...
The poem in his hand
And draped in woollens...
Strong...
Broad...
Unlimited...
Reaching above the localised weather conditions...

waning winter afternoon of a saturday...

i think i know this afternoon
particularly handsome...yet so benign
i think he is returning home this afternoon
humming his favourite tune...
an urban traveller...
through those streets
partially shadowed by buildings
with overhanging dreams
spread neat by women
of those dwellings...
on the rails of balconies
in shapes and colors
varied yet so similar
like afternoon soaps
seen after a lunch at home
munching a few chopped betelnuts...
so similar in theme
yet varied sure...
i think i know this afternoon
a siesta like tune playing soft in the breeze...
and he returning home
the urban walker...
after his work ends early for the week
a saturday half...
half warm kind...
with winter on the wane...

roses are forever...

despite walls and streets
traumatised by unholy smoke and sleaze
despite hooting of vehicles in premoghul state
dust pumped into lungs of maidan every second
roses red bloom...
somewhere...
unnoticed perhaps...
lost in the hurly burly of business district
and trade calls of brokers on the floor...
roses bloom somewhere
unnoticed behind the closed door
uncherished...
never looked with proper admiration...
despite the graffiti filling minds
political slogans replacing words
you or us...
me or you...
they or we...
despite discrmination of every kind...
roses bloom...
somewhere.

june havens and the crimson red...

Opening his eyes
he felt blinded first
the white sunlight
on him blinding dazzling...
then he thought he noticed a face
'June Havens...
you're beautiful' he said
'am I dying?'
he added confused
June smiled...
'you just gained life...'
He smiled...
the blinding sunrays
fell through June's browny head
full of strands of hair trembling
the sunrays life to him did bring...

'now...I know...
you got way to go...
but tell me...is it with me...or without?'
June asked him
as he sat up slow on the beach...
the golden black lined car
caught his eyes parked not so far...
'Go start it...
and get the radio on...'
he said as he patted his trousers
flakes of sands fell...
the sky westward was crimson red...
the sky westward was so crimson red...

the tree friend mine...

she is as old as me
whatever i did she did see...
the matches ten a side...
yellow cards...quarrels...
Hardys and Laurels...
Captain Haddock and the Merlinspyke hall...
and flooded ground and the runaway ball...
the shared tiffin cakes...
and green banana shakes...
and marching soldiers in a parade...

she is old as old as me...
and she did see
whatever touched me...
the springs...
the rains...
and winters...
and jackets...
a library stamped
New Samuel Beckett...
a chocoball satchet...
a crossword puzzle...
playing with hosepipes
water jet from muzzle...
worn down pumphouse
a morning of mickey mouse...
first bicycle fall down the slope
first motor bike crash iron spoked...
first love poem torn in the evening breeze
an ice cream cone and cherry red tease...

she is old as old as me
she has seen whatever touched me...

time...

i keep her in the glass...
and as she does pass
from one to another
in the wind of change a feather
caught floats so free...
i watch her pass in glee...
a steady flow in pink...
a dream transient i drink...
and am reborn
every day's morn
and i die
with every evening's sigh...
time...
i watch her pass in pink ...
the stream from which i drink
the ambrosia of life...
for me in shapes numerous arrives...
both at the beginning and at the end
both in straight lines and curves that bend
time...
i keep her in books...pages...leaves
in seesaws...waves...walls and sieves...
in roads...streets...ferris wheels...
in charcoal flame fabulous steaks
in humming birds' too fast flaps...
in water flowing from roadside taps...
in buses...taxis...audis and alloy covers...
in spontaneous kisses of young lovers...
in flyovers- a few jam free stretches...
in the old man's hanging breeches...
in plaits visible on the skirts...
in the fairs of curio things and the city marts...
in sun rays reflected by the facade of glass...
time...
a dream i drink every moment passed...

peace and war...

The gentle choir of the church
got caught into a real sound that jarred
for navy planes flew above from the far...
the gentle choir got really jarred...

the corns of the field swept and downed
for navy planes flew over from the distant town
their propellers full of omenous signs
the planes drew black smoky lines...

the little hut by the river shook a lot
for balls of fire fell at undesignated spots...
from the sky which had been so blue till the war
broke out sudden in the town not so far...

and the rhymes of the school stopped
for from the sky paratroopers dropped
in olive and grey with tin hats rough
the country witnessed a real hard bluff...

O! the country faced a real hard bluff...
In the name of peace a war broke loose...
and the artillery fire rang after the truce...
the gunshots smeared red in the blue...

O the guns smeared red in the blue...

your cottage overlooking the hills...

I long sometimes, specially in search
of golden sunshine warm and bright
to be in your cottage overlooking the hills...and a small piece of land
with trees and small kind of shrubs...
having brown freckle seeds- nut like
hanging and sending peculiar rustling sounds...
and that wooden table and two benches...
cut from logs of wood...thick...unpolished...raw...
and those wheels of cart...
kept slanted on the wall outside
for weathering...and that wooden staircase
going up from the square shaped marbles...
to the first storey...a bedroom...a kitchen and a bath...
simple...necessary and so minimal...
but when at dusk and the dawn
when the golden red sun warm...
fell on the floors...
and through the windows open...
maximum love from the hills came...
and life became so blessed...

I long to go to that cottage of yours
overlooking those hills
and the small shrub filled field...
and the rustle of dry seeds in the breeze...

I long to go back to that home of yours...
where nature all her poetry poured
by days...and also by nights...
when the unobstructed sky
fell down almost upon head
with stars...moon and tiny starlets...
and buzzing of alien insects...
a cacophony so sweetly arresting...
as if an orchestra the wilderness did bring...
to play on my soul in the most pleasant terms...
O! your cottage had its unique charm...

the cold thick misty evening...

the cold evening lied
on the wasteland spread in shape of grandma's cotton soft veil...
white...thin...fluffy...and expandable
always to accomodate a few more
of urchins like me...
lost in wayward thoughts...
but once under the veil
given a shelter cozy...
always tempered down...sobered...
to be part of a fairy tale told...
to take young hearts far away
from the city buses...flyovers...
to somewhere half dreamy...
half real kind...
perhaps a lovely lonely railway crossing...
and a small lantern lit
by a lonely old guard in turban...
and with a thick huge coppery white moustache...
which saw the ups and downs of history...

the cold evening swept up
misty thick fabular forms...
in blurry lights...
a tower looked legless standing right...
and trees seemed submerged halfway
in fog machine smoke on some stage...
like actors enacting a special scene of the ultimate act
of a play...a full length five act one
written by the bard for the groundlings and the royal...
to be turned into a classic after a century or two...

the cold thick misty evening wrote
a scene of a play such...
only to enchant city bred eyes
with a rural heart...

you young and the morn so wet and cold...

the drizzle started when I don't know...
but you must have woken up
by the soft rustle of the leaves
and the chilly breeze
must have swept into your street...
meandering through the corners
of those apartment blocks...

in black knee length socks...
and red skirt topped
by that white jacket...
you took to the street
braving the cold...
and drizzle sending shivers...
for I know...you have to catch the bus of number six route...
you walk through the mist semi dark...on foot...

the arterial road is vacant...
no sign of silvery buses...
a few cabs wait like yellow stagnant pics...
three dimensional installations stationary tricks...
the tea shop under a tree
is open and the chulla is set...
smoke white like clouds in mini forms
rise up churning dreams of warmth this morning wet...
and you wait...
tugging the end of your jacket
for the bus number six to come...
municipal lights try to catch glory some
yawning up to the wet chilly sky...
a black and white feathered bird
sits still on a handsome pole...forgetting to fly...
drenched as it was like your soul...
waiting it was sure for someone to dole
out a few corns or bits of bread...
rain and mist lingered and made
roads so dustfree...vacant and pensive...
but you take the road to catch the bus...
in white jacket and red skirt
you look the only one young and smart
otherwise this wet chilly morn is so old...
feeble...shaking and shivering in the cold...