A tribute to pastoral life

I ambled through the village roads,
An occasional bus, car or bike
hooting its way around the treacherous curves
Even as I heard the echo of my footsteps in the idyllic calm.

Far below,
In the valley,
Shades of green cheated my eyes of their colour differentiation power.
The silent tiled houses
And pious little churches, mosques and temples
Stood testimony to a life of simplicity.
While smiles and greetings of long-distance neighbours
hugged each other across the roads,
Trees and milestones by the sides
Seemed to wave good-day to me.
Ruminating cattle and barfing roadside weeds
bid me silent welcome.

I walked on,
Surprised by a glimpse of life in the innards of my city.
Where did I live?

Escapist's poems

I.
So very weirdly,
Everyone cribs about work,
Love and Life.

About how your work
Leaves no time for anything else
And how love is lacking,
Life is slacking.

Yet,
When something decides to show up,
We run around trying to hide.

We are driven,
Not by courage,
Not by lust,
Nor curiosity,
But by escapism.

From life, love, work
And the self.

II.
When we open our old drawers
And find those sheets
of tidily jotted scribbles,
We are torn between
Wanting to throw them
and cherishing their memory.

There was once a 'me'
That loved these, we say,
and shut those drawers again.

The little self
scribbled on those sheets
Go back to sleep,
annoyed for having been woken.

And we get back to the tidying
Unaware and unattending
to the shards of self scattered all over,
Too scared to put them together.

III.
We talk of old romances,
of little love notes
and stolen kisses,
And joke about how silly we were.

But somewhere deep inside,
We nurture those seeds
Or pamper those wounds,
And yet close our minds on them
So we can live peacefully -
Or so we think.

Lost

I've lost sense of time
Sense of space
And that of life;
I've lost touch with reality,
Lost the world,
And self to the grind....

Ruminations of lazy times

I.
Ah, the pleasure
of sitting in your balcony
on a bright breezy evening.

Conversations of neighbours,
barking dogs
and chirping birds in the background;
Greens of all hues
doing their little jingle
in the calm, soothing breeze;
Grey clouds hovering above
Tantalising you with thoughts of rain;
Hot black tea and snacks before you,
Pen and paper in your hand –
And your mind,
touched by simplicity,
Pouring its thoughts out.

Ah, the pleasure
of sitting in your balcony
on a bright breezy evening.

II.
On a quiet lazy afternoon,
I sit in the porch thinking of the moon.
The jackfruit, chickoo and mango trees
Serve to exaggerate the breeze.
A febrile ring of the phone somewhere,
Barking dogs and terrces bare,
Drive reality back into me,
But I deny to clear the glee.

Coffee, conversations, cigarettes,
Shabby clothing and colourful sets;
Life is a drama, yet unplayed,
Love is a farce, tackily displayed.
Far away on the horizon
A pariah kite taks a turn
And with no inhibition, no fancy,
My heart leaps for some lunacy.

I laugh at others' jokes,
I share another's smokes,
I work for someone I know not,
I clear the day for another's spot.
What do I want? The moon?
The river? The flowers? The shells? The silver spoon?
There's nothing but praising the dreary,
No joy but to thank my life's not scary.

Even as my thoughts traverse a light year,
My body's here, upon Earth's gear;
The trees still sway to the winds half-blown,
The tulsi in my vase is still half-grown.

III.
An early morning by the verandah
With birds tweeting gleefully
at the post-rain clime,
And trees all glad of being bedewed -
I sit again with a pen and paper,
Glad to be breathing the pleasant air.

Pretty-plumed birds,
Witht their yellows, greens and blues well pruned and glittering,
Give me company,
Tell me how nice it is to live.

The faint grey clouds are parting,
The sun awaits its chance.
The wind is just whispering -
too wispy to listen to its gossips.

My goldfish wants more space to swim,
The sprout in my vase is raising its hood,
My heart is yearning for a longer laze,
The mind refuses to let go of whim.

Far away,
A chimney barfs out black fumes
of urbanisation and modernity,
And the vague clamour of the highway ahead
Strikes the eardrum and breaks the peace.
Someone rings the doorbell
And life calls me back.

Birth of poetry

Poetry is often born -

Out of brimming cups;
Out of nothingness;

Out of conversations;

Out of silences;

Out of happiness;

Out of sorrows;

Out of dilemmas;

Out of decisions;

Out of you;

Out of me.

Obsessed

What do I ask you?
What do I talk to you?

Where do I touch you?
How do I reach you?

Are you here?
Or are you there?

Is this a figment of my imagination?

Did I hear you now?

Did I see you there?
Did you tell me not to whisper?

Did you tell me not to scream?

Well, my dear, there you are. And I,
am obsessed with you.