Every day ends

A thud of the axle.
Goosebumps of rain
shiver into life on the window.
Wipers flail their arms
like the oar-men of Onam.
En route the intestinal turnings now.
The city suffers a leaky gut.
Whirlpools of dark water
become the door knobs to invisibility.
The last foothold.
Its size changes constantly.
Our ship connects many islands.
A slithery snake with fangs of light,
it bites its way out of darkness.
And our hope, shiny and hard-
a dead starfish-
decorates us amidst everything.

Watch your step

An immigrant bird
White as a handkerchief
Stands with its one leg in air
Not to ripple
and drive away the fish.
Its early breakfast.
The deer's ears are twice as alert.
Some noise which only it can sense.
May be wind's footsteps!
There is no twitch in its legs.
Not yet. A heightened silence
before a bolt of running.
A commercial break
in cawing of the city crow.
Gravity eases its pull.
And a drop that ought to fall
hugs the leaflet, for one last time.

This place

There is this place
well lit in the tunnel.
It says you're special
and should continue.
Like a mother
who tells you to behave
on the first day of school
the walls guide you towards light.
There is no turning back.

Lights will soon be switched off
but a dream
of their warm touch will continue.

A listening tree

For a long time, nothing happens.
Suddenly, a bubble rises.
Bursts everywhere. Inside me.
A shadow tugs me along
for a little more distance.
The uneven path
is painted with untied ends.
Questions linger on
like the litter after a party.
Silences seep in unchecked.
I look at myself
and the journey till now.
Everything flashes back
in a restive spirit.
I am now spread
on the sky dome.
Pixelated memories
blow up into dizziness.
Universes of possibilities
expand and contract.
Everything zips past once
as I reach crossroads.
And a great scaly tree stands calm
listening to my thoughts.

Unclear nuclear

Probably, perhaps definitely.
You would be reading this
or even better, listening to this
under a coal miner's head lamp.
And wouldn't be facing
those regular sighs of marsh gas
the ancient dead emanate.
Those dead
sustain us, the living.
Pretty tired, they might vanish
like a sick-of-it-all character
who runs away from home.
But we have to go on living.
Find ways that can sustain
that golden spark once struck
between the two stones.
The temperature of our warm blood
needs to be kept up even in the dark.
As every hand gropes about
for the relieving sound of the matchbox.
We need something more upright
than a melt candle.
The blazing ends of a fuel rod
holding out a sun, on Earth.
Yes, an unknown monster
like the fire that we started out with.
Our optimism and pessimism
The children of our necessity.
But what needs to be done
has to be done.

All this yapping is fine.
But who will pay?
For whom?
And with what?
Till then, the full fists
and empty stomachs
will be on the roads.