Tuesday, May 27, 2014

To fellow travelers

My pecking on the keyboard grew sparser. 
My fingers, what have they touched 
that is better than writing? 
Maybe experience, too ugly and 
clich├ęd to be in a poem. 
But surely it takes 
a long time to wash it off. 
Maybe a sadness that is regular 
or a happiness which isn't particular
To note it down as an important 
signpost to other travelers. 
Maybe they are wiping the sweat off  
as the Sun beats its heated drum 
and a mirage trembles at a distance. 

There is silence spread out on roads 
guarded by stern afternoon trees. 
A throat is cleared to suggest 
lines that were long impending. 
Scribble I do, like a hurried moth 
Then follows an ant like editing. 
And the long line of my mistakes
ends up in a hill yet to be scaled. 

Wednesday, May 7, 2014


Tell-tale stories make their way 
out of the parleys stained with 
coffee and conversation. 
A relationship tugs its way
accross the wooden silence 
spread between the two.
The knife yells to the fork 
I will hold this side of the bread
And the China with its billion noises 
adds to the conversing clatter. 
The dead chicken whispers a wish
to meet its waving ancestors
waiting beyond the alimentary canal. 
And the table turns into a boquet of tissues
Crumpled and forgotten without any issues.

Later, the chairs lay diverged
away from this tabular prison. 
And the inmates escape this sentence.