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? 
May be experience, too ugly and 
cliched to be in a poem. 
But surely it takes 
a long time to wash it off. 
May be a sadness that is regular 
or a happiness which isn't particular
To note it down as an important 
signpost to other travelers. 
May be 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.