We the people

So we are individuals
capable of only few things.
like jumping traffic signals
to start with.

OK, now don't get us wrong.
We do have a heart
It's only next thing to stomach.

Sometimes, there is
an awkward silence
when we are cornered
for the lack of humaneness.

Don't judge us;
but being humane these days
costs a lot.

Indifference also comes costly
I should admit.
You are held inhumane and
in that guilt-filled
precarious moment you are
forced to pay for it.

Please be humane
Else you might be mugged into it.

Never too late

What if everybody goes out to help?
It will just clog the network.
Only weapons can be mass minded
Not us. We are individuals.
Remember.

We are fragmented inside
like the bodies carried
in the clean white cloth.

We coexist in the shackles
Of helplessness and little freedoms
we could touch the ceiling anytime.

Our empathy for others' suffering
varies inversely with the
distance from television.

"What can we do now?"
"It is their fate"
You and I may sigh.

But somewhere, there is
a foot note of humanity
saying "Never too late".

Long Weekend

Long weekends are like the
new pair of trousers in our teens.
We grow out of them quickly.

All through, we are more languid
like a sailor
wearing two life jackets.

We have lot of plans.
And like fresh popcorn
they are light in weight and jumpy.

Finally, things fall into place
on the bed though
as we try hard to stay awake
even on national holidays.

Darkness

In the darkness of despair
hopes are wingless
like the glow worms.

There are roads out of misery
but the lamps are dimmed
around the sharp turns.

Total darkness is soothing at times
but dim light is disturbing
like the uncertainty of future
always hanging there, but never becoming.

Mostly, we have low voltage hopes
we reduce them further
so that success dazzles us more
with enough light for a life time.

We capture such moments
Assume wings to our hopes
and go higher, diminishing.

The Butcher

The bread with the jam spread
reminds him of the fresh flesh
washed under the hose.

His newborn child is brought to him
and he worriedly examines
the tenderness of her neck.

He sometimes wonders
if God was a butcher himself.
rearing well before reaping.

Afterlife was a mystery to him.
The chicken is never
off the hook and walking again.

On the wooden blocks scarred since years
There are many knife marks.
Some are deep ridges, formed
while handling the tough ones.

Once upon a time

mysticism used to reside
in the thick forest cover.
It is lost now, in the
corridors of high rise towers.

Fear is shrunk into a room like us
and it is concentrated enough
to affect our weak hearts.

A mystic jingle used to be heard
from the wilderness.
But now its buzz competes
with that of the calling bell's.

The world has minisculed itself
along with the hope.
There is a slack we feel, prior
to reaching the other end of the rope.

Living Shadows

The warrior wouldn't sleep
without killing someone everyday.
It is a daily ritual
like the brushing of teeth.

Yesterday's Palestinians become
Today's Gazans.
And today's Gazans
Tomorrow's no one.

The right and wrong are defined
as clearly as the borders.
Ever changing and adjusting.

Who are these who are still staying
on that strip, stripped off everything
They might just be shadows
unperturbed by the bombshell.

The shrapnel is draining less blood now.