Dad years

I who was once mere boy lost years
Of a boy dad , not good to stay alive

Now a mere head , black and white,
Staring from 1940’s old boys’ space.

I old man have lost many dad years ,
As he was not good at staying alive.

Wall flowers

The air is not heavy with their fragrance
But might have been into the late night

When we had gone to sleep over them.
Their fragrance spreads only after sleep

And some time enters our sleep quietly
As if they are blooming  night’s garden.

They are wall flowers that can be smelt
Only in the higher reaches of the night.

There is no death in April

A velvet stuff comes on again
After the first rain while earth

Crawls with an underground,
Fragile feet ,a soft feel-good.

Apparently there is no death
And the poet says so in April

That brings on yearly spring
With sun on a burning neck.

A beauty is apparent in April
And the bush is singing as if.

Old lights

We are uncles with our lights low
And no one comes here after dusk.

After our old nights are remnants,
Home is littered with plastic cups,

The remnants of many old nights.
Old lights lie  low and dim-witted.

Child in waiting

Hope is child of   black bird,
Squirms as I enter its space

That shivers before flower
To suck its left over honey,

Which is a child in waiting
Knowing a shadow behind

Yet thinks it does not exist
Being a willing ass of itself.

Making up poems

I​n  very smallness of our hours
We make our poems and stuff
Between a coming and a going.

Until we drop our pants, where
We hold a life, ticking in poems
A poem maker’s in lap of death.

( On reading a poem entitled ‘humanity I love you” by e.e.cumings)

Scattered

The jewel of a girl
Is not a whole girl

Because she held
The key to jewels.

She needs Vishnu.
She lies scattered.

(This is about a recent incident of murder of a ten year old girl by her step-mother’s brothers in the wake of fears of her father bequeathing all his property to her at the cost of her step-brothers)