All we wanted was continue to live
Our lives all of a piece within brick,
As history carefully buried in tome.

This morning temples broke peace
And Gods shut eyes to their falling.

These bricks no longer hold homes
Only life’s pieces left to dry in sun.

(A severe earthquake in Nepal caused massive devastation and loss of life on 26th April,2015)

Neem fruits

The farmers have joined a rally,
Crying slogans in urban lawns,
Upside down, from neem trees.

They hang in a passing breeze.
They hang like fruits and drop,
When breeze becomes a wind.

Neem flowers have just turned
This season to fruity succulence.
Like every year they are bitter.

(A farmer from Rajasthan, Gajendra Singh, hung himself from a tree at the Aam Aadmi Party’s (AAP’s) anti-land bill rally at Jantar Mantar(New Delhi) on Wednesday)

Cat’s whiskers

Looking at lists of things in their aura,
The ordinary man turns common man
In checked shirt , unkempt moustache
Like a neighbor’s cat, on long whiskers
That are less than any ordinary things.

The common man had been dipping
In our blue mornings of bleary eyes
With our milk sachets ,outside door.
Lately he is seen missing from porch.

(R.K.Laxman(92) the creator of the Common Man in a daily cartoon in our newspaper passed this week)

Dads are uncles in the aggregate

Uncles on green bench talk politics
From newspaper page, aggregates
Of men’s affairs that have no faces.
The little fingers they had held on
Tight for years, before green bench
Are beyond a green sea practising
Greenbacks ,stirring greenest envy
In aggregates ,yet not greenbacked.

Stubby fingers, ringed in knuckles,
Feel dads have right to big picture.
The fingers, now pointed elsewhere
Have no other views in the matter.

Veils of laughter

You spilled laughter on the floor
That pretended to be still waters
A window that opened out to sea
Leading him to ride astride wind.

Wind will come back to get you,
Strip your feminity before blind
A glass where others are clothed
And all veils of laughter are lifted.

(In the Hindu epic Mahabharata Draupadi laughs at Duryodhana’s discomfiture as he raises his lower garment to enter an illusory pool in the Mayasabha-starting a series of actions and counteractions culminating in the battle of Kurushetra)

Posnet purely petrified

White and Christmaslike, the cathedral
Ascends to a hallowed purity of its bell
Its stones bound to each other by time.

Its stained glass is very thing of beauty,
That is much like our December’s hoar
Crafted like our Nativity’s balcony star,
Eastern star that travelled all our night.

Our enslaver’s beauty worshipper pastor
Swore more by white beauty than piety,
Posnet purely petrified in English stones
Hauled from across white imperial seas.

(on visiting the exquisite Church of Medak built in the imperial times by Reverend Posnet)