Say it in a sonnet

You better hurry to say all you can now
In iambic pentameter ,in fourteen lines.

You fret third and fourth line are a waste.
Worry wastes two lines already, scumbag.

And now the fear of all coming to close
Fritters away eighth leaving just six lines.

But by now it is clear you are empty hag
A used up teabag ,dregs left of a worth.

You do nothing but whine in pentameter .
Now call a town crier to finish last lines.

There is not much to say in the last line.
Whatever left use it for your headstone.

(Referring to Life is a sonnet: an illustrated passage from A wrinkle in time by Madeline L’engle , in Signature)

The yellow moment


Lamp sits before us with warm bread
That brightens up a dark inner palate

And its yellow light colors the dance-
A girl dance swirls in yellow moment.

We hold still to avoid a camera shake
As a drum tries to catch the liquid girl

Night sheds, in the winter of our time,
Leaf slowly falling its yellow moment.

We hold still, shaking camera in hand,
In a shaking body, to catch a moment.

Royal dead


A bramble thinks it controls the wind
Over royal dead under the cenotaphs.
The royal dead do not think anything.
They may wish to say off with a bush.

They may like to say off with wind mill.
They may like to control a wind in sky.
But they cannot act royal in cenotaphs
Lying dead through centuries of dusks.

Dreaming of wedding



If rails were to be fractured  early hours,
Should train coaches mount each other?
Should there be the earthquake of love?

We were sleeping on clackety of a train
And death dance began pounding earth.
We were only dreaming of our wedding.

(In the worst of train accidents the Patna-Indore express derailed near Kanpur killing more than 100 people and injuring several)



The night pours images
And how I live my night
And beginning, my sun
Living ,grows to a death.

How sun grows and kills
A moon impaled to sky.
Images pour from a sky
From a sleep, by a night.

I grow death from birth.
My images grow death.
Night, temporary death
Grows and is how I live.

How I live death grows,
As it grows to die night
To be image and to die
A thing, to die an image.

Old air

Old air is like our air soon to be.
Homes are first a dust, then air.
We are in bodies soon to be air
With no stones only fire and air.

Old stones still have air in gaps.
Their stories are hid in crevices.
Desert rats made them homes
In the storied stone gasps of air.

(Kuldhara is an abandoned village near Jaisalmer, a ghost village deserted by its residents overnight in 19th century to escape persecution by a tyrant ruler)