i miss it

I miss my village

In whose womb rests my house
And In whose heart relaxes my home-
The home where my parents dwell
And my entirety survives,
I miss them.
The terrace of paddy field;
The ephemeral stream that churns
And flows right in front of my house;
The winter on whose lap egrets play
And incessantly hunt meals,
I miss them.
The summer which invites patterns
Of Scorching heat
Of Fluctuating down powers
And scaring rumbles on the sky,
i miss them
The autumn that turns nature naked,
With greens crying beneath the trunks
Of trees
Of shrubs
And grasses,
i miss them.
The spring decorated in blooms
Like a well dressed lady,
In green
Blues
Red and
With various pattern of hues;
Whose beauty the bees consume
And angels envy their beauty,
I miss them all-
I miss my village!

Disparity among siblings

Disparity among siblings

Of one womb housed in one mother,
We are born;
On the same luxurious lap
Of a mother,
We wept and moaned for further warmth.
Of the same home
We have been the same kids
Fate has spectated,
Lord has bathed in his wills and
Time has brought in its pace.
Like the fruits of the same tree
We are the extension of the same parents;
Yet in thought
In deeds
In dreams
And in the daily schedule of life
We seem different-
Like the odd option among
The order of a logical question!
Beckoned by our own conscience and intuition.
We run after our own muse;
With the hunger of our own desire
We seek our own meals of goals.

Ode to a beautiful face on the street

Ode to a beautiful face on the street

The skin depth soaked in

Divine angelic visage with falling cascade

Of silky hair down the shoulders;

The fragrance of a perfume

That diffused through me into my nose

Drove me mad.

In flashback as I move back

When my sight collided with her moves

And bruised my feelings

Thousand children of craze are born

In the warm womb my imagination

And expire

In the grave of my sensitive heart.

Now I just gaze in thoughts

To look for her

To embrace her tight

And feel the slippery cascade of hair

Again

 with the fingers of my mind.

Where are my dreams

Where are my dreams?

Where are my dreams

That once dwelled in me

And showed me a way to stroll?

Where are my dreams

That once inspired me

And woke me up to realize it?

Where are my dreams

That once stirred my entire childhood

And made me sleepless?

As present merges into the past,

As today becomes yesterday,

I seem living with hollow pipes

Of hopes

Trying to fill the water

Of vanity into it.

I loved you

 I loved you

I seem to have loved you

Year after year;

In times incalculable;

In numberless forms

And numberless ways;

In immeasurable measure of unit

I seem to have lost myself

In your thoughts-

Night and days,

Morning and evening

Winter and summer

Every time!

I know why a tethered goat bleats

I know why a tethered goat bleats

Controlled by the length of a rope,

Yet greenery for a better meal in its hope,

It reaches in vain to touch it,

And within imagination it salivates

And then suffocates in reality-

Suffocates with desires of a good meal

Suffocates with a struggle

And with the vanity of its efforts.

As starvation strike it like the lightening,

It bleats;

As thirst parches its throat

It bleats;

As scorching sun lashes it with cruel rays

It bleats;

As the dampening shower fall upon its body

It bleats;

Indeed, for myriad reasons,

It just bleats.

Happiness or sadness

Pain or pleasure

Hot or cold,

Those  don’t matter

For it just bleats!

Concealed in its dumbness

Blossoming are the flowers of a reason

Within the audibility of its voice;

There is a speech it conveys;

There is a talk it talks

But who cares?

Bleating is just a bleating

And it is the stupidity of a goat

But I know why it bleats!

It bleats to embrace the greenery

That its sight touches;

It bleats for all reason

And among all,

It bleats to herd the owner that tethers,

It bleats to remove the reins of rope

And walk

Jump

And graze as it wishes.

My identity

In me if you look with your eyes,

Nothing can you see,

Nothing can you find;

Stained in black dye of skin,

With bulging eye balls,

Dark growing beards and

Non- uniform tufts of moustache,

Pointed tip of nose,

With fading hair from the forehead,

And stammering speech

I fit into the description of any observer.

Yet if you listen to me and

My speech

You shall fathom me well;

I am that soul, which exists with hurry,

With a dream at heart

And a conscience that rules.

Sometimes I become like a aggressive dog

Like growling at a found bone;

Or if you observe carefully,

I become like an enlightened saint

With a kindness at heart!

Well…I have both the extremities

Yet I am not only what you see,

I am many more within.