We are

a lamentation of swans-

singing our last song

of war:

we’re staying afloat-

our home is a boat

bobbing on the waves

in a dance of death-

we are afraid

our dream is pieced

by the keeper of peace

of a heartily belligerent shore—

we are afraid

we are letting

our hands and feet,

our throats and lips

go winter

Posted for dVerse Meeting the bar: Irony hosted by Frank Hubeny





I walk in the footsteps of Nature.

I am a She and believe She too is a She.

Her rivers run through my veins

so my feet tap unwittingly

to the rhythm of rain;

to the songs of rainbow;

I have embraced the Flame of Life.

In the thunderstorm days

I had learnt forbearance from Her.

I have seen how She is robbed of Her treasure;

She is abused, pummeled and battered

in the hands of greedy marauders

yet she breathes Her blessings into the sky

in the words of star-full nights

sunsets, sunrise.

Taking cue from Her

I’ve come to terms

with the child snatcher Death

and turned my sighs into words.




Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Gender @ Poets United


Manasarovar Speaks


Source: Lake Manasarovar

I live in the foothills

of Mount Kailash

who has been meditating beside me

since eons.

His snowy tress matted in rocky locks

hang precariously.

I stay agape in reverence.

It is spring.

I am melting into joy

as slowly I take off

my white shawl,

putting a turquoise one

in its stead.

Soon they will come;

the brownish Brahminy ducks,

gulls, herons

and other birds of passage

to bloom on my wavy hands,

to tickle me with their webbed feet.

I’ll shiver in joyful waves

by their touch.

Along my edge

the buds have already begun

opening out their golden petals

in profusion.

They too will come;

the pilgrims.

They call me holy

and take a dip in my calmly waves

to gather piety.

I love to hear them speak

about their travails,

Woes and joys.

I offer a Brahminy duck of peace,

scent of flowers, creepers

in their heart

when they take leave of me.

I have been like this since eons.

*Lake Manasarovar (also Manas SarovarMapam Yumtso; is a freshwater lake [4,590 m (15,060 ft) above mean sea level]. This lake is considered very sacred by Tibetans Buddhist, Hindus, and Jains and appears excessively in Tibetan folk songs and dances.

Posted for dVerse Poetics: From Nature’s Point of View




Shared with Poetry Pantry @ Poets United

When the Sky Is the Mirror


How come the sky

all on a sudden turns so sunny bright

even here

where every day is chopped,

hacked and burnt;

where people feed on bombs;

where broken walls of schools

bear black bloodstains;

where rowdy nights

in a miasma of rotting humanness

smirk in malicious delight;

where tattered souls

still breathe a yearning

for a drop of peace on their tired tongue?

Oh why not?

For angels of valor have come out on streets;

pulling out the sun

from the debris of despair;

healing the air with the song of hope;

creating waves of love to spread across the world

while fluttering their invisible wings and glistening in smile.



[I must say Sherry’s poem Children of Syria overwhelmed me and also the video attached with the poem. I wished to include the video in my blog too but my WordPress blog would not let me. Brrrr]



Posted for Sumana’s Midweek Motif ~ Mirror @ Poets United

The Kindness of Strangers

Image result for The kindness of strangers

Courtesy: Poets United


could be a truly sultry

sweltering, hellish

Indian summer.

Beelzebub words

lie in wait

to create a pandemonium

at every chance and

rivers of liquid fire is ready to flow.

Yet you don’t know

when a soul may become

ethereal spring


colorful blossoms,

southerly breeze,

cerulean sky,


when every word spoken

may become manna.

I had seen a Spring soul

offering his bus seat

to an elderly lady

who gave him a jasmine smile.


Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ The Kindness of Strangers @ Poets United



The Cuckoo Shows Up


Courtesy: Google Image

On this spring day


the cuckoo has come out;

in its dark body,

white beak;

with its feet

on iron grill design of a window;

with a nonplussed glance

in its red eyes

into human home corner.

Was it ever meant to be seen?

It’s always been the spirit

of the forest green.

It’s always been a voice


Yet on this very spring day


the cuckoo shows up;

its throat holding

a blurred forest song

in this concrete jungle.


Posted for Poetry Pantry #344 @ Poets United



A Woman’s Day



Courtesy: Google Image


“What a difference a day makes
Twenty-four little hours
Brought the sun and the flowers
Where there used to be rain

My yesterday was blue, dear
Today I’m part of you, dear
My lonely nights are through, dear
Since you said you were mine

What a difference a day makes
There’s a rainbow before me
Skies above can’t be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss

It’s heaven when you
Find romance on your menu
What a difference a day makes
And the difference is you

What a difference a day makes
There’s a rainbow before me
Skies above can’t be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss

It’s heaven when you
Find romance on your menu
What a difference a day makes
And the difference is you”—Maria Grever & Stanley Adams



at this very moment

I am thinking of her

who lost her husband,

a renowned singer*

in a road accident yesterday.

“What a diff’rence a day makes

Twenty-four little hours….”

He was only forty seven

and father of a six year old


In a green sari,

stunned, she stands

in disbelief,

beside the bed

Where lies he

among wreathes

and grieving followers.

Could we see her heart

now a stormy sea

where floated he

in waves of memories

upon brine water

that would not roll down her cheeks

but vaporize in the flame of grief?

“What a difference a day makes

And the difference is you.”

She stood firm.


Resilience, thy name is Woman.



*Kalika Prasad Bhattacharya was a singer, researcher and a legendary exponent of Bengal’s folk heritage. He was killed yesterday in a car accident. Here in Bengal we are all heartbroken.


Posted for  Sumana’s Midweek Motif ~ Be Bold For Change @ Poets United


We old people fear*

as we see

our lads and lasses

who once wielded pens in homes

and happy with tomes

rush like moth

to a place

of their dream

to blossom;

to breathe an air

filled with gunpowder;

to send down roots

into the dark soil there.

Soil is dark……..everywhere.

They prefer

not to see

how hateful moments hover over each head.

It doesn’t matter to them

even if they get killed

for it is the land

of milk and honey and knowledge

kindling light.

So in thousands they fly.

We haul our heart

to the point of wailing

in vain.

In our empty nests

fear reigns.

*In remembrance of Srinivas Kuchibhotla, an Indian engineer who was shot dead in Olathe City, Kansas, a few days ago. He was probably a victim of racial and ethnic divisiveness. To apprehend the gunman a 24 year old American was injured too.

Posted for Susan’s Midweek Motif ~ Fear @ Poets United