What about me? Am I leaving someone like stump?
The man in his trump sees the world and me
in the crowd of rubbles that I build unsung
something like acumen where words are compiled
and come up with uncooked liver to eat surds in great search
that lovers of rump walking find no vibrant jigsaw
of the words that they want to pass the meaning and believe
about scattered lateral surface of nature and shape
in vision, and every time they throw away thousands of fall-outs
in the concord and discord of the time, they like fulcrum
and many years have passed in sluggish brown syndrome
and the tune of normality is affected in the words’ spiral stains.

So all words lose vectors and interiors of caress
that is drugged in wind mills before it is formed like ingredient
eccentric to palliation and dynamic to speed and gravitation.

I am thus living in the narrow passage of skeptical solicitude.



I am like a tiny bowl. Everyone takes meals in my deep cavity. I hold eatables binding within my hard rim lest these can be strewn over the ground, by the zigzag thrust of fingers or spoon that is put inside my body and rim.

I am the tiny container. Rim heights vary with body sizes. The poor make me with earth. The rich makes me with metals – yellow or silver or steel.

Once one embolden élite mocks before media to show how he eats plainly holding my silver body that glitters in the flash light and I feel proud as other bowls do not have scope of this show blitz, and the world praises me how glamorous I am in the élite clutches and media hype, and how the élite takes me in hand and brushes out dust from my silver body, sometimes throws me out in anger, as if I am the usable conveyor of cream layers’ apathy.

Sometimes I am broken when the street dwellers throw away my earthen body finding no meals served inside. Then there are no flash lights to capture videos of my broken limbs lying near manhole on the pavement and rain water brushes out dust from broken parts of my body.

The world knows me, very few comes into lime light for the show of my entropy and capacity of preserving eatables from waste and sacrifice.


Her dead body brought back home,
let all us move after her demise,
to show mourn in the funeral ghats.
So many hatred she bears over her life,
she now tired, laying on in bamboo cot to be burnt.
Only that makes her disgrace is neglect shown to her,
when various silent punishments inflict her, she remain mute,
we stay dumb in spite of our presence there.
Being thirsty of love, living in dome buried in
sands, all hearts native to her
make swift ran-away thinking it wise
and brave shape of our pious voyage,
leaving her captured in agony and tears,
we make no pace for love and flowers with her,
making her burst into bullets of despair
and make unmatched score in addict
to force her think, no moral legitimacy she deserves.
A huge ghost-worn home surrounds her
and she had no pace courting love and muse,
whose affection and living art may keep
her saddled upon horse-like riding purge
to live in her village and in her making love
and sworn in life-span-term binding in pristine tomb
within wonder and wings of dreams
with which she might travel and she might conquer.


In countries, hunt for dead bodies are in politics-ban
as lives are precious like unblemished eternal creation
that a staled -router-defaulter cannot kill or disgrace.

In the turmoil, there stands one steady actor
who is heir of the world and wants to uphold
human being great and all defending,
and there are many of them who hold admiring.

And on the threshold, before the turmoil started
there sands one stranger who does not know:
What it is human being?
And in his strangeness he defines dark publicity
heaven is false, but not his arbitrary duplicity.

The twittering of the youth has not been silenced
again in this February,
not misled in the self-dominating stranger’s sleuthing.

It is Him who keeps swearing inside the youth and people,
and in the experience of depression across their path
the youth are singing in heroic uprise for combination
and glorify acts of human being, amidst death’s rain.


After Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Mother earth gives another worst flame-out
in the shadow of natural calamity
what she is giving and
what she is taking away –
anything that is rolling
anything that is burning –
an immense presence of
devastation and unattainable sorrows
winded by earthquake and tsunami
that make the coral reef shocked
and we cannot take snap of suckfish’s diving
with our grief and pain to
following another nuclear meltdown.

Into that land of Haiku comes doubling of two intensities
that erase significance of the breathing,
and fear is grown how to recover
the survivors whose lives are at risk, man at intensively torn,
as breathing is choked with water gush
and fire ash, naked to origins,
as if everything makes sail for another journey,
massive overlapping mind and mirror,
and any attempt to trace out something
is like pondering over lost child
washed away by sea waves.

Her life is full of mourn for lost souls
and in the remembrance
this land moves for another rebirth
like day and night as usual as to keep
as its own ever.

Mother earth blames to its own reflection amidst its self creation.


They take me for a white cloud
They all come to see me in the blue sky
They are inhabitants of this universe.

They take me to a region for raining
They give tasks to flood dry ravine
They do not mend their old habits.

They think they are lords
They think they are fit to mold the score
They have power to rule me, instead.

They find me infirm to do given tasks
They take away my beloved ones
They make a fake meet to wonder the world.

They praise me as I can bear red pains
They send me someone as my favorite one
They try to give me some white wash for my loss.

They have no interest for my toothbrush
They always want only earning from my white wings
They ferry lives thus burnt to their later recluse.

They want something new from my frozen waters
They do it by instructing my beloved ones
They make such pinched direction on my labor.

They think I am a big hock
They have large bases to discuss the fuse
They can decide on their own.

They do something else
They order my beloved ones
to take away my favorite ones.

They prepare the scheme
to throw me into their helm.
They find me sitting alone in blue eyes.

They come forward to give me comfort
They try to measure how far I can endure
and keep my white shades on the cross-road.

They are very proud for their job
They are in love if victory follows
They project their words at every show.

They also measure my beloved ones
who have to sit before a projector-screen
showing the fate how I am living being torn in between.


Natural beauty, careless beauty,
treated beauty, herbal beauty,
product beauty, luxury beauty,
and many others so on the novelties.

I would like to find the great one
where natural beauty is now marketed
as oil developed to protect skin raves.

Yet eyes are looking for morning beauty.