Present Dissonance

Among the dissonance of the city,

busy selling myself to it,

never was there an evening

spend looking at little intricacies

of those honeybees,

their lack of tire

in their daily trade,

moving from the yellow flower to the red,

fixing deals on the nectar of life.

I wish I could capture this moment

but I’m not here anymore,

to wait; to watch; to learn.

Life has gone from bees to mosquitoes-

from suckling to blood sucking

and an unrest.

I wish I could write poetry. 

Homecoming...

Here, leaning on a wall of hope
the life rushes back in a blurry vision.

Outside the eve is full of life
but my aesthetics are inert,
lying dormant, deep inside,
waiting to burst into dread.
There, in sun’s golden spray
a bird seems too occupied
collecting fresh straw.
I see his prophetic smile;
his newborn son’s homecoming.

An old black and white picture
bursts over my drooping eyes -
a home built on hard work
and that he cemented in love.
A kiss to his son’s forehead,
the Joyous warmth of welcome
never spoilt by drunken joy -
the heritage I claim as mine.

The throes of waiting
for even a single strand of hope.
I’m the father now
listening to your last cries - “Home”.
Gazing down into those half-closed yellow eyes
I wished to be dumb.
Biting down, I touched water upon your lips
which was dry for mother’s breast.

Home is far, he knows,
tears too, I know,
but, I promise you, we’ll sleep once there.
Spine-freeze, even after I’m home,
watching you come in tranquility
of respect and an equanimity.

Broken and wedged between
two big shards of a short life. Me.