The Link

Five year old Giri, blessed with insight,

orated an ancient language, untaught.

Nor guardian nor aided by divine light,

recited the script, but its roots not sought.

Then a lineage found - thousand years old,

an ancestral monk that spoke Giri’s tongue

whose vast knowledge his memory cell stored-

reborn and revived when Giri’s cell sung.

Now, monk’s small village Giri could describe-

the road, house, farm, friends, and the wishing well.

How he longed to visit his long lost tribe

as each picture breathed deep, and excelled.

Soon would he cross over to native shore,

trace back his legacy of ancient store.

Village

Through the windows sun lavishly poured.
It’s shine and fragrance tingled.
Restful, amidst the greens I arose.
Birds filled me with songs while ducks bathed in ponds-
From miles away winds carried the rings
of fisherman’s bicycle
as the village flapped its timeless wings.

Helping Hand

Broke into my house, thief, late one night.

His hunger perennial,

the look frantic, money not in sight.

I entered the room, he invaded and broomed-

Alarmed, he stares, pleads in surrender.

His wants, like mine - surreal.

And together we search in wonder.

Rainbow Surfing

A seven coloured arc paints the sky.

With a long surfboard in hand,

a small boy muses a rainbow ride

as his golden quest dawns on the horizon-

“ Seagulls, fly me to this shining bow,

and slide me over the band,

before its magic wanes or I grow”.

Goa

Over the roaring waves the jet skis vroom.

Maujheele samunder mein mach gayi dhoom.

Oiled bare backs and the noon sun simmers.

Nange pange logo ki bujhe na taras.

Music fills the shacks as food and wine flow.

Dil to jhume yaha mausam jo bhi ho.

Long night gears up at the fall of dusk.

Goa ab jhalke har ek jaam mein mast.

Cold (Haiku)

Icy wind lashes
now wood and fur to cut down-
somewhere snowed in heaps

Phoo

Empty cup lies on the window sill.

Crumpled sheets cry every night,

and the well-thumbed books remain dust filled.

Emotions flare and your absence I can’t bear-

But the despairs fall on deaf ears.

In wait, trudges the long night

when Phoo, my old maid, disappears.