Come September: A Prophecy

My house full of reeds on pastures of sand
Is shaken to its strings by the punches of winds
That'll leave no stones unturned.

Even as I rage against tremors on land
Or curse our skies with bootless old cries
The tiles on my roof will shiver and slip
Seeing as the clouds have gathered their hails
That'll shatter our statues of brass.

There in the canopy of soot-smeared roars,
Are waiting in wings all lightnings in store
That'll start rather soon their fire-breathing dance
And leave all my tenements in charcoals and ash.

Singing in vain my lyrics full of hope
That had weaved their notes with particoloured strands
I walk to the waves now seething in hate
And brace for a crash that is come.

Chronicles of Drudge

No, no I've supped full with horrors tonight;
Ghosts are all welcome to haunt.
Here in the backways of time's blind lanes
We tiptoe in fear among mudways of month
With feet that are unsure of zipcodes of self
In puppetry of shadows at night.

Wafting in breeze amidst crops that are dead
We dance our twists for vultures on air
That patiently will bide the shedding of our skin
As I moult between hours of midnight and dawn
Even as the circus is ground to a halt.

Believe I've tried all isms I'd found
That merely have burnt my saucers in store
And ashened my days full of gravels and grime
Which have built their causeways in heart.

Hence I'm fine with cartels of ghosts
And raise my toast to a montage of graves
With epitaphs of multicoloured pain.

Ground into powders in chronicles of drudge,
How else do I share my blessed bread and wine?

Nailed into shifts with fixity of time
I vanish into anonymous crowds in a rush
That gyrate in ferris-wheel of carnival of rust.

Abinash C. Halder at the Library

Here at the halls beneath canopy of roots

We’ve trespassed in stealth among beavers and worms

That scatter into hundreds of tunnels they’ve drilled

In search of our scraps full of forgettable trace

That somehow might weave a new pattern for a code,

Joined into syntax of chromosomal nodes.

I’ve filled in my forms and quietly now wait

And browse through the volumes of disposable thought.

Wonder what lies in the archival shelves,

Now beneath cobwebs of unshakeable dust,

That sweeps through my heart and harks for a name

In these our nights full of murders on streets.

Ripened to the core, new fruits now will burst

And dripping with blood shall drench our roots.

Shorn of all stars, we wander and grope

And bide our time with snakes within sand.

Excavating scrolls that’ll wither in a trice

My uncertain purpose will hardly suffice.

Is this then a show? Digression in vain?

How else to now sew this rent piece of time,

That serves as a window to entrails of shame

Here, in the ebbtide of shingles unswept?

Fearful of streets that’ve spawned so much gore

I snuggle into pages from time’s torrid womb

And dream of new days from truncated scrolls,

Cosy in chairs full of cushions and lace. 

Monsoon Music

Drizzle of the monsoon on drought-ridden skin
Washes down brown barren leaves from my lips
To strum through my days, new sonatas on flute
That swell to the call of coal-coloured clouds
In raptures of notes unexplored.

Tracks that had grown all gravelled till now
Are stitched into patterns of sprouting new grass
Even as ducks and geese paddle forth
On ponds that are drummed with harmony of hearts
In these our days full of dimples on earth
That bubble with hymnals from choirs of toads.

Puzzled by joy, I wonder and watch
A world that is buzzing with news of our date.

Koan for the Rain

Kohl-stained clouds now hold their tears,
Even as expectant leaves lie in wait.

Drawing down blinds, a woman dries cheeks.

Clouds unspent will gather greater storms.

Unto this Last

I've lost my models of paintings I planned
And grope for the shades in a palette of faith
For a patchwork of destiny and will.

Cloistered in halls full of mirrors I pine
For ways beyond mirages untold.

Hammers in hands, I'll swing unto this last,
Blazing in fields full of splinters and shards.

Beginning

Sprouting new leaves now peep through the brown

Even as streaks of gold colour clouds.

Somewhere in the alley a child still cries.

A young boy boards the train for new job.

[Written for the Sunday mini challenge at Real Toads in the Chinese Koan format]