My search continues…

Staid skies,

Wilting wind

Fallow land,

Elusive rain,

Tree canopy,

Shrubs to shield,

If not hide,

Roving urban eyes,

Brown, short tufts,

Struggling in heat,

Earth meets hoary  blue,

Sweating electric tall

dwarfs blanked thoughts

The stillness of nothingness

Long way,

Short stay,

The search for you

Will continue.



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Accra’s Hawker

I wait for every car to slow down,
parallel run, cars that moan,
like, me they too are tired,
humid, drenched in sweat,
heat, long at the intersect ,
pure water, vend a packet.
quench someone else’s thirst,
dreams are so dead and decrepit,
I fear every spirit,
haunted by some threat,
I seek a share of fortune,
illusory pelf to be strewn.
The donor is long gone.
He avoids the Sun this afternoon!


In this long hall of continental silence,
Lighted by shafts of aureolic darkness,
Socratic, and so despairingly intense,
My land graffiti of a fifty one scars,
Swiped by ruthless extricators,
Left me, landless, impoverished,
Dug long interred stones and bones,
Set me to insensate, blunt sword,
Stole many splendoured nugget,
Diamond in fashion shows trotted,
Bedecked Saxonian breasts
Dowried Teutonic crests,
In arrogance, they seek,
Me and my kings so meek,
Hurried ,humble yet humiliated,
They said we had lost,
History they wrote,
Me, vanquished,
plundered, tired,
Wait for your aid,
which is but your invest.
In my wretched state,
I am patient yet.

The Son’s Sorrow ( Abhimanyu’s Lament)

As I eavesdropped , lazy, on your prowess,
Within my cosy womb, so devoid of stress,
Heard you narrate on swift, secular strategies,
Me so proud of our ancestral, deprived horologies ,
You, impeded by Krishna, in his opaque, timeless balance,
From revealing all; mom, comfort zoned, tired in lost trance,
Me, rendered thus a partial warrior, experienced to enter,
None could, my futile and forlorn fury, withstand or deter,
My thought was just to be you, your hero , you my warrior,
We are but a race prior scrolled, born to be scarred superior,
I knew I was foregone, strewn ere I entered the field, the ring ,
Where the seasoned , experienced are unfair to the bold young,
They saw me destroy formations and bastions, in my fearsome retreat,
Broke my armour, but not my confidence in devious, combined deceit,
Oh! Father I cannot be you only because, the aged held back,
Refused the youth to disclose all , the truth to generously unpack.
On this set up battlefield of guilt, I have failed,
You hear my name, brave and loud and I am so ashamed .

Balarama’s Story

Forever, brother Krishna, I live in your shadows,
Defending joyously all your pranks in them meadows,
With your disc, and my mace , the plough and pestle,
We strove, together to beat them in wrestle,
They, only wrote your name on every leaf,
I accompanied you , partook every loaf,
They , worshipped you at every nook,
They heard your flute at every brook,
I dreamt your success, lapped up your words,
Writhed as my students at war with swords,
Held your hand, your restraint on my shoulders,
As I in wrath, rolled and re-rolled boulders,
For me and the world you are all that matters,
As history ignores me, my heart is at times in tatters.
For I know,
History is you.


As you look so indifferently away,
A thousand barbs stick and stay,
A multitude of arrows pierce so curt ,
My hand, my heart, my feet, they hurt,
Ingratitude in its relentless chase,
of yesterdays and years not a trace,
I lie on these banks of burning ghats,
The motherly waters in agonized knots,
Helpless at this ordeal, of my lowly fate,
Munificence of karma in its slowly rotate,
I seek a pillow from your quiver to rest,
Await my liberation from a curse so aghast,
For all my reticence, I shall now seek the Sun,
As it moves from South to North on a season turn,
I lie on your bed of arrows, yet so divine,
Your thousand names I recite, now so nervine.

Patience of the bystander

As you sit in guard of exuberant life now so inert,
On a dilapidated wood of thought, a seat so inept,
White and grey feathers flutter so tired and quiet,
On the sill of some brittle hope, now in retreat,
Walls white, yet shaded shabby with yester year’s soot,
Bricked in historic mud, now blood red,replete with dust,
Soiled by time so cold,sad, rattled by creaky railings unkempt,
Dread of every passing day, an intolerant air bed, sore, in slight,
You fend off every onslaught of a rude threat,
Ward off evil visit of spirit, winged bat in flight ,
You stare in your deaf anger and the intruders flee,
Yet it is never a moment to celebrate in dried glee,
For fear that them traitors, vampires might return,
Dead of night so chilly ,heavy, benumbing in every turn,
Until morn you resolutely smile, hum through the yells,
Sleep now staring hard, drifts so brutal as resists stalls
Silence, void of nurse who left desolate,
It is just that optimist’s grit.