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!

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Africa

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.

Bhishma…

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.

My friend’s home

Suvarna in darkness

Me deserted by my friend.
His house once a home, now locked.
Shadows though not even a street light,
The walls may have some memories,
Of who hesitated to enter , now barricaded,
The dust on the grills have rusts, of who dared enter,
Searched responseless for a friend, and withdrew,
Told, he a migrant now.
Toiling hard, fortune seeker,
Even in the searing heat of noon,
Must be feeling cold in sweat,
Seeking out to live a life of grandeur,
But here is where we laughed rich and loud,
We now just live our lives so quiet.

Waiting for you by the window…

Room with a View

As you hurry to leave for your office,
I am weighed with short parting’s sorrow and sighs,
My heart is a room so cold and damp,
The heater though stacked like books,
On time’s rusty library is now cobwebbed,
The hope of your return, keeps me glowing warm,
I stare out through these blinds my window,
Of fond anicipation, seek to wait , bide my time,
Count countless cars flip past,
Hear the threats of time’s treads,
Sense the fog of my thoughts rise,
See hooded students cowering like me, from solitude,
Running into the future with expectations,
Your return is all that I wait for.

To Raj who left early

You left, hooked  on to an earlier ferry,

Did not therefore have to further tarry,

Your strong views , even stronger thoughts,

Strewn all over are your stringent notes,

Your intellectual interventions still linger,

My pen in protest, is now on a hanger,

Gathering dust devoid of solo critic,

May be, you were a shade unrealistic,

In a world of pragmatic, fortune  seeker,

An emerald lost to dream un-maker,

You were so hoping for a prodigal switch over,

To the clang and clamor of yester year,

An immigrant who desired to return,

Withdrew quietly to the ashes of an urn.