Dear Sir,

It is words I’ve inked today
brought up by chalked fists.
It struck like a mile
when you guided first alphabet,
the alien glyphs and numbers.
Colours that your palate blends
surprised my senses everyday.
You knew how to make my day.

You could buy my dreams,
let yours fade away.
You heard my dreams of pilot
and dream I spoke of planets.
You heard my singer’s dream.

You would watch a lake with me,
and count ripples in moonlight.
You journeyed when I was alone,
but you smiled while I walked away,
for years I have gone.
Your lessons still travel, Sir.

Times of Jungle

Our morning newspaper
pressed earth with vapour.
Sounders have marched,
on a pugmark parched.
They’ve emptied their butts,
after raiding ground nuts.

The headline read a Python’s track,
the drift alleged it had a snack.
A flaunting Peafowl sirens the scene.
Treed up but gloats his long preen.

We read news of all that moves,
we set to track the limping hooves.
We stalked its gait to sheared thigh
of a survived deer from feline’s try.
We grasped the math, it gasped its breath.
To surprise us both stalked a rosette death.

Everything is a trending news
compiled at night, printed at dew.
A Pack’s polity to an ant’s obituary.
Every sign reveals a story.


The day I confessed,
I thought it is redemption.
You held my hands
I believed it an exemption.

You insured your freedom too,
in covers of my confessions.
You left me as a culprit,
in guilt of my perceptions.

You threw my senses off the loop,
I dazed who cheated who!
It does surprise as it does to you,
Tell me what was true.

The Herald

Two Conure and a Canary
perched in a cage.
Preening its toe, a Homing Pigeon,
harboured on shoulders of my Herald.

On the birthday at three,
I hired him for free.
He arrived with a pigeon
and a bag of quick sand.
He read me the stories from far land,
choosing deft lines of the pigeon brand.

I bought him a cage
at the age of eight.
We caught a Canary
from a nullah of contrary.
Each day he asks when to set free.

From a busy city street,
I bought a Conure to cage.
It flew from rainbow;
and sung the best and loudest.
This ain’t the bird I ought to keep.

A cloudy noon of October,
another Conure chirps from gift wrap,
held in her hands of my beloved.
Tireless and two colored.
‘This ain’t the bird’, mumbled Herald again.

The Canary doesn’t sing anymore.
The Conures fight for the top perch.
He set the Canary free,
and sunk the non-natives in sand.

He now reads me a new story,
his pigeon brings from my Canary.

Going around

Brimming the eyes
purifying the ties,
that fissures all the innocence.

Sailing the tides
Casting long strides
winging the returned albatross.

Take me somewhere
that asks me to dare.
On today while undoing tomorrow.

I ask you a story,
you make me it’s author,
and you join my carousel of glory!

How do I return
I’m tired filling the urn.
It doesn’t echo as it did anymore.

I talked man to man.
Things of me – that never began!
Truth is here with me. Deadening.

Keeping up with quartz
skilled me it’s arts.
Have I known too much to return?

The tides are low,
my eyes now glow.
The fissures remain on innocence.