" Low - Class - Tramps "

I’m one of

Those,

Whom you call,

Low – class- tramps.

I’m found

Everywhere,

Doing almost

Every work.

Sometimes

I’m seen

At the bus-stands,

And sometimes

At the railway station.

Filthily clad in

Noisome clobber.

Sometimes

I’m found

Carrying loads.

And sometimes

Picking up rags.

Sometimes

I’m found

Washing utensils

And sometimes

Seeking for

Leftovers

Among them.

I feed on, what

You throw away.

And wear, what

You find useless.

And yet sometimes

My clothes

Look gorgeous

For often

I pick- pockets

As

Heavy wallets

Tempt me!

And I buy

Clothes from

Second-hand marts!

The men

Of my lots

Are found

Drunk on roadsides

Sometimes

Teasing the women

Of your lots!

And sometimes

Whistling Bollywood songs.

But

Do not the men

Of your lots

Do the same?

…Well…

Perhaps…

In a

Sophisticated way!

And the women…

Of my lots

Are found

Holding a weeping child,

Begging all the while.

They,

Shy not to beg,

But you

May to give.

But still…

Some of you

Show pity

And thus

Grows their business!

I’m one of

These,

Whom you call

‘Low – class – tramps’.

Found in

Slums and ghettos

And often

Encroaching

Your lands

And the

Public pavements!

The most detestable

Yet

The most wanted

For doing

The detestable tasks!

I’m one of

Those,

Whom you call

‘Low – class – tramps’.

And

The so called‘Uncouth – rouge

' Ravished Dream - Land '

I had my own world of dreams,

Of golden birds and silver streams,

Of mountains blue and forests green.

Where the season was an eternal spring,

Where bees did swarm and birds did sing,

And happiness did joyous colours bring.

But now it’s dark like a gloomy tomb,

And not a single flower does bloom.

And there’s a silence all around,

Like a lonely cremation ground.

It’s all dark but there’s one fire,

Of my burning dreams and desire,

As if they are all put on a pyre.

Here all pains, now regiments make,

As if soon a war would break,

And from me, all my happiness take.

And here would be armies of pain,

Capturing my dream-world lane by lane.

And like a prisoner of war, I would stand,

On my own ravished and looted land.

Hunger

Hunger does have

a mystery,

As the fathomless

Sea-waves,

On dark and dreary

Shores have...

Forward they dash,

And violently splash,

As on a battle field,

But soon retreat silently.

So does the hunger,

It roars and thunders,

But faints, when faints,

The hungry being...

For A Fifty-Rupee Note

There are kids who get plenty of pocket-money to spend on fast-food, cold-drinks, comics and other goodies... yet their greed never ends...and pocket-money never stays...and they are ever complaining...but yet there are other kids ...who are not even treated as kids...and they work very hard the whole day...but can never save a penny on their name...they work as daily-wagers...and get a sum of mere Rs. 50 /- every day....and if they miss a single day....what they get is...starvation,misery,rancour...
This poem is dedicated to all such kids....who work ...but ...

                                   

"For A Fifty-Rupee Note"

Water that washes

Your dirty vestibules

And slimy verandas

Always bear

Tiny drops of my sweat

That I have sold

For a fifty-rupee note.

Food that I cook

For you and your

Starving customers,

Tells the story

Of my Starvation

Which I bear

For a fifty-rupee note.

I sleep all night,

Dreamlessly reposing,

Wrapped in my

Tattered blanket,

On a dirty little cot.

As my dreams're sold

For a fifty-rupee note.

You hit me hard,

I cry not a bit.

You call me names,

I smile shamelessly.

I have no shame,

As I have sold it ,

For a fifty-rupee note.

People fear me,

For I may be

A dangerous criminal.

I have no manners,

And no etiquettes

As I've not learnt any

For a fifty-rupee note.

.......

God is asleep asleep asleep....

God is fast asleep

Do not wake him up

Although he won't wake up

Yet you don't try

How long has he been sleeping?

That's a pretty good question

Yet I know not the answer.

May be a hundred year

Or may be more than that

But I have always

Found Him asleep

Asleep! asleep! asleep....

Things go wrong

people suffer and cry

Weep hard and die

He never comes to 'em

Does He..? No, never..

I've never heard,

Never, never, never...

You pray all the time

And think He'll come

And try to feel relaxed

No, don't just don't

Never, ever do that

Relax not a moment

Relax not a second

For He won't hear

For He won't come

Your, hope is but fake

for He's asleep

Yes, He's asleep

Forever asleep

Asleep,asleep,asleep..

He has his blissful heaven

Where dreams sing forever

Ever enchanting lullabies

And keep Him asleep

It's music is so fascinatig

That prayers 're never heard

And are kept away

Outside the gateway

Of His Heavenly Dreamworld

And there's no gate pass

That could ever take

Your prayers inside....

Let Him sleep

Why make Him worry?

His dreams are beautiful

They are the angels

Who keep the heaven bright

We are ugly unfortunates

Have no place to go

World's a party of strangers

And heaven's doors are closed

For God...is fast asleep

Asleep , asleep, asleep....

not worthwhile yet not worthless

Things are not always that worthless as are thought......
they might not be worthwhile....yet they can't be worthless!!!!!!

" NOT WORTHWHILE YET NOT WORTHLESS"

I am

A drop of wasted sweat,

Can't even

Water the earth,

can't even

Quench a worm's thirst,

Yet I am the

Proof of a man's toil.

I am

An untrodden path,

On which

Walks not a single soul,

Where only

Weeds grow and fall,

Yet I can

Be changed to useful soil.

' Through the eyes of a window"

hi to all well i believe my window does see things the same way ...as i do...it's quite a living entity for me....it's a part of my life ...well can u all imagine a room without proper ventilation? can't? so can't I and my window does every little thing for me....

"Through the eyes of a window"... ( a poem)

Through the broken glasspane,

As far the window could see,

There stood a lonesome tree,

At the corner of the lane.

 

And a courting pigeon-pair,

Cooing on a lamp-post,

In a cuddle were lost,

Spreading love in the air.

And clouds grey and white,

Had elves and fairies,

Playing games in arries,

And an equipage of delight.

A summer-bird's song

If a summer bird's song,

Someone in winter finds,

It holds for long,

And its melody , forever binds

The song’s divine,

As one’s heart goes away,

To music’s eternal shrine,

Where soul’s made to sway

Soft cadence renders,

Mellowness of imagination,

And with solitude it tenders

Heart, and imparts education.

He Heard All my Wishes... ( a poem)

I had no wings to fly,

But I admired the sky.

I went to His altar,

And wished if I could fly.

And He gave me, a pair of broken wings.

I desired to smell, touch and feel

Soft, red roses, in great deal.

I went to His altar,

And wished if I could have a few.

And He gifted me, roses encaged in glasses.

I was living in darkness and gloom,

I wanted the moon to bloom.

I went to His altar,

And wished to have the moon.

He handed over the moon, but my eyes went blind.

I found the world affected,

And found myself, neglected.

I went to His altar,

And said, “I want you, just you….”

He came, touched my soul …, left me all alone

Shrivelled Pauper ....

Crinkly figure, stooping down

Chalky beard, grubby garb

Fidgeting woozy steps

Whitened shadow, spume-filled eyes

Gruesome, gruffy noise

Treading the sidewalks

Making cryptic silent cries

Wintry cold body

Frosting the sun

Ugly feet, ghastly walk

With bare crocodilian skin

Peckish, famished, voracious hands

Prowling the rubbish heaps

To feed the hungry stomach.

Suffering from paranoia

Commanders, of the

Civilized society

Find him festering their milieus.

So with hefty,

Atrocious steps

Confiscate his sojourns

From all the

Civilized sanctuaries…

down my memory lane .....

Sometimes I love food

Not because I feel hungry

But because it reminds me

Of the pictures I saw

In my nursery rhyme book

The book that I used to read

The book that I used to love

Not because I found

Those rhymes cool

Not because I had

A taste for poetry

But because I found

Those pictures tempting

But because I found

Those pictures cool.

Pictures that made me play

Pictures that made me pray

Not much do I remember

But still do I have

Barrels full of

Faded memory.

Sometimes I love colours

Not because I praise painting

But because it reminds me

Of pictures, I painted

In my primary school.

Paintings with crooked outlines

Paintings with matchless colours.

For hours, I would paint

Not because I was a talented artist

For hours, I would colour

Not because I was a connoisseur of colours

But because I knew

That the colours were magical

But because I loved

The fragrance of pastel-crayons.

Although I’m still not a connoisseur

Although I still can’t paint

Yet I still love painting

Yet I still believe in magic.

Sometimes I dance and sing

Not because that’s a lovely job

But because it reminds me

That I could never dance

That I could never sing.

Down my memory lane

Still I have the pain

Many years came and went

And so did the annual functions

But I never was in

Any item selected

But I always was from

Every item rejected

But I always was from

Every item rejected…

NIGHT ( a poem)

 

Night’s scary and long to go,

But beauty doesn’t stop me,

I’m thrilled yet scared

Beauty tempts me to follow

The lonesome night

But fearfulness stops my feet

I stand still

And motionlessly yet I find

My heart’s beating

I’m a bit lost

In the groove of questions

Yet I don’t know their answers

Things are colourful, things are all confusing

Things are suggesting things are asking

Yet the things are all amusing

The colour of the night has

Filled the horizons of my imagination

There’s a pain in my heart

But still I can’t imagine.

Flowers and weeds and

Thorns are all entangled.

What to take and what to spare,

What to care and what not to care

Is tough to be dis-entangled.

Sometimes I find the flowers

Forming fragrant garlands

Around me.

And yet sometimes the weeds and the thorns

Pester my ways,

Make me more entangled…..

Yet again, these weeds and thorns

Treats me with feasts of blessings and

Benedictions.

Do not know, which path to take

Do not know, which way to follow.

As the night is dark

And streets stand lonesome.

They all stand hand in hand

Sometimes friends, sometimes enemies

To each other and to me, as well.

Whom should I trust?

Has an extra thrust

And creates an extra friction.

But still, those mistrusted gain trust

And trusted gain mistrust.

It’s night that I admire

Yet that I criticize

It’s the fear that leaves me

Enthralled

And beauty that helps

The fear to minimize.

a Tribute to Hardy's "Tess of the D' Urbervilles" ( a poem)

Pity we have, pity we feel,

At her tale of woe,

We bemoan and get benumbed

As if a tragic number flows.

Few would blame her,

Few would blame her fate,

Alas, the society, hardly changes,

Even being blamed for its state.

Centuries have passed,

When ‘ Hardy’ wrote ‘Tess’

Yet is not the society changed

And women’s life a mess.

Molested, hurt and pained,

Seduced and betrayed,

Sold as a commodity,

And newly-borns are slayed…

Abandoned Life ( a poem)

Life has no more

Pleasures to treasure

Life has pains

Beyond all measures

I sing songs

With no scales and rhythm

I write poetry

With no rhyme in them

Is the world lost?

Or am I lost alone?

Everywhere I find

Misery and its clone.

Life seems to be

A forest in the dark

Life seems to be

A desert with no footmark

Languages are lost

Words have no meaning

Voices are soundless

But soundless voices are teeming

painful association

Painful is the association,

Of broken dreams,

And a broken heart.

Every drop of blood,

Is wrung and dried,

At the frontiers,

Of the withered heart.

Senses are wrought,

Dismantled, Intellect,

Understands no more –

Realistic justifications,

Tears smother every breath,

At the amalgamation

Of broken dreams and heart.

" Winter's sharp blow" ( a poem)

As are a child’s cheeks reddened

By the unkind blows of winter harsh

Or by one’s blow of unkind barbs

That renders pain beyond end

Turned yellow tinged, green guava fruit

Rather red when impinged by winter

With its intentions rude and sinister

And winds relentlessly cruel as a brute.

And pleasant dark green, guava leaves

Are bent and curled , and straight no more

And are henna-red, that were green before

Part of the tree, that no more heaves.

" Pain - The Stately Prince"

Pain, the stately prince,

When, enters, His Court,

Of broken heart,

Pathos, come to escort.

In perfect ecstasy,

Tears fall down,

To clean and decorate,

His reverent, Crown.

Custodian of His Court,

Delirious, mortal-remains,

Are enliven, once again

But, with crestfallen, stains.

Orange - setting sun

The sun was orange,

Hidden by a school boy,

On his way to play-ground,

In a place estrange,

To the friends of the boy,

So no question, to be found.

And he would eat,

On his way back home,

And no one would see.

It would be a fine treat,

Not at all troublesome,

Delicious, fresh and juicy.

Splashing over everyone,

Like a splash of juice,

Setting yet radiant,

Orange setting-sun

Withdrawing and obtuse,

Refreshing yet faint.

Sun played hide and seek,

Behind the trees,

And its rays beamed,

Through a several creek.

Swinging in the breeze,

Citrus juice, it seemed.

failure subdued hope.....

When last phantasmal hope

Was encaged in a void.

Faith with unhappiness eloped

Where failure was deployed.

Life stood insipid,

Mad became careworn,

And no more intrepid,

When unsuccessful and torn.

In search of relief,

Eyes opened and closed,

Though found no sleep,

Yet feverishly dozed.

Siestas were all lost,

Dreams were all frozen,

Stiff as permafrost,

And blue as poison.

propinquity of spring

Certain, hidden bird sings,

Symbolizing the freshness of the springs

And whistles like a music conductor

Resenting at, the wrongly played strings.

On pomegranate tree, it hides,

This the place, where it resides,

And eats, from the beady, half-eaten fruit

Opened, by the wind’s harsh strides.

Dancing leaves, appear askew,

Looking, all fresh, green and new,

Made lively, by the magical music,

Bidding winters, an honest, “adieu”!

This part of the year,

When the summer, seems to be near,

But, the Sun, still glows modestly,

And yet the cold is severe.

Propinquity of spring, one may call,

Newness, in life, one may recall,

Yet the setting-sun has softness,

Of winters, at the night-fall.

Moon, at night, appears forlorn,

Quite lonely and woebegone,

As people stare, no more, at her,

And praise, only, the sun-filled morn.

spider

A velvety spider, hung by a silver thread,

Too tiny, tender, shiny, and red.

Swings up and down, like a yo-yo,

Sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow.

And when the sunrays fall blandly,

The silver thread’s visible but faintly.

Making the spider move in ‘Brownian-movement’

Giving its viewers, a great amusement.

Tiny creature, on still tinier, is fed,

On tiny leaves and flowers, is bred.

Immensely innocent, yet a little-wild,

This is how, is the nature’s child.