Author: nisheedhi

Sleep is world’s normal thing
With its normal people dying.

The sea never falls into sleep.
At midnight ,it is wide awake.

The sea is not a normal thing
To die from midnight’s sleep.

As the horizon walks unendingly to the sky
Words walk,a spirit walks, our hands go up

In the night air in vertical sky breaking walk.
Chilly fields walk and up down with the train

As also the blue bush birds on phone wires.
The bridge noisily walks away from the train.

Desire grows cold ,its ashes found
In a hospital of flowing nose wires.

Such is the acerbic wit of old poet
Fat rolls are extended palm scrolls

Long- running frayed manuscripts.
Desire grows cold, a wrinkled past.

Our ears hear the patter of rain
And knowledge strikes temples

In the very silver of the old hair
To gain repect and age in body.

Our walking is an equivocation
Of remaining upright ,our mind

By acts of going to and forward
Cover new ground but lose old.

The old men are thinking deep
Inside the mufflers on old ears,

Young helpless in headphones,
But poetry listens to sparrows

Among night’s clownish crows,
To turtles on soundless deaths,

And snails peeping from holes,
Everyone busy with sea- waves.

Body lives in its brackets closed,
Body states in fluids from holes

And sheds clothes and between.
Body is all states and no thingy.

Body is in its interregnum state
Before the brackets are closed.

In a very smallness of the hours
We make up poems and a stuff

Between a coming and a going.
Until we drop our pants, where

We hold a life, ticking in poems
A poem maker’s in lap of death.

( On reading a poem entitled ‘humanity I love you” by e.e.cumings)

It is Sunday,with a sun bright and hard
And you wake up on another hard day
With a sea beautifully hard and sunny.

It is Sunday with a sun bright and hard.
As to waking up on another of my days
There’s no immediate shortage of days.

Songs are like screams on a bridge,
Like market din rising above prices

Of snake gourds lying curled in bag.
Everyone’s song is market’s sound

A common sleep’s continuing song
Skeletal remains of mankind’s song.

“We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born”
Richard Dawkins

Lucky, we are all going to die
Those born under empty sky.

Pity all the DNA’s never born,
Existing as mere possibilities

Under big blue sky that hung
Empty overhead nonetheless.

They shall not die under a sky
Who are not born under a sky.