What if..
What if; it wasn't a lockdown forenoon
Mommies whisking to kitchenette
Daddy's out with newspaper headlines
Little cubs denned in their late quilt and wishing no schooling today
Rest world racing themselves to indulge in work deadlines
What if; it wasn't a lockdown noon
Chefs busy preparing victuals to serve in eateries
Office canteens loaded with lunch boxes and gossips
Some heading for evening tales
What if; it wasn't a lockdown evening
Coffee shops buzzing with bud pairs, roasted coffee beans and whiffs of smoke
Peeps roaming and returning their abodes before the dark was deep
Little cubs falling asleep in their study and no Surf, no Netflix
What if; it wasn't a lockdown night
Dinner table would filled with traffic and homework folklore
Bedtime would doubly the fairy's list-
Children wishing for no school tomorrow,
Men for hike up his business,
Women emancipation from irons of household chores and society norms
What if; it wasn't a lockdown
Contemporary would have been so lost in it's own bloods and veins
June month would have brought us fruity summer of 2020
And I would have written a poetry of love and lust
Quest
For years long I espoused the bedlam in my beneath
I quest the solitary
The more close I endured; the arouse of ignition was more
This is an unacquainted fervour
I never encountered; neither I will surrender
I owe it to my breathe, my flesh and my wisdom
And I had no grip to iniquities and itches
Like how sand slips from hand
The bedlam denned in myself
If the warmth of love quest the path
Render my longevous throes and miseries
If the incessant gaze of lover quest the pearl
Pierce my heart and reign
If the bravery of combatant quest the combat
History chisel my fearlessness cruor
Is it the hurricane or the tremor; it is uncharted to me
And the tempest in my core,
It does keep bellowing
I don't the know the word
I am not adept in scripting it either
I must apologize for disturbing and disbalancing my vehemence
And awakening the equilibrium
Endowing justice to my robust turmoil
Whether it is a bedlam or a quest...
the last fire burns the hearth
another day rung into reality.
street sounds dim, silence waits
suspended between chimes.
Sunday city deserted,
commerce denned up
in the suburbs.
no prayers today,
the dead clank
of frozen church bells
barely falling
beyond the church spire.
snow drifts, sifts into every
crack and crevice of an aged face
eyes closed in seeming
peace filled slumber.
great beauty and dignity
adorn the alabaster of his skin.
a small brown bird huddles close
the old fellow picks it up to shelter
from the careless cold.
he rests propped against
sacred walls, among small things.
grey-worn, crumpled
like discarded paper ads, unread.
come morning a sparrow hops
from between prayer folded hands.
without one backward glance
it erupts into an ecstatic dawn
unaware of his benefactor’s parting gift.