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Short Poem On Living

I always try living each day in the moment,
spending scant time on what might lie ahead.
The future is uncertain, and only God knows,
so I review tidbits sleeping in my past instead.

To foil peering moon’s prying eyes

Oft resting under wooded trees
Roams she, hides head behind bent knees,
Adjusts her scant bosom rag, tries
To foil peering moon’s prying eyes.  
___________________________
Translation (quatrain) | 30.08.2025 | woman, moon
Note: Here is a verse (in Upajati meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). A woman is separated from her husband and roams looking for him, hiding in shadows of woods, adjusting her meagre bosom cloth, sparing it as if from peering moon’s prying eyes. Here is the transliteration of the Sanskrit verse:

Vishramya vishramya vana-drumaanaam
Chaayaasu tanvi vichachaar kaachit |
Stana-uttareeyena karot dhrtena 
Nivaarayanti shashinah mayookhaan || 56 ||

When Paris Was All The Rage

A quarter rest breathed into my consciousness, a playful pretense of a warm hand gently placed above my heart, calming my sedulous spirit.
—by the Poet

When Paris Was All The Rage

Slow sound of the sax; I lay back
and listen to good-old-day lyrics,

when Paris was all the rage,
and the time of love has past

for the old maid sipping wine
on a sidewalk café;  staring,

are we, into the eyes of a painting
rainy and colorful; romanticized

by the simmering sound of the sax;
its notes buoyant on the Seine.

Raindrops of gray, blue and cherry
blossom; a scant smile on red lips,

reminiscing the fading beau and hours;
clicking heels and handsome dress.

Sedate and cocksure lyrics and vocables
regulate my heart, warm my pulse points.

A voice croons, as the ‘phonist’s fingers gyrate,
tingling all the senses; cabernet dimmer switch.

Fewer Days

My days are numbered
I sense scant few
no count on precisely
but know that its true.

I might make some changes
if only I knew
though change is unlikely
not having a clue.

Looking out over yonder
past some fog in my brain
no foretelling the future
as the days they do wane.

Passing thoughts
.......introspection
not a fatalist view
just a self realization
the days remaining are few!

Happiness As My Goal

I wielded might. I've found it null and void.
With all my riches, I just get annoyed.
Did I not rest in the lap of grandeur?
Did this yet bless me with rock-hard valour?

I'm able to see a bloom as a bloom.
In marriages of times, I am a bridegroom.
Each scant blade of grass is a Bodhi tree.
With the season's changes, I must be free.

Wellness must spring from optimism and peace.
Boats of my untamed thoughts must be at ease.
I took pleasure, once, in arrow and bow.
Shouldn't I, for my forgiveness, pray now?

Love is foul nor fragrant

A rare crescent when comes to be,
Moon’s silver so scant comes to be.

No fragrance from some comes to be,
From some a foul scent comes to be.

No use digging into the past,
The same old repent comes to be.  

Break mirrors nor try to look in,  
Image nigh but bent comes to be.

If ye look in a long closed heart,
The same old scar, dent comes to be.

No matter how backward man bends,
Seldom the past spent comes to be.

Scratch life, it is foul nor fragrant, 
Only life in lent comes to be.
_________________________
Ghazal |11.07.2025| love, past, moon, mirror, heart

One Day At A Time

Comes a time in each life
when passed time rouses our thoughts.

Then,, we give scant thought to the future.

Age has left us with no aspirations.
And we’ve accepted the fact that our future,

is the present day.

A Modest Enemy

The argument of silence, absonant,
hammers into the pliant mind it’s hard
nails of craving.—a spirit thusly marred
will yield to any prickle, every scant

pressure to give in.—once the foreign implant
is firmly riveted, a brain so jarred
can no longer trust its levies to guard
its thoughts against the inner, speechless “can’t”.

Quietudes disturb the peace of silent
folk, pounding its forceful will upon their backs.
When, going unfulfilled, a lurching tic
tickles the unstilled ego, its violent
lashes thrash harsh whips in frequent attacks
on the tender flesh of a crooked back.

Tears of the Forest

The trees remember what the axe forgets.
The mirth of lovers romping on the loam.
The light that filtered through in golden nets,
and beasts that roamed for shelter in the gloam.

A broken branch still weeps for a birdsong.
Its tears of sap, the proof of unseen scars,
that cling to echoes hoping to prolong,
a splintered life among the fallen stars.

The oak that watched the centuries pass by, 
now chopped in grief no landscape should endure.
The magpies’ songs sound as a craving cry.
Yet, their sad thrill affords a scant succour.

The chainsaws wailed the way sad mothers moaned.
while sawdust stacked up high like guilt disowned.

Tinea

A day escaped, 
released from the sticky womb of night
held firm in the arms of midwife morning,
listen to its infant cries 
the wails of a newborn child unfed 
demanding of your bed and sleepy scant attention,
it matters not that you turn your back and try to block your ears
to tears of open-window traffic rage 
and screaming gulls that dance on bins with shoes of lead
invade your head and work themselves within 
to violate your peace with a surgeons skill,
phone alarm vibrating shrill and shaking 
leaking decibels that penetrate each waking fibre of your skin,
you know you must begin, attend that fractious babe
fill its hungry mouth to stop the bawling
lured as ever by the bathroom light 
Thursday screams, and you her faithful moth come crawling

The Echo Returns Not

Memories wound like shards of shrapnel
exploding through the restless night
bursting into jagged slivers like broken glass,
leaving a heart wretched and contrite.

Ears strained to hear voices crying
from somewhere within the dark beyond,
the place lying between emptiness and sighing
but not one echoing refrain responds

Not a single word from the void spoken
Silence takes a ransom toll on emotions
There's not a whispered breath, no scant token
that offers hope in any measure of devotion

Shattered is the heart that has been forgot
In the midst of grief, a voice it does not hear.
It's time to move on for the echo returns not.
and in its absence, a heart must prove austere.

Purge all the sorrow and wash away its stain.
No longer whisper and do not strive to hear
nonexistent echoes that resound in refrain,
those ricocheting words that never did cohere.

A Dearth of Poetry

    Lately, it seems to be
      there’s a dearth of poetry
    on the site... else it's me  

    generalizing from scant experience
      as I often do when feeling imperious

Same Old Boys

Spaghetti drips from old-fashioned lips
like a cascading waterfall; the pics,
yellowed; and clothes, of three fellows,
sepia-toned. Commonality of hunger
or mere curiosity as directed at the bulb.
Whether eyes, mmm, while closed, open
or scant, the fullness of pleasure of pasta
dripping from their mouth; today’s boy
just shows off all his food on the tongue.

Winter

I ll sing a song of Winter gales
its got us in its grip
everything from storm to ice
A Magpies solitary glance is all we need

The grey sleet
beating over hills
crouching for shelter
where the grass is scant


And Mother Nature has relented
refusing to play Nursemaid
As a poet we offer an elegy
to the Russet Sun of Summer
we had known

a regular day

A regular day 

We read, with amusement, that Facebook is set free
Mark, our erstwhile friend, has seen the light
Not spending money on fast-checkers, more kudos to him 
Is he sincere
For now, this is of scant interest, the wind blows hard, rattles the window, and demands to be let inside. 
Hollers, you were glad for the summer breeze
So, what is wrong now
How do explain, to the wind it is a matter of knowing when the climate for change is right?
The wind is not willing to give up, asks what about
X, a rude and opinionated site; well, you see 
The world fears economic power can strike like Typhon and flood our land.
A French shrug to that thinks an opinion is free
For all words are like the wind blows today, but
Will be quiet comes next day

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