Old Man
his weatherbeaten face, lined
with the hills and valleys of age
watery blue eyes set against a
backdrop of bloodshot white
his cheeks reddened from
sun and alcohol, his aquiline
nose has lost its nobility
his once full lips now just
scowling lines covering remnants
of jagged teeth
his stubble covered chin now
a dirty gray bristle
life has not been kind to him
Humans are quite a deciduous lot.
It's our nature, but not Mother's motif.
We fall from grace without faith and belief
when fleshly flaws make us stumble, besot.
Tousled emotions are tied in a knot
as though weatherbeaten, love ends in grief.
Reddened eyes, the shade of a cast-off leaf
from tears spilled and splattered like an ink blot.
We fall in and out of love. It's a chance
taken, like planting trees for greenery.
Then, we watch deciduous leaves perish,
borne on blustery winds in one last dance.
Windswept limbs despoil Winter's scenery.
Love and lush foliage, we should cherish.
Summer’s gone, though still keeps going
Dried are the rains of May
Weatherbeaten dinghies bobbing
In the shallows of the bay
Moored forever to the pier
Tinkle their rusty chains
Seagulls crying on the veer
Flying over foamy waves
Ships are sailing on the ocean
But they’re out of sight
Waves are rising in commotion
Time has come for tide
Weeping willow leaves get withered
Homeless little snail
Seeks for shelter, and the lizard
Smiles, while sheds its tail.
Writing on my sleeves,
I visualize an invisible coupling
of grassroots with starless sky,
when I walk on the wailing earth.
Hails big as sparrow eggs
smash the bougainvillea blossoms.
The wrestling clouds
begin a storm.
Witchcraft of the moon begins.
The pubic curve of a rock
holds a centipede
wriggling, gnawing.
A spider climbs the weatherbeaten
cheekbone
and indulges in navel-gazing.
SATISH VERMA
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