Trees in autumn stood
of cover shorn by birds shun
jaundiced limb only wood
Leaves bewildered suddenly exiled
fate date by breeze beguiled
Shepherd wind blows across
rustle mounted stock n staff
blood in season’s vein thaws
winter writes her epitaph
Jaundice killed the spent spilled
limbs pulsate with greening nerve
life to life returns vice and verve
There is this land still
where seasons sow and till
wind gently rows
through sea of quiet
summer flowers on trees burn
lapping waves of quiet return
where silence has her sounds still
dreams bedspread with butterfly frill
He has come again..
this year selling shawls
warmth his ware, dogs bark chase and sniff
tyrant in his body
aged more than year before
taut pink of his face
now partitioned by lines
he doesn’t control
distant look in his eyes this fall
remembering home, living
on both sides of the wailing wall
his feet heavy and sore with walking
voice hoarse from talking people
into buying a yard of warmth
‘tis high moon he rests, outstretched body in sun
head in dappled shade listening to chirps of migratory birds
tree their only anthem wind only hymn
stitching the poles their solemn oath
caprice of lines on land notwithstanding
he too a material metaphor of flight
migrates each winter
caprice of lines on hand notwithstanding
living there aging here
selling yards of warmth
fervent than nations’ anthem
takers come and wait
for his namaaz to be over
with desire to buy
partitioned face glows into smile
now the wind blows leaves drop
as blessings, birds take off
now he gets up with his ware and staff
strides on Gul Mohammad
I look on till he disappears into horizon
from where he will appear again next year
aged more
dogs will bark chase and sniff
tyrant in his body
aged more than year before
but he will come, come again next year.
This citying of landscape
This stunting of trees
These hovels of dens
Those pygmied men
This convent of indulgence
This dark habit
Those spires of intrigue
This love become date
Slapping bodies fornicate
This bonsai passion
That herculean fashion
This robbing..
Trees of girth
Eyes of mirth
Forest of flame
How do I say;
love’s in the air
and I love you dame.
Posting January in May sounds out-of-synch but what has been started must be completed. So here goes…
January is a see-saw. One bright morning and it preens like spring. One foggy day and it goes into a huddle of contemplative calm. An in-between month of neither here nor there. To an optimist it is best of both.
Wheat fields now a bed-spread of shy green.
Mustard stands high on stilettos as if…
breathtakingly smiles
seasons move
leaves leave to find new abode
inexorable the march of time
the fading fades
color arrives the fruit of labor
we can only hope to be there
as it happens
Stepping into november..change in landscape happens suddenly. Harvesting paddy with sickles used to take a month and more. One would find heaps of paddy stacked alongside a standing crop. Farmers working in fields slowly. Now all it takes is a couple of days. Combine harvester is a mean machine. It alters the landscape in a matter of days. All that is left on the fields is paddy stubble which is burnt by farmers to prepare fields for the next crop. This is practiced all over the northern planes of India. Burning of paddy stubble swallows all color and covers the entire north with noxious grey. Cotton waits to be picked. Weeds, reeds and empty pods of cotton still manage a song.
The build-up continues. Colors converge into crescendo of gold. Reeds flower into maturity. Paddy harvest begins. Stubble in fields still remembers the song that was. Sun rises again. Morning time. It’s another day. This is all about october that I could gather. 
November next..
Here are some more from the october series. It’s reeds reeds and reeds.
tranquildarts 