Suburban Express

Vendors’ plump wares, dusty from road,

otherwise pure; jalebis stacked on trays

dripping sugary sweat on palms,

gur and bangle-bindi sellers

cross section of cucumber, gram, puffed rice with chilies

gulped down with bottles of water,

sudden craving for chai coffee or soup,

beggars and college boys with spiky hair,

sticking out in a pan Indian local (train),

where days crawl in petty peace,

early risers drowse and drool on your pocket

unabashed. People in an almost condescending mood,

jerk out of the trip, the dim, soiled memory of suburban bliss.

Love lost

The words he said

rang out like pious bells,

chanting, a holy prayer.

Now his lips are still,

as the air shivers

at their wintry knell.

Death in life

Death is more like love,

you wish not to have your fill,

nor know what lies ahead.

And the heavens, a rosy vision

until you discern the worm.

Morpheus

Almost too slow to come,

mild as Jesu's hand,

he will arrive, to smooth

away your anger.

After the barren,

long day of pain,

there will be Spring,

in your heart at least.

You will smile

even for a while,

in a dark, lonely bed,

otherwise called 'life'.