चपल, चंचल, चिंतामणि, जिसकी लेखनी न शर्माती ।
इलाहाबाद में बीता बचपन, जयपुर में अल्हड़ घूमें ।
पुणे में इंसान बने, परदेस में साहब हुए ।
दूर रहकर मिट्टी से थोड़ा कुछ जो सीखा,
पन्नों में ही रह जाता था सरीखा ।
कॉमिक और फिल्मों का प्यार न छूटा,
फिर एक दिन YQ का छींका फूटा ।
सोते शायर ने करवट ली ।
लेखनी फिर बोल पड़ी ।
आज कुछ महीने हो चले हैं ।
अभी भी हम तो बस कह रहे हैं ।।

-

Steadfast tin soldier,
he knew what was in store.
The thunders plundered his ears,
the flashes revealed his soul.
He had no army to fight,
he had no captain to follow.

'Twas the breakneck draught,
and bombs of droplets that followed.
He had to hold his ground,
unwavered, unbound,
as the rain galloped past him,
and the winds whistled in background.

A rusting hand, was the enemy,
and the reason for his sorrow.
Age hath won this battle,
years had him as a spoil.
But he smiled in it's face, unmoved,
like that, was the prize of his toil.

-

Old Man and the Sea,
the friendship went back.
They had known each other,
since eons and ages collapsed.
The beasts that dwelt in one,
calmed down the other, on days.
Angry waves of one,
had rocks to crash at bay.
He'd lifted dead weights,
poured sweat into the stream.
To his children he told the same,
to give reason for the water, salty.
As he picked up his anchor,
to sail further on his waves.
He realized they were one,
troubled and calm, still insane.

-

Before sunset,
some fleeting ticks
and floating tocks,
pass before they return.
The winged warlocks,
fly to their castle.
Ramparts ignited,
smothered with gold
spears off the sky.
This attack is welcome,
to keep the young ones,
safe from the rest.
The night's battle,
has just started.

-

Before midnight,
after sunset,
you see a dying light,
at the horizon.
I like to think,
it's day and night,
sitting at a table,
candle lit, laden with food.
It's when both sit as equals.
Maybe that's why,
we call them EVENings.

-

A Soldier's Eulogy

Noir it was,
the undulated,
unpromising state, divine.
I dug deep.
I salvaged what
was once mine.
Bit by bit,
as I collected, pieces
of my broken soul,
I knew,
the violence was over;
the killings were done.

-

Elements of style are
your mind engine's gas.
With intact punctuations,
you have an answer,
to many situations;
or maybe none perhaps.
But here is the trick,
you told a story !
You weren't flustered,
neither did you fret.
But you told a tale,
nevertheless.

-

The Pineapple Express,
rushed through the platform.
Chugging and puffing,
like an old soul.
Heaving the carriages
full of exotics and citrus,
and not just pineapples alone.

The story behind the train,
was never told in vain.
As it had lessons to delve upon.
It is said that the engine,
was as old as the rail line laid.
Some said it was the first,
locomotive to emerge,
and connect the South to North.

(Full Poem in Caption)

-

Absent in the spring,
is a grimace of my shivers.
Present in it's din,
a whisk of molten embers.
Embers that exhume,
every speck of jitters.
I still feel the breeze,
and shake off the cold.
Rest everything is merry,
it's season for the bold.

-

Weaving dreams,
tailoring thoughts,
fitting seams,
of moments distraught.
Argumentatively,
we could have just worn,
a blazer of actions,
a hat of expectations.
But we wanted a suit,
of three pieces we dreamt.
A shirt of revolutions,
a vest of efforts,
sewn at seams with iterations,
with a coat of confidence, astute.
And there it was,
an armor for life,
a battlesuit.

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