4

[This poem of four lines where each word has four alphabets, is dedicated to the affected of Nepal earthquake]

Time felt some pain
when sins cost pity, cries;
ruin, dust, fire, land:
they weep till dark dusk dies!

DICTATOR

A night is a slave
to its neighbour, day.
A night,  but,  is feared
by many a man. 

A man buries his truths
beneath a weary suit:
threads of skins
and roses pinned,
deprive reality
of freedom, peace.
An owl kills lemmings
to do her housing;
business eco-friendly
pleases man,
frightens man:
what if the owl
grows intelligent,
more than the man
who named her wise! 

Man...
He clothes his grief
in colourful kites
that fail to fly
beyond clouds so near,
and wins a kite contest,
wishes suppressed
by wishes of fear.

A heart's love

depends on thousands unknown,

gets mourned before death,

judged without god:

a man feeds a dictator,

dies with it,

gets mourned,

gets judged!

ABOUT A FISHY BURROW

[Note: This poem is an account of a true instance, inspired from my friend, Shanidul's interesting tale.)

Fishing rods serve a pastime there.
Hands play winter sport here.
Rush and rust and rest out there:
Ponds hold interesting tales here! 

Sunday’s sun was
somewhat warm
shawls kept in iron boxes
winter was young alive
only in words and phrases.

“Prepare, boys, for the midday hunting;

adventures are for the oldest karahis”,

shouted an old from the brown cow’s

newly thatched byre:

He was a gourmet, loved fish roasted

in winter fire.

The party assembled:
Kingshuk in half-pant,

Ranjan in a folded full,

a drowsy still Ishfaqul,

and unwilling Atul!

Joys were their hope
Plastics and buckets
their storage tools-
bare hands were a sport
to trap a fish beneath
their muddy toes!
Ranjan cracked the test,
caught a little one,
threw it in his plastic
and looked for more;
Atul drew a gasp of breath
and shrieked, excited:
"I got one, the biggest:
That's why I come."
Ishfaqul was fruitless
while...
Kingshuk looked intelligent,
stood at a crab's burrow
where fishes stay in pleasure,
crabs do not disturb!
Thoughts are luring,
phantoms of unseen tragedies:
he drove his hand
into the tunnel,
at an instant then
shouted and laughed:
"Atul, I beat you
It's longer than your foot!"
And then...
then and then
he pulled out a thing:
brownish like a fish
but only a tail, no fins
and frustating Ishfaqul 
shouted:
"It's not a fish
but a snake not pleasing;
it's not longer than his feet-
it's the longest in the field!"


(Disclaimer: Most of the snakes are not poisonous! Smile!)
 

AN ARMED SUNDAY

Prawns are a delightful dish!

Dreams are born of appetite,
often...seldom,
often...
An awful week
of jobless nights-
confusing noises
and angry sighs
ruined my craze
for fast foods
and Indian noodles...

Weekends are free loads
of unexpected events:
dissatisfied neighbours
and crying guests
pull out my soul
on their lunchboxes
to be burned
in spices of disturbance!

Guns are for 
an army man's shoulders-
we deal in forks
and knives,
and spoons, not silver:
Freedom rests now
on a dish of chilli prawns
on a Sunday
in joys and sauce;
I can win a war now
for people worried;
I can eat plates many
but of prawns only
I now go out to the battle
on an armed Sunday!

KISS OF A CROW

Weather is a speculative conclusion:
morning ice cubes dropped in soda
melt in shackles of bubbles;
evening coffee beans
long to be warmer in bonds
with corrupted milk-
seven degrees of change
twelve hours of a day
play among themselves
to trouble common men!

Thoughts of good events
are superstitious often,
sometimes not,
rains in summer are soothing
but minds fixed on
scorching heat
make summer hurting
just like enthusiastic spring 
holds talks of romance
but seen has none
a kiss of a crow!