Plaintive Cries from the Underground

Through a crevice,
In the soil,
Rose a plaintive cry.
Beat it down gently,
And cover it with mud.

Can you hear it still?
Of course you can’t,
It’s that cotton in your ear.
Where’s it coming from,
Haven’t we plugged all the holes?

From the crevices,
For there were more,
Gnarled hands arose.
Take that, take that you,
Clumsy boor.

What seeds have you planted,
Bungling bumpkin,
Look the plants are out,
To get us today,
Not a moment’s delay.

Run as fast,
As your legs can take you,
But the gnarled hands,
Are waving at us,
Clamoring for more.

Trapped underground,
With loose soil,
Our plaintive cries,
Fall on blind ears,
Our gnarled hands behold.

8 Random Things about me... (From How do we know’s blog)

1. Once in a hotel room in Lonavala, a cloud came in through a window and disappeared through another.
2. Where I grew up as a child, we were on the 20th floor and the wall facing the Arabian Sea was made of glass.
3. Sometimes I have dessert before food. Sometimes all I eat is dessert, especially if it’s chocolate icecream.
4. My favorite cartoon strip is Calvin and Hobbes. I also like reading Dilbert, Tintin and Asterix.
5. I check out the art galleries in every city I visit. I love shopping for others. I love trying out different kinds of food.
6. In my ancestral home we had a creeper plant (bottle gourd) that started in our front yard and went all the way up to the rooftop. I fancied climbing down from our first floor balcony using the creeper.
7. Elvis Presley posters are all over my cubicle. I also have a lovely Beatles poster and a Jimi Hendrix Calendar.
8. I can’t wake up in the mornings. I can ignore the loudest alarm clocks. I can sleep through a barking Bruno. Sometimes when I have to see the sunrise, I don’t go to sleep.

I tag anyone who wants to do it!

To Freedom

Sand dunes will forget,
Every transgression of your footstep.
The wind can live without,
The shrill speech of your silent doubt.
The buzzards will look aside,
And leave your corpse to die.

Shards of hope still hang from trees,
These days they smell of futility.
Perhaps your dismal dance of death,
Is better than eternal complicity.
The parched land will darkness await,
As you plunge into the golden sunset.

(Pic from national geographic)

The Blue Blob

When did you become,
A blue little blob in the sky?
Amorphous and rather shapeless,
Like a memory from the distant past.

Unforeseen like a ketchup stain,
So naked and unmitigated,
A mysterious blue blob,
In a blind lane.

That dripping paintbrush,
Drips blue little drops,
Splosh, splosh on my face,
Wash away every trace.

The blue ocean in a bathtub,
With his pretentious waves,
His hands stretched towards,
The blue blob in vain.