ATUL CHANDRA SARKAR

ATUL CHANDRA SARKAR

TOMBSTONES

Their feet buried,

In gripping earth,

The tombstones spell,

The death of birth:

Arrival,

Departure,

The utopian field,

Of divine pasture;

Coming and going,

The return to dust,

The journey which,

For everyone is ‘must’!

Tell-tales of many,

Whom many hadn’t seen,

But, who for loved ones,

Possessed enviable sheen;

When alive and kicking,

Were by many used,

When sick and dead,

Were ungratefully abused;

For someone still in love,

The forget-met-not,

For others just another body,

Interred to rot;

With ‘someone’ often coming,

A bouquet to place,

To light a candle,

With sincerity and grace;

Kneeling and praying,

In gratitude,

Then leaving, perhaps,

With beatitude;

Some tall, some short,

Sentinels in a row,

Tombstones whittle down,

While shrubs quietly grow;

Obituaries in newspapers:

Are read and forgotten,

The epitaphs too fade by,

Onslaughts, now and then.

Tombstones aren’t forever,

They have their own end,

Be they of parents, relatives,

Or a dearest friend;

Tombstones stand upright,

With admirable grace,

Only to fall with Time,

Buried on their face!

THE UMBRELLA

Umbrellas have mushroomed,

All over, here and there,

I don’t have one,

I roam bare!

I watch the tiny toad,

Hiding under the mushroom,

All creatures scurrying,

To their holes, nests and room.

I don’t know how,

It feels to be under one,

When water edges down,

Is it really fun?

Or when there is,

A hole in its roof,

Does holding it,

Become a spoof?

Or when the wind,

Upturns it in a sec,

Water gets in,

As the sea in a deck.

Or when the wet squall,

Blows it off the hold,

And it’s chased as if it’s,

A rolling ring of gold.

Oh! umbrella oh!

What has it done?

It has exposed the couple,

Locked in fervent fun.

Alone I sit, all drenched,

On a walkway fence,

Without an umbrella,

For my defense.

Nay, I shall not lie,

Mine is the biggest one,

The blue sky bedecked,

With stars, moon and sun.

God’s color-changing gift,

Which doesn’t ever fold,

Whether it rains pearls of boon,

Or rays of 24 carat gold.

I AM A LOVE-LETTER

I am a love-letter,

Read me with your heart,

Only then you’ll know,

Why I hate to part.

I am a love-letter,

Open me in moonlight,

Inhale my fragrance,

Hide me from sight.

I am a love-letter,

Sealed with caress;

Written in blood,

Patience and stress.

Don't ever hide me,

Inside the pillow,

Or you'll become

The weeping willow!

I dislike being tightly,

Embraced by pages,

Lest I’m lost

In a bookshelf for ages.

ATUL CHANDRA SARKAR