Sunday, July 1, 2018




When the long arms of the violet night embrace me
and tear- etched faces jump at me from cracks in the skyline
The stream gurgling behind my tiny cottage
Serenades me with pastoral songs,
erasing  those traumatized faces haunting me
till I go  into raptures of delirious delight .
The soft hill breeze wafting from the trees
sends me into a reverie, unending.
The moonbeams, in a burst of shimmering compassion
Pierce the all- encompassing fog
pouring their glimmer on a skeletal man
sitting on a gnarled log, in patched dungarees.
He sighs a long drawn-out sigh,
tapping a tattoo on one pathetic patch
as tears glide down his cheeks.
A new song strokes his tired heart, slowly, silently.
The water ripples on in the creeks.
Peace goes seeking a peacock flaunting its plumage
Bright; settles under a lush tree, listening to the mockingbird sing.
My pen burns, yearning to turn into a brush and splash
the hues of love on the canvas of the sky.
The trees whistle, as the night woos the moon.
My heart dances and applauds this sudden boon.


Remember, how gingerly my scars you fingered

As a fat, intrusive cloud shamelessly lingered

To eavesdrop on the sweet -salty – nothings.

My eyes were riveted on a tiny bird

Pricking its ears to our muted whispers.

Do you still remember the song that you sang

Under the pallid moon that day in May, [or was it June?]

Even the breeze stopped whistling that love tune

Intuitively thinking that something was amiss

As I rudely dodged your kiss.

I could hear your heart go bang- bang

As that sad song you sang!

Ah those country roads

Did not take me to the place I belonged

And that song died, [sigh!]

Seeing the teardrops in my eye.

The night doubled in pain

Throttled its sighs

The stars crept out of their lairs

Stung by the night’s plight.

Clucked their tongues, and twinkled

Brightening the wrinkled brow

Of the crestfallen night.

The night smiled with a flamboyance



Slumped under a shade-less tree, near the sea shore,
he sighs a sigh of exhaustion; a sigh of frustration.

A sloughing confusion of sighs, lamenting those lost ties.

He shades his eyes, glimpses something in the distance.
Is it the past making faces at him?

Vagrant clouds flirt with the mountain tops
and a sunray, feisty and coquettish squints at him.

He perks up; dissonant sounds of bloodshed and mayhem
slowly taper away.

Still tied to heartstrings of the past,
he sighs a sigh of sad exultation,
recalling the bygone time when he too had a home
where on the verdant lawn,
a stray cat snoozed in a patch of sun,
stretching and purring its delight,
while up above flew a kite, joyous and bright.
Yes, he too had a home,
where the sunrays fell tantalizingly
on the brass ashtray
as he coaxed rust from it
and a crescendo of boisterous voices raised a din.
Twisting their tongues, bursting their lungs, the kids bellowed,
‘she sells sea shells by the sea shore’, and he hurled away the ashtray
dashing towards his friends, shrieking ‘sea shore ……sea shore …..’
But now, the word ‘seashore’ did not quite fit on his tongue,
it sounded alien on an alien shore.


Dr SANTOSH BAKAYA:  An academician- poet- novelist - essayist , and winner of The International Reuel Award for language and literature [2014], Dr Santosh Bakaya  has been internationally acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu ,[2015] Her poems have appeared in many journals and ezines , and her other books are Where are the lilacs ? Under the Apple boughs, Flights from my terrace , and A Skyful of Balloons.

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