Monday, April 1, 2024



The Surrealscape


The night was a scarecrow, flailing its arms.

There was some syncopated churring.

Were my chaotic thoughts making all the noise?

Or were the cicadas going full throttle,

grinding away- grinding away-mindlessly?



I don’t know why it reminded me

of the grinding of geriatric limbs.

The night flailed its arms, frantic, furious.

An owl hooted. 

Was a dormant volcano about to erupt?

I saw flames in the night sky.

An owl again hooted.

The leaves rustled, creating an eerie music.

Could this serenading turn the surrealscape into reality?


Hush, I heard the first wobbly step of a child

in the neighbor's house, and gleeful clapping,

followed by a toddler's happy chuckles.


The night buckled its dark boots and scurried away.

The dawn knuckled sleep from its eyes and beamed.  




I saw a homeless musician strumming his battered guitar. 

On the pavement he sat conjuring music,

unaware of the rattle of coins that passersby flung at him.

Was he creating music to lull his pain?

Looking grim, he sang a heart-rending refrain.

A kitten sat next to him - perhaps his only friend.

She purred off and on; his companion from dawn to dawn.


He cast a withering look at the coins lying by his side;

his euphony got drowned in the cacophony of the traffic.

He patted the kitten, and the kitten meowed. A loving meow.

This was music to the musician's ear.

He smiled a smile which was a musical note too.

A cascade of glitter filled his sad heart,

and he sparkled in the glow of his inner light,

the coins lying unclaimed, sheepish their plight.




On a dusty cement square,

under the ancient banyan tree

sat three half-clad kids, squealing excitedly,

triumphant over their colorful booty,

cheeks gleaming with sooty glee.

One battered kite hung askew from the tree;

three full-bodied ones sparkled with a bright new sheen,

lying supine on the square, rearing to go.

Lo! They were soon cruising in the air.

Free - free - free...


Well- dressed and well- fed youngsters gorged on croissants,

muffins, doughnuts, and walnut banana cakes in a swanky bakery

opposite the tree. Kites held no appeal for them.


The three sprightly fellows watched their colourful dreams

flying unshackled in the blue beyond.

Green. Blue. Yellow.


Their yells of mirth

echoed on the earth,

unfazed by their dearth.

Magic was in the air- a magic so rare.


Hands-on hips,

the gluttons smacked their lips

gorging on potato chips.

Freedom of the kites meant nothing to them.

For them, freedom smelt differently.

It tasted differently. It had a different feel.




SANTOSH BAKAYA: Winner of International Reuel Award for literature for Oh Hark, 2014, The Universal Inspirational Poet Award [Pentasi B Friendship Poetry and Ghana Government, 2016,] Bharat Nirman Award for literary Excellence, 2017, Setu Award, 2018, [Pittsburgh, USA] for ‘stellar contribution to world literature.’ Keshav Malik Award, 2019, for ‘staggeringly prolific and quality conscious oeuvre’.Chankaya Award  [Best Poet of the Year, 2022, Public Relations Council of India,], Eunice Dsouza Award 2023, for ‘rich and diverse contribution to poetry, literature and learning’,[Instituted  by WE Literary Community]  poet, biographer, novelist, essayist, TEDx speaker, creative writing mentor, Santosh Bakaya, Ph.D has been acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu [Vitasta, 2015], her poems have been translated into many languages, and short stories have won many awards, both national and international. She writes a popular weekly column, Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity. Com. Her twenty- three books cover different genres; her latest being, What is the Metre of The Dictionary?



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