Silent song of the sky men

Mountains2
A strange winter that was.
The trees bore no fruits
the skies showed no sign of clouds.
Where have the sky-men gone?
I last saw them dance on the mountain peaks
in their cotton-seed light vessels that floated endlessly.
What a song that was
when prayer flags fluttered in the night skies.
I once saw  moon rise from behind the mountain peak
and sing sorrowful serenades to the beautiful valley.

In the city-scape filled with poles
that hold conversations about jobs and new apartments bought.
Where has the carefree noon gone?
A walk alone to where the sky-men lived
a cup of cinnamon coffee,
a winter-flavoured bidi’s warmth
and the truth about why we should live.
My sky-men,
they flew on giant inflated sails
against blue skies and floated above the clouds so high.
The lines like strings of a harp
they played a song so silent,
it floated and nestled in my heart.
I carry in my heart, silent song of the sky-men.
I carry in my palm fortunes intangible.
I carry in my heart only love songs of silence.

Your tawny little kittens

Your tawny little kittens
purring little mosaics of life
Your quartet of snuggle bugs
warming up to new life behind an old  TV set.

Peering into their basket
we watch, one and a half eyes open yet
The mother lolls insouciantly
to our two sets of leery eyes.

Your tawny little kittens

You’ve always had them around
in different sizes, colors and temperaments
Enough to match each one’s type to
a member of the family or a friend.

There’s always been cat books in your shelves
Kitten paintings on your walls
cat hair in your house
and cat poop in your beautiful garden.

There were brief seasons of no cats
but somehow a vagabond cat
always made your house its home,
a lost kitten nestled in your lap.

There’s always been the sounds of
chanting, tea boiling and a cat meowing in your house.
Your tawny little kittens
purring little mosaics of life
You’ve always had them around.

(For a dear friend, Shasha and her many cats)

Small, Incomplete Departures

Sandakphu
He lights up a cigarette
and offers a generous smile,
A new glint in his very dark eyes,
a new sliver of the moon rises today
not meant for my dark skies.
He doesn’t hold my hands,
but offers a generous mug of coffee
and a very small portion of love,
some advice and small, incomplete departures.
He doesn’t offer me his birds today
nor their colored feathers.
But he offers small, incomplete departures
He doesn’t offer me his songs
But offers telegraphic emails.
What remains is,
notes exchanged in poetry,
life shared in musical notes
and small, incomplete departures.