Poems on Australian bush fire, migrant workers who walked long miles during lockdown to reach their villages, about man’s revelation on his relation with nature and on rural women’s struggle to carry water in some parts of India

a fiery tongued  serpent

straddled bush 

leading grass blades bleed Styx.

wavy medusa’s hair

hit eternal rocky shores 

to sharpen tongues and

anchors tied ships to blazing fins in 

dried river beds.

holocaust hushed up household 

conversations, 

these  crows returned to roosting

in gas chambers.

south sea’s 

democratic debate with winds

permitted red wood trees 

to abandon  nest,

and the autumn leaf

fell to the ground

twice.

this faint sound of meteor touches

leafy ends to measure the strength of twig. 

bolt from a wing stands affront valleys, hills, and footprints, 

watching immortal seasons return to primordial origin 

many number of zodiac cattle  start

constellating at the ends of sky. 

the forest concert hall listens

to  empty green chords and the crescendo forms

a dark symphony over loud ashes

yet

the morning after the Fire, 

lamp of sky brings down  a breaking cloud 

to be worn by  river’s body

and this phoenix here still dreams 

of new wings drawn over 

old hunger.  

This blazing tar pulled you

into its center. 

Your sun filled eyes knew the craft of

weaving a tale of woe

that was heard by none

but this reluctant metro.

Holding onto symmetrical tracks that

move into zigzagged future, 

you scripted hunger on crossroads of

light and shadow in

an abstract angle.

Taking life luggage along, 

you entered the wheel  that

churned hours and many minutes, 

but the journey ended in the 

beginning.

your footsteps sinking in

sands of time,

speak secret stories

for a short while,

and

I know you can only return

looking for 

the lost dreams sculpted on

bricks and blocks of

this locked city.

I walk on mountain along Sisyphus 

pushing up minutes to the tip of hill,

a burden on each of us 

visible on him but not on me…

This seagull here keeps following 

unto mountain cliff 

perhaps cautioning me 

to know 

what I carry in head is heavier

than the boulder 

that my comrade has on shoulder…

Then this vision flashing on dimensions

of my past and present, 

is a green tide future 

and the weight of thought I now release

is the desire for more…

I carry a slice of river

on head

as bottoms of pails

run salty 

trickles to burrowed grooves on

indignant hull,

now

a forehead of sweat beads 

looks strait into 

stagnant time and my shadow races up 

on the rising miles

ahead of me, 

as sun

drowns in my  footsteps, I reach 

home,  

my eyes

raining amazon forest.