Gray Poetry

I don not want to go home

I don't want to belong

I don't need to be rooted

I don't like to own.

I wish to go there

where there's no plumbing or fixing the bulb

I need not worry about the peeling off

It's not mine.

I can let the vine tree grow and 

creep out from the crevices

I need not cement it up

The gray painted walls will not echo any familiar story

The ceiling can't tempt for death 

The mysterious cobweb below the staircase 

can stay with the bluish spider 

The pale ugly square mark on the wall

of that old painting may keep murmuring old history

I can keep making love signs with my finger

on the dust layer of the writing table

Nothing needs to be familiar

No one needs be known

I don't want to go home

I don't want to belong.

There's an uncanny freedom, a 'Mukti' 

in 

uprootedness

in

being unsettled.

Green poetry

A few years ago I became a tree.
I suckled mother Earth
my roots growing firm and strong
spreading
nourishing
I grew into branches, my hands became leaves
dancing in freedom
blooming
reaching up to the sky.
The cloud peeped into my brown eyes
And fell in love.

  Since yesterday
the soil is loosening around my roots.
The vine that clasped my waist
has fungus.
It’s spreading on to me.
The silence of the soil is bone chilling.
They said, trees have lives, but
No one could hear me when I shouted!
Those conifers or the moss on the wall
No one heard!

 Maybe, if I close my eyes and count till ten
It will all prove to be a bad dream.

Just hoping, you know…

Aayush

Birds are no longer in harmony
in my sky.
Of course the morning is nice; yet
of course the morning is without sunlight.
I wait
with eyes pinned to the mobile screen
with waiting.
The warm wrap of your hand around my shoulder,
your thoughts in my shadow,
your eyes hatched wings beat on my breasts.
I think of you in a most direct way.
There is an urge to be your daughter in the next birth.
To depend on your warmth.