Anna ...as seen by a twelve year old

I am twelve
I do not know what the 'hullaboo' is about
'corruption' is a word alien to me
yet I know it will spew thorns in my way


but..I feel it in my bones
Anna is right!
I see honesty shining in his eyes
uprightness in his thoughts
hard is the road chosen
but steel is his will

bouyed by thundering voice of the masses
Anna has arrived!
and
corruption muzzled
Ratnaprabha r raykar

as the evening meets the dark

As the evening meets the dark

mysteries of night turn deeper

bats and owls turn up their antennae

so do the vices of the world

the drunkard and the beggar don different roles

they turn kings with their bottle of hooch

their dose of hooch erases the boundary between them

young rag pickers slip into worlds unknown

with a tube of whitener

broken corex bottles tell another story

the painted butterfly lingers around

waiting for its prey

the prey creeps sheepishly

the deal is struck and sealed

I shudder to think of vices more vile

as I lie ensconced in the warmth of my home

the hearth made warmer by the love of my kin

Almighty my state is your dole

Ratnaprabha r raykar

the flower woman of today

an auto laden with packs of flowers fled past me

in it sat the flower woman of today

so to say the hi tech one

traverses she alone and brings blossoms abound

dispensing it among women

who tie them up for wages

she bundles up the trussed flowers

and sells them in the square

making a tidy sum

saving for pygmy, insurance and all

and some for her mates toddy too!

bribing him for letting her to the square.

While the flower woman of yore

with a moth eaten bag

trudges heavily to the market

bearing only a bagful

she struggles to tie them up

sometimes imploring her kin to to do so

she sets to convey them to abodes

which are her regular forte

always in debt and dearth of money

but hearts she has picked up a many

she can tie a wreath of them

not for anything would I change my old for the new

Ratnaprabha r raykar

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two little twittering twitters

Two little twittering twitters

hop in and hop out

never stopping for a moment

rest they know not,play they must

chomping away on munches

differ they though in tastes

share they without fail

funny games,serious games

frolicking, slippery water games

amidst small and big tiffs

make up they do within moments

outcome big 'sorry' cards

sweetened with chocolates to butter up

Again they are one,as though nothing transpired

go twittering do they more robustly

I ponder.....

quarrels are involuntarily

but making up?

ego ties us down

owning up our mistakes,never can we

hoping they will make the first move

but it never happens

elders are elders,

kids we should be!

a special mother for a special child

often swelled with pride did i

patting myself for being a mother perfect

crediting myself for all their highs

until....

sighted I a mother with a special child

anticipating his wishes fulfilling them

strengthening him to catch up with the rest

providing a firewall around him

shielding him from the onslaughts of the world

sharing a special bond with her child

more close to her loved one

than I to mine

my garden

dreading the worst, i stepped into my garden

steeling myself for a situation grave...

after lastnight's rainblast

fearing for my saplings small

big ones did not merit my fear

but stood still I.....

the saplings seemed refreshed as after a coffee

big ones shone with greenery,

if green could

and the lawn seemed perfect

I need not fear...

as almighty cares

I need not fear for my young ones too

as the Almighty that cares for THEM

cares for MINE too

Me, in my morning rush hour

cook scrub and clean

a nightingale amidst a concrete jungle

screams and orders me to stop

to listen to her melody

'stop your chores,spare me your ear

i thought you missed me'

my ties with the nightingale

began when i lost mine

its melancholic tune chided me, irritated me

for i wished to enjoy nothing

as i lay grieving for my princess

days passed , years passed

i started seeing my princess in the nightingale

whenever i herd its melody

i felt as my princess was visiting me

as i changed houses

i thought i lost my visitor

the sharp sound of the nightingale

seemed to be angry with me

it seemed to complain

' you have forgotten me !'

no hardly ever

my wound of losing my princess is as raw as it was

and your tune as melancholic as always

Ratnaprabha r raykar