Skip to main content


I’m waiting by the sea
for someone to come.
I see here and there.
Everyone is waiting.
For someone to come
or someone to go
(perhaps forever).

Some for a signal from above
that will guide their destiny;
others merely a better job,
or a spouse, or inheritance.

The stones are waiting too
for the tide to lash at them.
the stranded crabs wander,
waiting for the sea
to come in and take them back.
and the fish in the sea
are waiting too
for the crabs to come back.

The limitless earth behind me
is sowed with seeds
that have been waiting
for the heavenly water
that will sow them with life.
the squirrels and birds wait
for that water and the blooming
to rerun that eternal sequence
of life again and again.

We are all waiting
for something
or the other
to happen
and bring the change
we dread to bring
by our own hands.

My little wait is over,
She has come.

But my big wait
Still continues.
I know not
What I wait for.

But I’m waiting.

(The bit in italics may or may not be part of the poem.)


Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Nellie, 1983

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

To the piece of orange peel in my bag on the trip to Janjira,

You were the only one to stay by my side when all others Had left me to travel that final stretch homeward alone And while I had to throw you away after two days Because of the stench that made me put the bag in the wash And earn mother's censure onto which she piled older grievances You did help relive some happy memories of the sea breeze And the boatmen's chatter and the old bronze cannons’ roar And cope with those whose IQ is less than yours And taught me that I was mortal in that ride across the creek And that like you I too shall one day be stripped of my essence And confined to the dustbin of humanity I miss you, orange peel Published in Lakdi Ka Pul - II The Poetry Bridge 2017 — an international anthology by Twin City Poetry Club