A new haiku/tanka book

https://issuu.com/prof.r.k.singh/docs/newhaikutankabook.docx

SILENCE: A WHITE DISTRUST

ever evading

happiness for the now—

unfinished song

                  

   

moonless

                   this November night

                   livelier with stars

                   and breathing silence

                   perfumed with night queen

still lingers

her scent on the linens

drying in shade

        

half painting

palette and easel

collect dust

in the studio

painted silence of mother

  

lemon tea—

shade of her lipstick

on my lip

   

                    last night’s rain

paves way for a clear sky

this morning

the breeze is cool and the sun

adds a new hue to the spring

 filling emptiness

waves dance over each other—

the sky meets the sea

life is beautiful

when you enter another

body…mind

and become one

in each other

closed eyes:

smelling the cleavage

crescent wanes

            

her name

a soothing music

in the mouth:

I forget the pain in back

I seek the sky in silence

unzipping her back—

hundreds of nights grow wings

with wasp touch

intruding

the darkness of bedroom

a tree’s silhouette:

she whispers its masked presence

and says no to making love

brightness of the star

half-closed bedroom window:

moon shies away

waking to a morning

tainted with prayers

on the toilet seat

nude nature waves a dull sun

smitten by the night’s long eclipse

moon energy

fills up the inner space—

call to wake up

the busyness

and weariness of now

they toss about

regulating their sleep

by one another’s

stain-dried lingerie

reminds of the night’s act—

flowers of lips

smallness of the small

no sharing half-chewed betel—

mischievous whisper

in bed fuzzy sensation

ruddy lips that’s no love

muscle or meat

hang it on the forehead:

spine migrates

things get hairy, scary

with body failure

ailments pop up

spirit dries up

mind disconnects

hestitating

to take the first step through—

stands at the door

unhappy

with how I look and

feel right now

seek a best version

and just look within

silk silence

the sky measures

new cup of joy

in the white of night

sighs for supreme delight

steal tender pleasure

manipulating wetness

in bed unmask simple sin

greet the sun

on the terrace—

two roses

November morning--

too many thorns to reach

the only rose

and the tormenting thought

that I am forsaken

stunted bud

in the earthen pot—

winter sun

choking air

in a walled colony:

two tired pigeons

perch on overhead tank

whisper pity on us

a robin whispers

our talk in bed last night—

another bird

light switched off

love sliding on

window pane

moon too shies away

behind the bare tree

stolen truck

in parking lot:

they have a quickie

frozen

in the icy wind

my fingers

she fears the chill

on her cheeks

journeying

on a late-running train

squirrels frisk near track

if I die today

it won’t matter to any—

I have no worth

they all care for themselves

search nearest in curved space

repeats daily

in the mind my own story—

a feature film

a couple of drinks

and soft  music to forget

the year’s hard days

now welcome the new morning

bid good bye to factious party

darkness of the heart

bouts of quiet clashes:

midnight oracle

visit Vinayak

each day new prayers inside

years old faces

at the threshold hit their heads

the dumb deity stays unmoved

visiting home—

shadows of forgotten days

on the wall

spiders’ network

between two photo frames

bridge or bury

sensations no longer

spurt action in silence

on the terrace

facing the sun

an empty chair

black pigeons

sitting in a row

parapet

cracked for seeds to die

before they fly back

cease growing

new lines on the palms:

broken bangles

I’m not alone

waking up in the grave—

angels await

my rise to eternity

my love’s union again

noise of crackers

monotony of light

Diwali

4 a.m.

a noisy start to

Chhat puja:

blaring songs from neighbourhood

sweet smell of frying from kitchen

incense sticks

perfume the air around—

offering on altar

end of May—

scorching heat follows

rain and hail

before iftaar this Friday

prayer promises bliss

Easter Sunday—

blood stains stick on the cross

more bomb blasts

wearied winter

each night bed a living grave:

drying breathing passage

and lonely shadows

delaying disaster

dirt conscious

everyday struggle:

rising up

             

too small to explore

the sea of the unknown:

island existence

breathing hell of darkness

dreading hungry excursions

cleaning the remains

of burnt out earthen lamps—

dusky temple yard

   

source of salvation

depository of sins

no cake cutting

in church promise of reaping

if we sow recovery seed

aching legs—

nightly tension crowns

moon sickness

                    

an island

between the head and fate lines

bridges blackhole

in life’s labyrinth shadows

move always ahead of me

after the discourse

beer and biryani in lunch—

Happy Drinksgiving

earthy body

and nightness of silence

fear in mirror

return to the river

echoing hollowed sound

long waiting

short consultation—

ophthalmologist

   

morning smog—

an asthmatic with grandson

coughing restlessly

on the terrace even

a limping crow seeks fresh air

she stoops down

writes her name on the sand

waves return

dark alleys

chaos on the road

fear delays

homeward move at nine

lumpens lie in wait

in the street corner

breeding maggots and vermin:

abandoned father

the wounds exit

the pain of truth lingers

under my sky

savage head battles for

vacuity, a victim

sprinkling spices

on the fried fish

hungry hubby

   

full blue moon—

divine channel from heavens

illuminating

arrival of Easter Sunday

and April, the angel month

absorbing

microbes of her complaints

poor hubby

                    

before retiring

swallow pills to mitigate

her hackles

that walk me through to death

of desire for love in bed

pre-monsoon ramble

wilderness in harmony—

worlds within world

hail stones

lashing mango florets

my car too:

I fear thunder squall and rain

leaking roof and wetting bed

wild sugarcane

no animals savour

ageing monsoon

    

fishes swim

weeds disheveled

silent lake

I inhale

the city’s garbage

post-retirement

my watch not worn for days:

horologist

with foreign sound

I couldn’t be a lasting poem—

provisional body

nude smell and white distrust

play freedom in mounds of cloud

--R.K.SINGH

copyright:

--Ram Krishna Singh