The Indian streets
Packed with cacophony,
The hustle-bustle of the streets never seems to end;
Packed with colours,
The vibrant hues of the streets never blend;
Packed with fragrance, the aroma of the spices
From the street food, you can’t pen.
If I could paint the moments,
I don’t think I could ever keep up with it;
Every vendor with its story,
Their joy and pain, in my canvas they won’t fit;
Every traveller’s inspiration:
The people, the colours, the food and their myths.
Looked deep into it,
The colours with their historic yet artistic stories;
A colourful street, trust me; no colours in the world can paint its glories; drink in their beauty,
For nothing can capture their priceless poetries.
The roasted spices,
Their aroma and fragrance, a perfume for the appetite;
And no fine French wines,
Can ever be compared to the chaiwala on the street side;
The spicy chats and sweet snacks
I’m sorry I couldn’t put words to every delight.
Different yet the same, the streets, though I have not walked all, Their own poetries they write,
The hustle-bustle, the colours, the spices, the bawl,
Inspiration in the dust;
Take a brush or a pen; paint them if that’s your call.
Cripping road jammed! but we often stumble upon;
Heard those in the governance, impasse to look on;
Cops who oversee traffic, helplessness to disarray;
I have watched all along, my beard has grown grey.
I witnessed chaos, of visit by the ‘hief’ of the nation;
The lunacy of drills, the stoppage also the diversion;
One man, his men, so much to the society resentment;
Bedlam to go on, less rules amends, to a logical end.
The option routes a dreamland but when shall we see,
Umbrage inflicted not a mere consent to just ‘let it be’;
Should calamaty be-falling, as we ster way back home;
Fiddling we would, akin to fires that had blazed rome.
Sonny L Khyriem
The odious poem
A device ringtone pitched a sound, beep;
Abruptly awakened from the restful sleep;
Hesitantly answered, a news or a surprise!;
Was figuring the call, earlier than sun rises?
Choked tone of voice, ‘Church blazed into flame’;
Men to douse inferno ‘late’ he cripped the shame;
The onset of winter, awoke, seated, bedspread on;
The event insisted, necessity go out to watch upon.
East direction at my abode, to the illuminated sky;
My eyes blinked, a body ached, emotionally, I cry;
Saw the enormous smoke, and the ragging inferno;
‘Good Lord, hear me, I begged, a blaze not to grow’.
Lesser I realised, like the Amazon fire burns cruelly;
Neighbourly couple, pet,
Devastated though unduly;
A somewhat kind of reminiscent, those gone by days;
My father a goer to gutted church, to pray and praise.
The Good Book, partially burnt,
revealed God’s prophecy;
Imprinted of the gospel truth,
proven on papers biblically.
Sonny L Khyriem