THE CLOUD

Here comes the messenger cloud,
the bringer of joy, speaks aloud.
Gliding atop fir and juniper,
calm and serene as nothing stir.

Passes high above the lovely peak,
with looks so dismal and bleak.
Moves on terrains high and low,
while water gurgles as it flow.

The beauty of nature; secret trade,
thus cloud with setting sun is red.
It mingles with snow, brings rain,
the innocent grass knows not when.

It creates the mighty thunder,
falls with rage down under.
It burns, it showers, it cools,
flows in rivers, fills the pools.

There goes the messenger cloud,
the envoy of peace, steady and proud.
Sailing above caverns and hills,
emptying the gorges while crevices fills.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

MY MOTHER

Life do at times fall apart,

as destiny plays its part.
In Roman clocks as sand drips,
a loose foothold, away it slips.

Tight however you may press,
away it goes without a trace.
Goes away, falls in a heap,
away from us, from our keep.

What if we could gather,
the dusts of joy, for us rather?
Life goes away - it pains,
as tears trickle, sorrow rains.

A strange numbness grips us,
a silent growing pain rips us.
Its hard - that 'glimpse of destiny',
makes us weaker - makes so any.

Yet we linger, till that day,
when the last speck slips away.
Mingles to dust warmth and peace,
the life, the love and mother's kiss.


Prasenjit©1997-2012

SUNDAY MORNING

It is sunday and cold; Now 6 am!
I part my curtain just the same.
The frosted glass with dews on it,
The touch! Ahh chill! Blissful treat.

The first gush of wind peeps in,
like a curious child still dreamin'.
The road is now lonely still,
not a treading soul - a vacant feel.

Once the sun shows its face,
thru' designs of the curtain lace.
The dew drops would vanish soon,
into the realms of silvery noon.

As nature has its own sway,
so it is the design of the day.
In morn it was void and bore,
now alive with buzz and roar.

Again the 'lively' now no more,
as waves silently hit the shore.
Its sunday eve; Now 6 pm,
I close my curtain just the same.

Prasenjit©1997-2012

THE FARMER'S KID

With the ending of the day,
as the toiling labourers say.
Time spent in sun and rain,
sailing boats in dirty drain.


Half naked kids out of bed,
play in dirt, least unafraid!
Toys of clay, they play in mud,
an would-be-flower nipped in bud!


They smell of earth, teeths yellow,
their mind joyful like the swallow.
Playing with marbles of varied color,
devoid of food, evidently pallor.


As canvas changes across the sky,
innocent minds heave a blissful sigh.
The echo of their mother's call,
reach the kids as night fall.


With starting of the night,
they kindle the bonfire light.
So, the time in sun and rain,
will come again, I know not when...


Prasenjit©1997-2012