Perspectives

At midnight , 2’ 0clock, the search for the day’s poem began . Words were what I was looking for, like every day in the morning. Others’ writings like a scrap of poetry or an interesting quote present possibilities, a vast canvas for the wanderings of the mind.

Sometimes the nudges are a scattered sound or a creature of the night. Like for example , the gurkha watchman who paces up and down in the vast wastes of the night, tapping his stick on the earth.Alerting about possible intruders, cat burglars.

Here it is, yesterday’s temporary poem, a poem that began in temporary origins but threatened to become a fixture of the web spaces. Not permanent because the subject is so ephemeral, like a whiff of wind at midnight. Things will not remain the same. I am not there tomorrow, my poem shall disappear in anonymous googledygeek.( A cross between google- geek and gobbledycock).

The whistle

The whistle blares it is the inky night of 2’O clock

Marked by  feet in old boots, in a Himalayan walk,

With their stick tapping the earth to warn thieves.

Another whistle, man and boy blew this morning

Whose shrillness of blowing sounded quite hollow

Across the bare earth and houses to friends down

All in mirth, the boy in a snigger after the whistle.

Their whistle is mere surrogate for night’s cricket

Since the latter has taken short leave from bushes.

When our rice is ready for meal in pressure cooker

The whistle sounds blowing the lid off afternoon nap.

The pressure rises in vapor, pressing down the valve,

A short whistle-blower on hunger pangs in our belly.