Poems by Dr. Santosh Bakaya
Streams of memory gushing, rushing
Intruding into a blushing morning .
I fail to get a foothold on today’s reality
It is soggy from last night’s rains.
Water cascades and drenches me in splattered delight.
The sunlight touches the plaits of the peasant woman
Working in the field, as her man bends down to scoop up the yield.
Their smiles add a mouthful of glitter to the morning bright.
A truant squirrel, unaware of the gold on its whiskers
Briskly slithers up a tree and peers down at the couple.
The contours of a comatose world slowly become more visible
The mist floating over the hills
Floats and floats
The spunky squirrel just gloats
Its tail swishing
My Memory Box
My memory box, a ramshackle house
Its rafters quivering in the wind
Still feels footsteps trudging
Trudging, ah so softly
On splattered gravel
Grudging its lost grandeur
When I was the princess pirouetting under the apple boughs.
The magpie robin hopping, just hopping with joy unalloyed.
Buoyed with every little ripple of life, every moment enjoyed.
The sounds of juvenile laughter caught in a time warp
Ricochet against the walls of the box
Also the jingle of the pockets sagging
Sagging heavily with ammunition
Pebbles, and marbles
And resounding with childish trebles
Echoing the age of innocence
Dead and gone.
THE SETTING SUN
My heart writhed and moaned; groaned.
Mourned the ones trying to spring back after a colossal loss
Cursing the rapacity of those in the top storey
Trying to hijack the sunlight, unconcerned by the plight
Of the ones languishing in dismal dungeons.
She was there, in a dungeon
The disheveled, devastated woman
Looking around dazedly.
The place looked strange, slightly alien.
Next to her lay a small bundle
Sheathed in a ghostly pallor.
Smothering a sigh, she put a shaking hand
On her child’s head, as the wind whispered eerily.
“Hush, love, did you see some ghastly vision?”
Ah, the warmth of the mother’s hand was lost on the cold child.
Flickering shadows, feeble fancies
Silhouettes swirling senselessly, swaying surrealistically.
“Hush, child hush”, she mumbled, unheard; ears pricked
To the sounds of feet stumbling, tumbling, fumbling
Crumbling over the ashes left behind
From last night’s nightmare
When those in the top storey had tried to snuff out her sunlight.
The sun was dancing in the east
But her eyes saw only the west
And the setting sun.