The Untitled

Untitled

there is a portrait which is locked
in my wrist. 2B Natraj pencil
often chokes on the Fido-Dido
sketchbook. Muse’s forehead
has many lines: distinct & countable
first line is a prayer for the health
of his wife battling breast cancer.
second line denotes the loans
taken to send his son abroad.
third line is for the well being
of the pregnant daughter.
His hair is grey but doesn’t
appear so when oiled.
the oil seeps through the head
and dissolves stress.
No Old monk. No Jack Daniels.
Daily when he returns home,
his wife opens the door
and greets him; that moment is Nirvana—
the precise reason to stay alive!
His knees no longer bend but he bends it
when bowing to the God. Even Picasso
would tremble to get the detailing right.
But I have taken up the challenge
and the running title is untitled.

By Jay Gandhi

The hillside appeared brown and black
burnt wildly, ravaged to the roots, yet
The dotted greens and reddish, muddy
streams had streaks of hope, sloping

down the valley would be the new vines
soon sprouting yellow buds into flowers
White roses following up through the
thorny bushes straining to bloom and

the trekking traveller looking, stepping
with care,  excited would find a path to
Reach the top and meet the joyful pride
would he survive  in time to see the sunrise?
2019    © CER    Anjum Wasim Dar

The Maws

of our two open graves
French kiss
through the juices
moved by worms
between them.

Swap black air
breath fill each other’s
lungs
climb between
each others
spread thighs
that are the sides
of our graves
waiting to be filled.