It is not enough to die

It  is not enough to die
From this world and lie.

We are to talk about it ,
From our graves to sky.

A chorus of our speech
Shall rise to empty sky

At night as wind rustles
Inside dark pipal leaves.

Some times we speak as
The whoosh of feathers

Falling all at once from
Many flying birds of air

But we speak mostly to
Ourselves in our nights.

It is not enough to have
Lived but after we die

We are to talk about it
From wherever we lie.

(Based upon conversation between Estragon and Vladimir in “Waiting for Godot” by Samuel Beckett)

Unreal estate

My own thing is this very empty space,
Since nobody has claimed this as own

Like the dog on the leash claiming his ,
Shouting at a tree’s silences in corners.

The cricket claims his own in the bush
And around a forgot house on the lake,

Now a grand view of buzz- mosquitoes.
A poet is buzz- creature  who owns all

The piece of unreal estate at midnight.
Broken verse is his document of title.

World is no pearl

The world is in your stomach
Like a demon who would eat

With excess acid to digest it.
The acid would get to a head

And cause the world to whirl.
World is a niggling headache.

The world may be perforation
Inside a stomach of erupting

Cells spurging on its rebellion.
World is white squiggly mass

Inside an oyster in the ocean.
Break it to find no pearl in it.