Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Choking with dust,
on the way to Gaushala,
I look up to see brilliant blue skies,
we will pollute that too,

when we will find a way.

Friday, January 6, 2017


Two layers of quilt,
imprison me in the warmth,
but my thoughts run free
over hills and creeks,
over wild flowers frozen
and rocks turned to ice,
over huddled huts,
of bamboos and mud -
people who bravely survived
when the earth shook,
who now shake because of the cold.





Thursday, December 15, 2016


                                       Geet Govinda
                                       acrylic on canvas
                         
                                        Lord Krishna Hides Gopi's Clothes
                                        acrylic on canvas
                                     


                                                      Season of Hope
                                                      acrylic on canvas
Season of Hope
acrylic on canvas




KITES

It is difficult to write a poem,
especially in a winter morning,
when you have your hands tucked in a warm quilt
and they refuse to come out.

It is difficult
when your mind wanders to too many things and places,
and the television and the internet  feed you with news
of hunger and hatred.


What good is a poem,
when poems are just words in black and white,
and no one has time to read them.


What good is a poem,
when the world has gone
superficial and gaudy ,
 like those selfies
created  over applications that claim to make you look beautiful.


My poetry rusts in my soul,
and my heart is parched,
almost like those Dashain skies with absolutely no kites.                                                                                                                                                                     Chirag Bangdel