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.

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.

                                       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