1.

Once, we were farmers
Every morning, at the bark of a crow
Many a yawns gasped, and
Sung songs tilting the fertile soil,
No urea, no phosphate
A spade, a tilt and a pair of bullocks, and
Look today, a pair of goblets:
One in the hilltop, and another
Deep inside the psyche, and
All the sermons, shadows of occupation

My dear, I was destined to forget the servitude:
Farmers were long death!

Recently, my heart beats rather insane
My cold hands desperately seeks trigger happy guns, and
My eyes, somebody told: red, red!

Dead Poem!

In the land of dead
All the poets write dead poems
On obituaries and dreams
Without graves and shrouds, and
Death becomes just another face of life.

Far away from my land
I still try to smell the dead,
In my dead poems, through
The faces I see and images I grow up with
And all you can do is: read,
Read these lines, without knowing
I am bleeding!

A Poem!

I am a poet, who wear bullet proof vest
I am a poet, who is afraid of stray bullets
I am a poet, who dies every night with his words;
And I am a wasted poet.

Siroy Lily was sweetheart,
I have had a photo of it.
Now I have another fence,
And few more graves.

That day, I proposed a Thangkhul Girl
Today, I know a Meitei widow
And my mother wants me to marry
But the girl is caught in the curfew.

I am a poet.
I know I can write poems in hurry
I know I can chide them all
Guns, roses, condoms and strikes
But I am not sure
If I am afraid?

A cozy gun, hidden below my pillow
Another rose in my garden
And few used condoms in streets;
A frightened poet isn’t enough,
I know strikes are coming.

Marriage Of Stones!

I walk towards my grave, unknowingly
And the petite pebbles, they
Promise to be my mate, in the journey;
And I accept the proposal in fancy.

My feet, few joints and
Other incredible limbs pray, and
Each one of them takes on the journey.

You need little prayers and
Not so pleasant pleas,
They are afraid:
The bondage, the delight and the haunting!

Little beyond the gaze,
I see my grave
Few sprouts of marigold saplings
Few careless cinders, and
A tidy mound.

My petite mates, they
Ask me questions unknown, and
Wanted me to molest their inhibitions
But the journey continues
Chants, garlands, pipers.

A beautiful marriage.

Dull Limbs!

Me, as a human being, is dull
My body parts are of no use
They are rather mundane
And I hardly refer them with their names.

Each night,
When the whole world sleeps;
Each one of them tries to wake me up
They writhe and score
And the bed sheet,
It mopes the bleed, silently.

The stain of blood and the sweat;
It smell trivial to my senses
And I continue to ponder over a dream.

A dull dream for a dull person!

My waking dreams and
Few talking wheels of the night,
They furnish my living aspirations and
I travel few miles more
Fighting for the limbs that I don’t know and
I observe few more genial events for my dreams.

My dull limbs,
They can’t see the pitiless depiction of life
Instead, they watched the blood stained sheets
And appreciate the misread in the stain.

Passion Poems!

Passion poems
Like crimes of passion,
Live in tender infatuation, towards
Unknown slavery, and
We mere mortals seek fancy pages
Like tombstones in the desert.