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Best Poems From
NIKHIL PAREKH
(27/08/1977)
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153.
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31st December—My ultimate hero…
Irrespective of whether they were extraordinarily happy; or whether
they inconsolably fretted in the aisles of utter desperation—with the
gruesome blackness of extinction ominously maiming each of their
senses,
Irrespective of whether they were perennially successful; or whether
they miserably floundered a countless times even before alighting a
single foot—unnecessarily losing it- in their bouts of whimsical
fidgetiness,
Irrespective of whether they were unsurpassably rich; or whether they
profusely slavered at the most diminutive morsel of food—brutally
emaciating since a record number of days and treacherously freezing
nights,
Irrespective of whether they were in unconquerable space; or whether
they were left to uncouthly stagnate on the fecklessly sordid streets
and hackneyed gutter bins of the country's largest slum,
Irrespective of whether they sang a boundless tunes in the praise of
the Lord; or whether they sadistically licked up every pint of spit
emitted by the vindictively trouncing devil,
Irrespective of whether they bustled as perfectly symbiotic
busy-bodies; or whether they aimlessly loitered through the lanes of
slandering oblivion—which'd nothing but hoarse regret to offer as a
pathetic end-product,
Irrespective of whether they were unassailable magicians; or whether
all what they dared touch; sullenly metamorphosed into frigidly
incoherent bits of lame dust,
Irrespective of whether they were invincible perfectionists; or
whether they perpetually adhered to the famous axiom 'To Err is Human'
and immortalized the same with their relentless failures,
Irrespective of whether they were triumphantly persevering; or whether
they lazed and endlessly lazed even under the most acrimoniously
scorching sun; just because their bones creaked a trifle whilst
getting up,
Irrespective of whether they were brilliantly optimistic; or whether
they lugubriously crumbled every instant reminiscing the mortuaries of
the dreadfully asleep past,
Irrespective of whether they were unflinching patriots; or whether
they darted at the speed of lightening for cover; at the tiniest
insinuation of the most imperceptible danger,
Irrespective of whether they were blessedly fantasizing; or whether
they lecherously circumscribed their entire lives within the
constraints of the monotonously clerical corporate office,
Irrespective of whether they were unconquerably truthful; or whether
they were brutally trapped in satanically parasitic web of
lies—resorting to it inevitably to find that ultimate escape route in
today's manipulative world,
Irrespective of whether they existed on the freezing north pole; or
whether they compassionately warmed each ingredient of their blood
under majestic rays of the Sun; extreme south,
Irrespective of whether they conversed in articulate English; or
whether they uninhibitedly recharged the atmosphere with every
vibrancy of indigenous language that was spoken under the Sun,
Irrespective of whether they were the perfectly synchronized
gentlemen; or whether they resided in rustically mud baked
huts—bursting at the seams to accommodate an innumerable more of their
kind,
Irrespective of whether they were Christ fearing Christians; or
whether they were an equally Bhagwan/Allah/Buddha fearing 'Hindus'/
'Muslims'/ 'Buddhists' and every other sacred tribe on earth divine,
Irrespective of whether they wholeheartedly celebrated wondrous X-Mas;
or whether they zealously indulged in the lights and colors of;
'Holi', 'Diwali', 'Muharram', 'Id' and countless other sacred
festivals of the likes,
O! Yes—Irrespective of anything and everything-On the 31st of
December every year—all of them joined hands in one insuperable mass
together; embraced each other without the tiniest of discrimination
-to welcome the newest dawn of all times—the dawn of a joyously
happy new year—the first sunrise of a magical 1st January….
(c) (r) copyright by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
Nikhil Parekh
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154.
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9 Months
9 MONTHS OF painstaking labor,
9 months of confinement in Luke warm recesses of womb,
9 months of parasitic nourishment from mother food,
9 months of luxury cushioning in chambers of slime,
9 months of oblivion from vagaries of life,
9 months of proximity with rich mass of intestine,
9 months of blissful sleep sheltered from light,
9 months of swim in bountiful fluid encapsulating body,
9 months of gentle caress by her hands occasionally gliding over inflated part of her belly,
9 months of complete suspension in elastic skin pouch,
9 months of developing skin and formation of calcium bone,
9 months of perpetual ecstasy moving tiny legs and hands,
9 months of incessant heat ensuring future health,
9 months of carrier comfort in perambulators of flesh,
9 months of pitch dark existence with blurred premonitions of beautiful mother,
9 months of perspiration blending profusely with gastric juice,
9 months of anxious wait for an encounter with all living and created,
the time is up; multiple day wait seems concluded,
dazzling light of the sun blinds me in entirety,
compassionate soft hands of my mother raise me to the almighty,
as I open my eyes; emit my first incoherent scream,
silencing worldly commotion with innocent cries of fresh birth.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
Nikhil Parekh
Read more: mother poems, food poems, birth poems, future poems, beautiful poems, sleep poems, light poems, dark poems, sun poems, time poems, swimming poems
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155.
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A JOB IS A JOB…
Just as your job was to blasphemously abuse every religion that wasn’t yours; my job was to unassailably unite the wretchedly dissipated planet once again into the religion of Omnipotent humanity,
Just as your job was to cold-bloodedly annihilate forest after jubilant forest for erecting sinister edifice; my job was to sow an infinite new seedlings of prosperity every unfurling instant of the day and shimmering night,
Just as your job was to sacrilegiously desecrate every temple; mosque; church and monastery as the greatest agnostic alive; my job was to inexhaustibly pray—humbly bending down to the fervently Omnipresent footsteps of the Almighty Creator,
Just as your job was to ruthlessly paralyze countless a girl child right itself in the invincibly sacrosanct womb; my job was to altruistically lend every ounce of my mind; body and shoulder to those aimlessly shivering orphans without a roof,
Just as your job was to shoot an infinite invidious bullets right into the innocuous skull; my job was to heal every conceivable wound on the trajectory of this fathomless earth; with the magical ointment of brotherhood that ran inherently in each of my ardent veins,
Just as your job was to shrewdly trade everything on this globe for fecklessly meaningless money; my job was to pen down an infinite lines of mesmerizing poetry and solely follow my heart—which made me the richest organism alive,
Just as your job was to indiscriminately make fun and endlessly slander every piece of weakness in this world; my job was to become the selflessly compassionate walking stick—of all those old; infirm; haplessly staggering and maimed,
Just as your job was to unthinkably molest and trade your very own mother for a few sleazy wads of currency; my job was to become that unflinchingly faithful son of every couple who was banefully childless,
Just as your job was to interminably inundate the reservoirs of ghastly hell with more and more innocent blood; my job was to spawn paradise at every conceivable quarter of mother earth out of thin air—solely on the foundations of unconquerable love,
Just as your job was to baselessly condemn and spit upon every tangible and intangible thing that you felt and sighted; my job was to appreciate and be in due servitude of God’s unceasingly effulgent and tirelessly proliferating Universe,
Just as your job was to acrimoniously scrap even the last traces of your inimitably invaluable heritage and kin; my job was to bountifully procreate an innumerable of my own—contributing my own bit towards the chapters of eternal newness and creation,
Just as your job was to flagrantly lie in every tawdrily damned word that you uttered; my job was to perseveringly evolve a whole new civilization of only truth; which was ruled solely by the unsurpassable sky of righteousness,
Just as your job was to sadistically rejoice the morbidly fetid skeleton in every of your breath; my job was to make day-to-day life of every inexplicably thwarted organism; a joyously unfettered celebration,
Just as your job was to pugnaciously maim even the most infinitesimal trace of creative in its very roots; my job was to uninhibitedly let loose every frazzled cranny of my brain—in order to replenish each aspect of my existence with the uncurbed richness of the Lord’s creation,
Just as your job was to cast a spell of deplorable doomsday upon every organism rollicking in the true spirit of life; my job was to be the lantern of unparalleled optimism to each uncontrollably shivering form; by the grace of the Omniscient Creator,
Just as your job was to bombard every cognizable corner of the earth with wanton hatred and satanic war; my job was to solely disseminate the ideals of celestial peace and harmony; which was the only religion that every form of God ever taught,
Just as your job was to miserably lull in the graveyards of disastrously asphyxiating solitariness; my job was to ardently voice the sounds of mellifluous undefeated life-ubiquitously in the ecstatically palpitating atmosphere,
Just as your job was to barbarously behead every new-born on the spuriously sacrificial altar in order to extend your own life; my job was to fearlessly fight till my very last breath—lay my life instantaneously for the sake of the glory of my venerated motherland,
B’cause please understand O! mercilessly pulverizing devil—that every job; whether indescribably bad or good; is still a job in hand; a job to be done; or as they’ve been saying since times immemorial that “A JOB IS A JOB”…
©®copyright by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
Nikhil Parekh
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156.
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A Palace of dreams
Spongy toes project awkwardly,
from dark flesh of gentle feet,
waxy liquid in blue bottles,
leather bound books laid in dust,
quintals of paper sheets flying astray,
dingy bulbs cutting dark holes,
flashy portraits stuck to red brick,
antiquated moulds of varnished wood,
ceramic squares of lavatory tiles,
ergonomic bulge of fantasy pillows,
scented sprays, with a blend of antiseptic,
colored tablets of soap, a range of toiletry,
sliding cabinets of solid steel,
thick drapery of rich curtain spread,
shielding stringent rays of sunlight,
solitary vents for cool air,
sprawled water beds with tepid water,
reliable tetra winged ceiling fan,
with switchboard panels pummeled to concrete,
electronic gadgetry on revolving rubber,
black pointed arrows of the giant father clock,
exaggerated crumbling polished wall paint,
tall framework of slanted mirrors,
crisp shirts of pure cotton floss,
grey linen flannels hanging down,
semicircular marble arches with potted plants,
strips of black scotch tape spread wildly,
translucent glass panes of window shutters,
shaven wood scalps of voodoo witchcraft,
the large oak tree at visible heights,
shooting through solid foundations,
with shadows of ecstasy lurking stealthily,
a glittering heap of silver coins,
solid iron doors with heavy bolts,
providing loads of security,
escalating fragrance of tangible comfort,
with a pandemonium of chorused voices,
is all what i have in my room.
(c) (r) copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. all rights reserved.
Nikhil Parekh
Read more: concrete poems, water poems, silver poems, dark poems, father poems, tree poems, red poems, mirror poems, dream poems
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