Categories
Poetry

COVID & more…

By Umesh Bajagain

COVID

The virus came

with a blow

smacked me in the face

blew me out slow

for sometime

and left.

But the world

blew out loud

with a thud

and remained.

Die In, Die Out

.

The streets are empty

from the virus

and the souls are home

.

I sit by a window

below a thatched top

and see the storm

.

I tune in the radio

tells me to rest inside

away from the doom.

I tune in the TV

tells me to run outside

away from home.

I’m the Parrot and We’re the Parrots

.

I saw the weed and the paddy.

.
They stacked their feet and toes

hand in hand in their home-land
inundated in water.

.

It’s August and they’re happy—

they shared their share they suck from soil,
peace in harmony but aggravated by agony.
.

Are these both daughters of nature?
.

I asked in muse because it’s October.

October—when anthropomorphic humans rise

from the bed of utilitarianism.  

.

Saw them break the neck of the weed

and water the paddy.

Weed is no need and paddy is daddy,

they said.
.

“From their roots or they will be back,”

said the man,

uprooted the weeds,

and expected the grains to grow.

.

I’m the parrot and the nightingales are singing

“the blissful assonance of humans and demons”

.

Then I saw a philosopher

ankle-deep amongst the sisters

philosophizing friend-foe dichotomy.
.

Followed him the earth doctor;

 “Weed’s no need and grains our friends,”

who said so.

.

Who would know things deep

in the anguish of orphan sisters?

But then there are humans,

more prominent.

They part them,

break the bones of the bond

and make them irrelevant.

.

I’m the parrot and the nightingales are singing
“the blissful assonance of humans and demons.”

.

What destiny keeps them there?

A one meant to last a flash?

Day selects weed homeless

and night strips the grains

Twice they raised them together

only to part them later?

.

I’m the parrot and the nightingales are singing
“the blissful assonance of humans and demons.”

.

White, green, and brown balls,

they’re fed profuse.

Are they this frail

to nourish them to nausea?

Like a slaughtering animal

nursed to its brim,

they slaughter the weed young

partly by poison,

and parting them in season.

.

I’m a parrot and the nightingales are singing
“the blissful assonance of humans and demons”

.

Where do these weeds come from

where they plant only the grains?

Were they there all along

waiting for their sister to show up?

And how all along is all along?

.

It’s but humans

who treasure precedence and succession,

value estrangement,

who mend the rules of nature.

.

I’m a lone dead parrot.

We are lone dead parrots.

And the nightingales are gone.

.

Umesh Bajagain has been a Science and English Educator for twelve years. Also an editor by profession, he likes to call himself a short story writer by-choice and poet by-chance. Humour, Satire and Dark are his areas of interest. He is also a budding translator and a ghost author for various publications. His works have been published in local English dailies and had been waiting for the Big Pharma of literature. Right now, he’s working on a number of short stories and poems for an anthology.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s