Sunday, February 17, 2019

The ruins an Golden Age

Come to the verdant country side,
A walk by the salving brooks and           
Majestic hills, where medicinal plants grow
Copious and  charming, with mystic songs
always transporting you to a world beyond
your ken and  wit; where are those colonies now?
They are dying and defunct like the dried fallen
Leaves. The quay stones speak volumes of  their
Pride  and history ; ruins are our once jewels ;

How often, urchins played under the tamarind tree,
Young pair of lovers indulged in romantic  songs,
While some others  rocked the cradles with sleeping
Babies, awaiting hot lunch in packs plantain leaves.              
I go back and think of Golden  Ages, when our
Grandparents  voicing from high hills and mountains
Echoing their cultural grit ever watching us:
I want to relive those  Golden  Age.

Saturday, February 09, 2019

A fantastic journey

A fantastic journey

You  came to us , after cozy
Imprisonment in mother’s
Smoothly walled chambers,
 Full-blown after ten months
Or premature  as in some cases;

Could you float  and see albumen and blood?
me also, poised  in the same question,
the tough passage was for mother
an ordeal and  indescribable rebirth for both ;

not a  ghost from tomorrow, but make
and remake of  recent and  yesteryears’
glue and  picture kicking out of the  chamber.
Oblivious of the hazards of outside world.

You are galloping from timeless and silence
To cacophony and  disporder,where life is
A null and chaos and cutthroat competition.
A world where life is only a   shadow and unreal.
Wondering at the creation and wonder is not the word.

Before and after--- the burial ground

Before and after---  the burial ground

Life’s  pristine journey
begins swift as bee, buzzing  round,
for the sane and genuine grieving
 only in burial ground;

 Moments  of glamour and gloom,
like the waning and waxing
 Of anything materialistic- it is
  the  stagnant  water -previous show;

 what is the kernel in this body?
  What is the soul hiding, where,
 In the mega project of flesh and sin
 Not knowing the Unreachable.  

   A little ganga water purifying,
   Only our exterior, our thaw less
  still ruminating  the  events  leading
   to our bathos and perfunctory roll.

    Aftermath of revel and rebel
    mad  rush for attorney and property,
     signing and  countersigning
   shadowing all our efficacious deals;

Saturday, February 02, 2019

Love! Never lose hope

  Love! never lose hope

Ever since  His creation, Love is the
Dome on which many sat and  dreamt
to breed and glow,despite  opposition;
respite and  discard and  for many
it grows to munificent heights.

There are many ways to branch off,
Suspicion and  anger and  bliss
hamper   to  distract and  quell
our mood  of lure and care; yet

love blossoms when right choice
delights and gives no room for
doubt or uncanny apprehension.
His wings are pure  as Dove’s

Fancy in flights high and sustained
Joy reveling in lasting  faith.  Let us
Please him, catch him, hold him
Until he flies saturated with wings
To untold bliss of heaven

Saturday, January 26, 2019

Calabash’ A clash of ideas

‘Calabash’      A clash of ideas

What do you think of God’s creation?
  Very first creation? A succulent orange
Plump apple or fig covered by leaves?
A rosy pot of luck or white  jasmine in
the garden  permeating fragrance?
The  first man was out of stick and mud,
Fashioned according to his full fledged
design and  care and caution. But  Man
described him as “ shoddy bricolage”
expressed a  peculiar desire he wanted
a man to befriend with .A calabash was
the ultimate choice, God would have
certainly been bemused at Man’s requisite
beyond explanation or solution. Original
mud and stick and roundness  now, what a
contrast in ideas? God is bewildered now;  
but man and woman -all the more in  a state
of stupor, decision less moments. What we
do call this?

Saturday, January 19, 2019


Here  is  my white swan
Sweet and beautiful,
Cute  like a  doll curled
Yet full of  zest. Again
 ever   a   prided pleasure
to watch young cygnets:

flying high, close to the  water,
I wonder if swans play jugglery;
Cant construe if whistling is warning
A peculiar throb  of its vibration.
 A  music I hear but not a premonition
 Of death. A music prolonging  
to  a life time memory and logo .
Oh! My swan, my boon!

Sunday, January 13, 2019

Paradise lost book Two - Satan’s move on the go

Paradise  lost  book Two -   Satan’s   move  diabolical on the go.- 

Angels’  talk, which could not be relished by  Satan;
He was  quiet, a  little while, but being a  seasoned
Politician and expert in maneuvering things, looked
Around  to proceed  his  lecture. Satan is glad his sea
Should find  a shore  springing alacrity ; shocking rude
Elements  on all sides though unmanageable. Life’s path
Is equally endangered as between    Charybdis  ally ;
Man ‘s fall is Satan’s  bliss and boon. Waiting for more
 Chances  to nullify man’s hope and  thwart GOD’S WILL.
Chaos and pandemonium and parasites, siding the evil
Prevail the  chosen spot where Satan now reigns. God’s
Plan if be benign and constructive, Satan’s plan  malign
And destructive, yet would not yield. This world  of multi
Special creations and  carve of divergent  Nature, Satan
Always aimed to turn against God. He always rules in his
Mischievous  orb. We have to live and  endure in this
Universe of  mystery and  mischief and venom  with a
Wary eye on the evil mongers and poisonous asps
Ready to sting and on  and on.

Sunday, January 06, 2019

Takes after (Guardian Lavernock by Saunders Lewis

After  life's adversities...

Sea and  sky, song and  shore,
We  lie and chat on the pebbles’ shore,
Skylark’s swoop and song
Ringing like a  prophetic note,
Through the ascension, we merge
coil along  the Beauty of the Universe.

We think of the past, present and future,
get annoyed by the pitfalls of life,
 hoping life would be better, wished
life could have taken us through  safe
moorings and  ended in river valley of
blessed spot. But now all in divergent shapes,
praying  The Almighty that Life would  steer
into a  calm and steady sail. What wealth remains
after all turbulence and adversities?
Only moors and sandy shores,
Skylark descending slow into a
lifeless empty  passage.