Friday, May 24, 2019

Love's strong strings attire ( guardian)

No more tears, no more sigh,
to this blessed garden of aroma
I come with a  smile springing
in my eyes, helium of  flow
consoling me, my love, my safe barn
opening up new vistas;
Looking above spider’s web,
Perpetuation of its progeny and love
Hope in the coils surviving far ahead;
It is more than a  paradise, A Bliss
And  beautitude.

Let some winter’s cool garb
cover me, let not any frost         
 corrode me into  empty cascade
 of  shyness  and  nothingness.
Let love grow into multitudes
and fountains of faith  nourish
till I retire to   a  firm foothold
of  solidity of ditty’s  moods.
There comes a  Diana, her chaste
Looks dipped in cup of Truth
Guiding me firm and soft.  

Friday, May 17, 2019

Catch of the day ( Guardian)

Catch of the day (  Guardian)

No car, no van, outside the therapist,
In the sense, I have not come by  car;
but distinct far away, there are many
in queue,  a web of real and unreal show
for   those who interpret that way.
Life  is complex, but what I am holding
is much more complex, don’t know how
to define and show; transparency is there,
along with slippery line. I ponder,
life cannot be sieved like a fish or whale,
or   imitated like  cockerel with hope of
morrow in the Dawn; Just as the concept of
Life  itself is ambiguous or mysterious,
This slippery thing is solidity by itself,
 no mean object of creation; also a part
of the Universe, now it is slipping  away.

Saturday, May 11, 2019

ply into the void.

  ply into the void

Gone are those Golden chariot ed days,
When seasons failed not, when Sky
merged with The Blue and pots did not
often come to the streets aligned
 with morbid  drought piercing hot.

Giant lorries laden with cans,
 brittle  plastic bottles tied up
to a  knot circling  boxes;
Speed past the jammed crowd,
VIPs  throbbing with   angst of thirst;

Thirst for seats in colleges, clerical
Posts in offices, secure seats in podium,
A card game before them, dipping life
Into  a  chance of luck, catch and throw.
Automated signal is the same for  all.

Summer’s  heat with a  nudge,
driving people  crazy with a force
of opening refrigerator, duel lordship;
ruling monster and luxurious slave
 in every household  with cubes of ice.

Still  a  Victorious pot in corner
Jeer at the machines, when power fails!



That was , IS , the age ( Different approach)

After   Guardian,)  Suppose  

That was , IS ,  the age  ( Different approach)

Dressing it, carrying it in my arms
Wherever I go, combing its hair,
Feeding it with a  spoon, that is,
That was my life breath, my commitment
Infusing my life into it. Suppose, doll,
Molly I call it, should break her dead,
I would rush to the doctor for the first aid.

I am dressed neat and trite, suppose
 sun recedes and sudden cloudy showers,
my  cute doll getting drenched,  I feel not panicky,
pull out my umbrella and protect both of us,
rush to the nearby shady tee or park
to stay a while, consoling my Molly
and wait till clouds clears.

 I am in serious, thinking mood, suppose,
My mind  propels me for higher pursuits ,
I tend to put my doll for sleep,
Ask my granny to pray for  a while,
 Both for me  and my cute Molly
Until I return from my errands
Thanking heaven for all bliss.

 I sit  and Pray and Pray
The world continues to prick
and prick and prick, I am pretty sure
it is the way of the  world, I go by the
dictum, do what your dictates tell you,
leaving the rest to the Will of The Almighty.        
Heaven is the ultimate watcher.

Saturday, May 04, 2019

AFTER Near Helikon by Trumbull Stickney ( Guardian) A query of introspection

AFTER    Near Helikon by Trumbull Stickney  ( Guardian)

  A query of introspection

Whither is the mood?  Whither my favorite
Mountain song and  ranges, where memory
hangs still a canopy unalloyed and steadfast;
At the end of cool summer’s day, when  at times
Pockets go dry  and wry, Muse at your beck and call
Sits by the shore and sings along a lonely way,
 Hymns and odes  sky and  wheeling surf
Roll ever  the sands and moon shines. My troubled
Life  hums again on the mosaic of the past
Where opulence and glory pouring in.
Like many thoughtless and more on spending spree,
me too; failed to catch the Riches by forelock;
still ringing the parrots and peacocks dance
on the tall woody branches; dilapidated house,
where ghosts supposedly haunt still, the lone girl
shuts the window opposite the grilled house.  

Saturday, April 27, 2019

After Breath ( Guardia

  After  Breath (  Guardian)

What is death?  Sudden
cessation of breath
or stopping of palpitation,
or pulse coming down
lulling all consciousness;
unanswered question, pain
accompanying our beginning
of existence into this life;
misery of mysterious age’s
advent into the fabric of our selves.

Yet, the parties and functions
 Celebrate our moods and moorings
like the balloons going up, hovering
in air, until blown by sudden wiffs .
yonder, husband and wife delight
“in the quietness” of children’s sleep,
Their future,  vagaries  of life
 and perilous paths and voyages
veering round unknown blizzards.          
In their togetherness, there is  silent
Exchange of breath and love.

Friday, April 19, 2019

After Guardian's "porch light"

  After  Guardian’s     porch light

It is a two way  house of ancient
Ceiling and pillars supporting the
Pyal and halls where children after
A dip into the steam, come round
and round the same with a  merry
song in tune with the parrots on
tree tops repeating  the calls. Cocks
and hen and geese guffawing.
Mills grinding flour and chilies,
with a deafening sound far off,         
a girl peeps out of portico with
a handbook of sums of homework,
enjoying life’s handwork, ducks
in ponds dripping  with a  message,
be cool ever with  a farsighted vision.
Porch light, glimmering through
For  a dawn of cheers and serendipity.


Saturday, April 13, 2019



He is  an old-timer,  man of gardening
Herbs and herbal therapy in his wallet
Green leaves and  Tulsi paste  in vial,
Proportionate seasoning with mint,
His cough ,his congested chest,
Would  crave for relief soon,
Self medication is his forte;

Dying anchorite  would scribble ,
Scribble  till his muse goes for rest.
His ginger garlic paste  brings him
Back to this normal world, his dying  
Soul would seek redemption every minute.
He screams “ I am  alive with redoubled
Vigor and fate  cannot harm me”