Tuesday, May 29, 2007

( 164) The God of all things.

   (164)      The God of all things


The God of all things, all pervading,
whether you sit on majestic throne,
with a rod of scepter, keeping the laws
like a regulator turning this left and right,
else things will be in a rust and crumble,
or beef or flesh of a fox gored by the lion,
be it in the form of green leaves sprouting
or stem shooting, or leaves withered like
dead bones to be powdered,
oh! The God of all things
creep under the sofa like a fairy,
or a merman fishing deep in the Blue,
be the form of fire emitting fire,
Fire destroying fire and livestock,
fire engulfing straw and crops,
Canonfodder and sugarcane,
Oh! The God of all things,
You hide in the hinges of the door,
or through the rills of banister,
You spread on the thatched roof,
hidden underneath like a proof,
God of all things, be you the life giving
Source of the embryo in the womb
of the mother,
oh! The God of all things, be thou the
Spirit of sanity, sensibility and sanctity,
in any man envenomed by
undue doubt and calumny
when poison in cup of wine,
poured by the mistress,
or  a woman of close-knit  bond,
The God of all things,
You are the ultimate
and things profound and Divine!

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Gobbulle gobbulle 158)

Gobbulle gobbulle  158

I want to gobble a bottle of plain soda,
To quench my thirst in the hot sun,
After rummaging the library in the city,
Sweat and sweat and sweat,
Search after a theme of fine humour,
Ran down to a shop of snacks
Gobbled and gulped a bottle of soda
In turns and twists,
of plain water, wet my skirt through my jacket,
the gulping sound of water down my throat,
the note of gobbulle, gobbulle,
the rhythm of fine humour,
fun in the gulp followed by many hiccoughs,
gobbulle and gobbulle.

Graying into green 140

Graying into green  140

Upon the graying of my hair, the roots getting weakened
I am inclined not towards dying, scratch the cerebellum
to get dragged into the past of agitation and anxiety,
of mixed ignorance, desperate roving and curiosity,
like a bewildered pilot in the sky, in the mid air,
Can’t afford to get stuckup, surfacing neither,
yet diving, delving, into the past, the green memory
Is bitter and painful, takes the crushed bittergauard?
an inevitable therapy, gulping the stigma at one stroke,
keep counting the unaccounted devils’ disciples,
dismayed at my folly believing every nonbeliever of
the conscience, I log off from my computer to
make a trip towards my counter side, how heartening
to see the fields of sugarcane and plantain leaves,
the farmer’s wife offers the curd rice with the mango pickle,
the speeding squirrels and the rats from their improvised moles,
is it a fear of survival or a free play in the interface
of the paddy mounds, I know not,
At times we too crave to escape from the inevitable rut.

Will you come tonight?

Will you come tonight?

will you come tonight?
like an ethereal minstrel
to pour the melody of oaken flute
of solace and soothing words
into our distressed soul,
and the tired bodies- me and my son,
lurk in a corner, need
your feather touch of comfort,
will you come tonight?
will you come tonight?
like a piercing gush of wind
blowing the tin plate on the
open terrace of the flat,
will you come tonight to make
love and romping romance?
as scandalized by them, when
truly you are unseen and
Shapeless and devoid of sex,
Will you come tonight to gore
the horrendous and view the weird?
Will you come tonight?
to watch the shutters of the
departmental store down but
still the humanity rush to make
the last minute purchase of curd and
cucumber for the next day,
for the salad on the plates,
to counteract the heat and sweat,
will you come tonight?
to sing lullaby
to many unborn babies,
in and around the environment.
Yes, you will come tonight,
And many nights to come
to protect the inmates of the house.

The night is tough

The night is tough

The night is tough,
the night is indeed to-u-gh,
the cool breeze through my window
Through the embroidered curtain,
also fails for the trees fail,
the cute little friend,
my pc does not cooperate
for my fingers refuse to ply
on the pure white keyboard,
a timely gift by my uncle,
as sensible people are wont to react
keeping in tune with the times,

The white majestic key-board,
Neatly truncated with black letters,
just as a beautiful white neck,
ornate with black crystal necklace,
is momentarily idle on the table,
the usually roaring beach is calm
and the surrounding trees
are sedate and withhold the branches,
a sadism and cessation to keep
mankind in tantrum,

The night is tough
for only creatitivity and serenity
Pervades and anything pure and good
is tough and uncompromising,
the night is tough,
for there is no uncouth flavor of mundane
distraction and there is no bestial
for there is no man in the house,

The night is not tough,
for my inspirational thoughts
fly back on the wheels
for I am drowsy and fall into sleep.

160) The path

   160)   The path


When I am on the road grueling
on the prospect of a pathless journey,
sweat and struggle make me
run like a wounded elephant calf,
yes, the young calf, timid,
runs towards a pit
to fall to escape the wrath of the giants
of forest, such sights are familiar to me,
Me ,too the sight of a path is dim and distant,
in the thick forest of multi paths
negotiated by spiraling trees and fences,
the elephant the panther have
hidden behind some bushy plants,
peep out after rocky bombs stop pouring;
you counteract many a thorny bushy vile,
just as a knave wandering too many paths,
or a pig weltering in the slime,
too many paths ill suited,
you swoon to select a path ,
the business of path finding is
laborious and eluding,
I go to the clear pond where
the swan sways boat like and the
grazing cows by the green border
clear my inhibitions,
the path of Nature is the path
Preferred and practiced.