It is not as you think easy

It is not just as you think easy,

as pretty cool as to taste an ice cream

Or fruit salad, the cut fruits bit bit,

sip coke by a straw, and throw away

the folded and crushed straw in a bin

or leave the cute cups on the table unwashed,

I pick up a thin crushed paper,

To wipe my hands,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think, and thank Heavens;

as existence has birth and death,

followed by the traumatic path of its journey,

living and dying ordained by Him who has chosen

It to be, if it be two legged or one eyed,

giant or dwarf, pauper or affluent,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think and thank Heaven;

the rustling thin paper wails,

the kite from the ground by a

slender thread by a pulling hand,

before we became crumpled papers,

all sides tagged , whispers

we were live on trees,

We hang on to the empty balloons,

Whimper any time,

It is not as easy as you think,

I think think and thank Heaven.

,

Those,blead dark days---

Those bleak, dark, days--

Those dark days were dangerous,
like eruptions of molten lava,
as bad as to be in the rut of those raging panthers,
more dangerous to be in the midst of those
charlatans, silent spectators, watching me submit,
a caged bird like me, cannot but pour songs of
Innocence, shifting my abode of stay, much to the
chagrin of my spirit already in mortification,
Propelled by an inner voice, that ushers
me to forge ahead.

His voice

Inner voice



Why must I hold a phone with words?
When phones are active, in my heart’s
Secret chamber set by Him in Birth itself,
While you are all loquacious, clamorous,
to defy and to counter argue,
His Domain of Silence dominates,
His voice is the universal voice,
To counteract and quell the
Caterwauling, mounte banks,
His is , and would be symphony,
Conquering cacophony.

This biting cold here--

This biting cold here..

I draw my thick blanket, from my
Shivering feet to cover my parched face ,
I wriggle, shrink, beneath the cover,
Outside it is snowy and cold as a cod
My understanding little kid gives me
Cocooned pillow, me to coddle with,
Slowly I close my eyes, to visit my
land of shores, the dried palm leaves,
the tall coconut trees, in which beehives
Weave their dormitories, the sandy beaches
By which I weave a web of creativity,
Sleep creeps in as surreptitious
as a cat’s paw.

Gift of christmas.

Gift of Christmas

As Christmas is not far off,
Let us shake hands of warmth, exchanging chocolates,
Don the new vow of goodwill and mutual sympathy,
For what more comfort do you derive than
In shaking and sharing bounteous hands
Of extended wealth and mirth to the poor
And needy, He that was crucified sought
Pardon for the cruel, at least shall we not
Follow his path of forgiveness, for what more
Treasure you can treasure than the heart
Unsullied of spleen and vendetta.

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows,
the blunt meadows, the fields popped-up
with weeds, the growth of which is unaccountable,
the hungry farmer with the sickle, to unweed
the parched lands for there is no grain,
the livestock thin framed grazing on the
frail leaves got stuck up by the stake of
stones, not on the leaves or grass for
everything is parched, even the birds
and parrots dare not come, for there
is nothing to peck and beam about,
there is no bard to pour any song,
like anybody else I look up the sky,
the clouds, the beauty of the winged birds,
Journeying across, in mirthful glee,
Mocking at the land, I could hear an aircraft
zoom in the air, the innocent, convention bound,
Propitiate the rain gods, the chanting
is divine and uniform, sooner, steadier,
what are those gathering, dark clouds,
to brighten the land, to wet the dry?
my desk, my pad and quill go fertile.

It is the rains dropping

It is the rains dropping

It is the miles and miles of rains dropping,
Heaven’s Cheers dropping, dropping partial,
Sometimes here and there, It is all
the soil’s doing good and otherwise,
the learned scholars avidly opine,
may be the whims and fancies of the
Clouds, rains falling on the roof and rut,
rains dropping on the beggar and niggardly,
rains dropping on the timber and ok,
why,even on the felled wood thick, lying on
the ground beneath which the dead bird lies,
the bones jetting out, could be it is
given the watery burial, rains drop
even the anchored ship and add to the shore,
Yonder the flat , the boy floats a paper boat,
Though I want to I cannot, since a shiver
runs through me for I am feverish.

A painful pondering--

A painful pondering
It is not a trivial one day’s matter,
It is not a short term’s manoeuvre
it is not a year’s painful trauma
it is a solid five decades of parasites’
rapacious plundering into a vale,
It is a piteous wonder why should God
send such hounds into the smooth flowing
haven of placid helpless, creatures, one such was
Pushed fifty years ago to grow with the
Overflowing venom awfully inherited
From the womb where it came from,
Every minute’s progress was from the
Lust personified Mother
itself a putrefied commodity,
every penny by the itch of flesh, scratching,
every day’s food it swallowed by cunning, craft,
dubious knock of the house, every lie, every
Blasphemy, strong in its strangulation.
A victim of its own venom to be.

His Tennis court Experience

, His tennis court experience

It was in the Tennis court where he lost
and where a Revelation struck him,
where the meaning of Life was instilled,
he was cocksure of his previous experience,
confident of terrific, ripping success,
a sudden muscle pull , he knew he was losing,
Indigestible as hard as to find a mosquito
In plate of curd rice, he wriggled and wrestled
dashed his tennis racket against the wall,
emotion and empathy and undeniable
defeatism pushed him into a flat position,
resilience and despair drove him into a dream,
what did the cross that appear message him?
The cross signified the criss-cross of life’s
Meandering, mysterious miasma,
The warp and weft of the looming
as slender and as flexible
and as brittle as the dew drops of our life.

Another funeral averted

Another funeral averted.

Praise be to my Mentor, Kudos to my guru,
had it not been to my Guru’s timely,
benign intervention ,sequel to the almighty’s
boon to me, there would have been yet another
ghastly funeral, a Machiavellian plot,
those days when the beguiled, short-tempered
was no more, when his obsequies were being held,
when I was pushed to the noisy kitchen,
with my silence and ignorant of the
Surreptiously boiling, envenomed situation,
The truly guilty yet like a proud peacock,
Covering her sin was sauntering about,
Conniving ly convincing the gathered ones,
The poisoned arrow was turned against me,
My Mentor was strong by me
Praise be to Him who stands by me and my close-nit.

The Time is yet to come for them

The Time is yet to come for them—
The Time is for them yet to come
to run away, those plotting parasites,
for their perfumed bodies cannot do away
with their surreptitious nocturnal navigations,
these blithe night birds are known for their
Public daylight dances too.
They feel their flesh is itching,
day by day to abed more and more
men and in bath rooms and bathtubs ,
they dwell and delight their most
Expandable luxuries. Rippling! Killing!
Are their experiences but it is painful
for us for they see through their
sexy eyes , we the innocent ones.
The time is yet to come for them to run away,
for their coffers are to be filled.
No time limit, no clock would chime,
for they would rather pawn the clock
as they do their dignity,
the Time is yet to come for the
run away jingling bells.

what is this business of running away

What is this business of running away?

What is this business of running away from?
And why? Those in whose blood the runaway
Passion is ingrained, those seasoned sinners
in whom the rumour of others running away
is settled as a sediment in a river bed,
or a poisonous gas far beneath the well
in which we die of asphyxiation:
can we think of at the moment,
running away to the far off English countryside
to breathe into the forest aviation,
to wish to have a sickle to cut the
stem of the tree overflowing with sweet
water to quench our thirst,
or to sit by the lake to view these
birds with coloured beaks to
peck at peaches and plums,
to run away to a nearby cave
in which an antique idol
sits as if in a penance, shall we
run back to our homes to have a
Shower to run away to the tubes,
to run to the realms of classics,
to bask into the fields of poetry
and modern fiction.Yes!we are
far away from this mundane world.