A few ramblings

Folding the teguments of groundnuts
in piece of paper, once very useful,
both now crushed as waste,
I throw them into the stream,

In a stream of conscious mood,
Sit on rocky stone, a stand by,
let them go, allowing your
Vagabond ideas limited freedom.

Nearby a tent, the playful urchins
enjoy burning up all old,
on the one side paper boat,
burning up, the other side,

Bonfire engulfs all old tattered clothes,
a vow is taken new roots in my pages,
it is difficult to erase old memories,
Promising, they usher into new vistas,

a facelift for the old,
the plastic is recycled into
a new silver wrapper,
the bonfire still glows ,engulfs,

painter busy for his livelihood,
sturdy brush coats the scribbled,
the painted wall, still is wall,
Yet New year booms with messages.

Seclusion and silence

Silence after the intrigue,
What can you do philosophy followed
by the pelican monsters of king Lear,
after the battening storm, there is silence,

when you look at the canopy, the galaxy,
your neck racking, countless stars,
still the planes pierce through
puffy clouds, silence after the

unanswered mystery of the universe,
how life is instilled into the embryo,
the unborn in the cozy womb,
‘child the father of the man’

Cuddled within four walls
absolute silence till it
comes out into this uncanny ,
drum beating silences the

Resilience into silence,
after the last breadth,
silence in the congealed blood,
closed eyes, silence accompanies

to the disrupting graveyard,
but the ashes and the bones
weep for the charred, wailing
coupled with silence.

Bath tub's wailing

You make a monopoly of living
in my oval spaced white shiny
construction, you rub the tub,
time and space beyond your
jurisdiction and limit,
surfing blocks my head,
your degraded shampooed
hair lines spread their
wings to spoil my glow,
they coil round and round
to move not further,
I know not how long this
Serfdom to endure.

Their survival

Staring at the prominent four
corners of the walls of my
un frequented upstairs room,
for it is a lumber area,
but the cobwebs lumber
Not, they have to meticulously
build their web of survival,
for me it is a rejection as waste,
yet how much of purblind
plan goes into weaving and weaving,
their white layers, flimsy abode,
one stroke of firm brush to
undo their artifact,
for some it is a total rejection,
while for the weaver,
it is a survival.

She thought in a different way

When merry bells of Christmas jingling,
trees glowing in bulbs and plants,
Pave way for rejuvenation,
Singing in Carols, keep her spirits,
high and glowing,
there is the other side of her
thinking, as always the other side
of the coin, how much of
Crucifixion, struggle on the
Cross, incarceration behind
this celebration, thought of
Cross made her cross.

Holiday

Holiday

You came from a village,
Sari tucking up,
Oil oozing out into
Your forehead,
Your tightly hung pigtail

with a ribbon,
bath by the well,
a relished custom,
now a shower
is ever once you

stepped into the city,
a lavender aroma
you imbibe in the
oval shaped bath tub,
for hours together,


I made a Holyday of my Holiday
assigning the task of cleaning
and wiping the floor, to you,
which you refused, for you are
a totally changed city girl.

forgetting your roots.
I sit before the idols
closing my eyes, while
the TV is on with full
volume before you,

for you the Holiday,
for me the Holyday.

God too, the pretender.

God at the threshold of
His unique mansion, sits,
reclines , for it has to be
Eternal watch,

Spreads with His
ever vigilant eyes,
don’t you ask me if He is
short sighted, or long sighted,

He is inarguably, Omniscient,
innumerable transaction in His
market place, buyers and loosers,
amidst incessant sinning,

giving a nod or go by,
God does not grin, but saliently
Smiles hoping against hope
that man would correct one day,

He can never be Myopic,
but only extending His long rope
of forgiveness, extending many chances,
we pull it fast and soon,

He watches, waits, sees, the
Struggling humanity, of its
Self inflicted pain of
Thrombosis , applies the

Balsam of remittance,
Man ,again revokes his
addiction of sin and mischief,
God pretends not to take notice of,

As we pretend, He too pretends,
how long this charade prevails,
we know not, too high He is,
how far, beyond our ken.

Time still ran out.

In my childish curiosity,
thinking I was at
Wonder-work, lockedup
my watch, a precious gift,
double covered in gabardine
in a beautifully painted,
floral decorated box of iron.

Times ran out, I grew up with
the maturing times,
the rusty box started peeling out,
the incarcerated clock
stopped, no tick tock,
but time runs on, on,
my wall clock caringly,

destroys the eerie silence
of the house,
Time runs on,on.

It means much to me,
hope an undeniable fact it to be,
living within a square,
life within four walls,you stare,
breathing and moving
bereft of business and potboiling,
an empty space, outside
of it,a large gambit.

Space less still?

In my single room apartment,
much hue and cry about space less
adjustment and making space saving
Cupboards, all over again,
I sit in my own corner, my own
Space, balsam to my aching heart
Comes from parrot green twittering,
repeating viola, pet cat’s silenced paw,
white puppy sauntering around,
Morpheus shies away,
Copious space in front of me.
New paints from empty cupboards
Varnished ask them , space less still?
marble floors look askance
at the empty walls bereft of resonance.

Monday

Monday
Monday comes after Sunday,
Sapping away all energy,
Monday is a thug of nuisance,
followed by charts of events
bugs, pains and domestic chores,
for some Monday is a rubble,
a fall , not a spring,
a parrot in a cat’s paw,
Monday makes us run, run
for no point of return,
Monday is bully, a monotony,
Not a fresh beginning but a
brutal start with a poignant
lore of past happening.

Trees.

It is the sapling that goes into a broad
branched, green leaved tree,
the tree, that is mercilessly felled,
both in life and death, the tree
serves hard humanity, hard timbre
from timber, a magna lesson
for the man, for the dearth in
living man, a deadwood,

it is under the tree the Buddha
imbibes revelation, enlightenment,
for the afflicted soul,
it is in the roof of a tree many
shelter less construct a haven,
it is beneath a tree, that many
siblings play and pick up cherry,
it is the once upon those tall trees

now are homes and floating boats,
it is the log of wood that douse man’s
dying embers , pounding him to soil.

it is the barren twigs that crave to be green.

Showers

Showers

When the surrounding is in
drought, she sees eclectic
exuberance in showers,
at eighteen, blossoming

romance, it is like holding
a rose fully blown with
fragrance, thrills her
hobnobbing moods.

In early thirties
limpid and progressive,
Luxury it is for her,
Showers like lavender

in her wardrobe, ever
radiant, glowing,
vibrant and renewing
perfumed and glorified,

in fifties and sixties
showers spell discomfit,
release unease,
jug displaces flowery showers.

I meet challenge in this challenging world

I too meet challenge in this
turbulent, challenging world,
I drink not wine in London,
Ice-creams do not tempt me
any longer for cream of
ever flowing creativity
flows by river Thames,
I only imbibe essential
Goodness of humanity
Seen around me in west,
East is terribly demanding,
Sin is snowballing,
People pledge and pawn
their conscience to devil,
West is soothing,
beckon me to world
enriched with hope
and cornucopia of success.

Thanksgiving, thanksgiving

At the end of the day,
when dawn and dusk
have been duty conscious,
performing their meticulous,
parts, without failing in their
steady paths,
a certain section
bent upon pushing you to the corner,
Improvising all impossible,
even these are duty conscious,
in their own way,
even this certain section chosen
by His design,
You tend to sit,
face heavy in hands,
absorbed all the tirades,
volley of venom aimed
at you, yet another mode,
this was all in blood,
sugar coated pills, your
inborn, open-minded unable
to bear this topsy-turvy ,
no longer questions why?
why? but to proceed to
conclude, this is so,
your heart overwhelmed
with thanks to the Almighty
for sustaining you, by being
with you, you draw the blind
curtain, an end to all blank,
only thanks , thanks thanks
to Him and ever and anon
thanks to Him.

True love sparkles from where?

True love sparkles from where?
It is not in the meeting of those craving eyes,
love sparkles, it is not the yearning passion for
flesh which eats alive flesh, love sparkls,
it is not in the apparel, scented ,serves as
an extravagant foppery ,love sparkles,
it is not in the comfort of the cushiones,
luxuries that love takes off,it is not in the
compay of constant kisses and hugs that sprkles,
it is in the craving for the longing soul, for the
oneness , it is in the unanimity, it is in the
unique feel where no insidious elements intrude,
that true love sparkles, shines, sustains for long.

There is rthythm evrywhere.

In the cosmography or the study of
His Creation, the unique, mystifying cyclic
Process of destruction and devastation,
There is a glowing rhythm.

When the brakes of wheels move forwards
and backwards, the commuters move
across the vestibules, in tune with the
wheeling mobility towards a destination,

when the colourful buds of jasmine and
rose blossom, aroma casting a divine spell
around you, cicadas sing in shrill sound,
covey of birds in moorings towards migration,

in the lullaby of a fondling mother,
in the proper intonation of English language,
when the vocal chords vibrate and in the
sound s of vowels , diphthongal glides,

in the chiming of Big Ben, the lights
glowing in the wheel of London eye,
in the chanting of Vedas by learned
scholars , in the expanding Dawn,

there is rhythm , there is marvellous rhythm,
there is rhythmic rhythm.

Colour of the colourless

God ,holding the big amplifier
Proclaims HIS message, loud
and emphatic, to reach the
deaf ears of the bawdy , arrogant,
blue is the vast firmament,
The deep blue is blue,
The unroll able bed, my creation,
which you tread upon ,
viewing with your prejudiced eyes,
Is vast and wide and invincible,
You solidify your clean conscience
Pure Dove like white , convert
into blackish hellfire ,by your
Decoloured thinking,
and red blood into depowered
cells by artificial immunisation,
Frequent and imbecile play
with syringes and drugs,
I gave you greenery,
But you made it into
Dry and wry by your
bedraggled methods of
Deforestation, molestation
of the flora and fauna,
my colourful creativity,
now a spasm of vacuum.
Colour and colourless
Is in your eyes and acts.

God in coco cola bottle

God in coco cola bottle.

Miles and miles away from India,
my country of birth, my home town,
the ancient soil where people heard
and saw divine voices and visions,
penance in Himalayas’,
myriad mythological gods
and godheads much to our
Stupefaction, scriptural dictums,
Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva,
Creator, protector, destroyer,
Three in one, all in one.
Trinity in one and only one Avatar.
Redeemer and Saviour of Humanity,

What convictions, what undeiviated beliefs,
held in traditions ,now converted into questions,
questions after questions , nimbi- pambi poking,
convictions all crumbled into pieces,
the hungered and hungry in their vile looks saw
the life in coco cola, whole life in wine and flesh,
what trinity, what affinity, only nitty, they opine,
I see a presentiment of diluted umbrage
Here in England, the sun straight into my eyes,
the beams straight into the lab and library
as straight as the thinking many,
weaving in dew drops, a symphony.

November is no longer sober...

November is no longer sober and sombre,
here in England with its wintry morn,
Straight sun beams, in egalitarian mood,
Pop up on the fields, the slanting grass,
Weans away my fear of shiver and cold
brambly roses, barn and brooks,
rabbits run races, cicadas bring peace,
the shed leaves , a loose garment for the
much plodded fields, and my paced steps,
November is no longer sober and sombre,
Merry bells of Christmas already in tunes,
November is no longer sober and sombre.

He is reflective

It is in the same garden much materials
are buried and burnt , transformed as
fertilisers ,it is here , where, big ground nuts,
have been wholesaled,

The septuagenarian drives into his garden
by his wheel chair, just returned
from hospital, rheumatism causing his
Counting days, his garden, his nurturing,

His upbringing now passes off to another
owner, from the next month, for the
landlord has sold the house,
the fresh, jasmine, aroma of the

flowers still hanging on to the stem ,
now uprooted by the merciless
Gardener, the wheel chair moving forward
but his eyes can not envisage,

rude crowbar commanded by the master,
the plant stuck to the soil , wet, not yet dead
smell s rusty , musty , its roots still
craving for ancestral anchorage,

another implantation if possible,
he wonders how the shift
has changed the plant’s
destiny, the man sees the cycle

of life, be it a plant or garden
in different perspective.

A passion for writing.

A passion for writing.
When the passion for writing is
Ingrained in your blood, irresistible,
flow of thoughts, round the clock
running into streams, fluid currents,
not congealed , not static, MINERVA
allows free play of art, checks the
entry of trade and traffic ,
writing booming round and round,
writing becomes this forte,
writing and this passion sail
in the same compartment,
reach the destination of
augmented creativity.

What more Gift of God...

What more Gift of God you
need than the all seeing, pervasive
unseen image, expanding,
contracting, you call it a
mirage, or miracle, or
abracadabra, following you,
with an assured contact of
halo surrounding you, HIS
extended , hands, dipped in the holy
balm of far fetched vision
and Mercy , flagging the victory
of successful endurance.

A pampered child

She in her feline eagerness
wanted to achieve all she desired,
all she wished , aspired, to possess,

not knowing the limitless boundaries
of limitations, ate marmalade,
pointed towards apple, offered forthwith,

Craved costly cotton dress,
her parents did not say ‘ no,’
pointed silk saris , the emporium,

her mother billed , bundled and parcelled,
gem stones, latest models, ornaments,
readily came to her doors,

she wanted that married man,
blue and globetrotting,
father to be her husband.

Day and night for her the same,
stealth and lie was her game,
her siblings gave a 'go'

out she came with a
thud of fall, fail, pale was her
face , with God’s wrath and fury interface.

God in a tete-a-tete

God in a tete-a tete ...

When, fear of this bugging karma
theory sits in the corner of the room ,
looming large, giving a constant tap
on your mind and memory ,
be it at park or singing lark,

weaving rhythm of its own,
may be from this looming large, don’t know,
or imperceptible to your naked eye,
A voice descends as
if giving commandments,

“Count your meticulously earned coins,
Carefully preserve your currencies,
in a case of thrift and scrutinised
economy, desire not the undue and
undeserving, be not polluted by the

desire of excessive greed or passion,
pamper your vagrant, vibrant, motives,
pamper pets, puppy and kitten,
breed and feed sparrows and squirrels
but pamper NOT lust and sinister flesh.”


At the end of the day,

Good by to those

Good by to those.......
If your dress is going to undress,
my private sense of shame,
arouse my sleeping passions,
stir waves in me
to the height of dashing
rocky shores,
if your transparency is going to
play jugglery in me, undo
my being in me,
tickle me into nothing,
then fie upon it,
fie upon it.

Life speaks..

Life speaks.....
Like God’s panoramic sweep of His
Umbrella, vast, unfolded,
ever wide, ever opened,
I am, what if in U.K or U.S.
Or India , I move on, look up,
look back, sides, with my unstinted
glass of unique vision, try to beckon
you too, before me standing bewildered,
offering , you a cup of therapy free,
Unbounded, you refuse to catch it up,
hounded by fleeting group of desire,
weltering in stygian cave,
stubborn like stubs of thimbles,
getting pricked up, bleeding ,
blood clots hanging around,
what can I do? I go on, away,
there is someone, sane and sanguine,
to shake hands with me.

we want not
Coins and currency,
Coffers overflowing,
bundles and packets,

Ill-gotten and mismanaged
riches and robes, gemstones
and diamonds glitters , glamour,

renting other lives we want not.
Deception and fraud and scam
dare not enter into our lives,

encourage we will not
such sham and sinister lies.
No, not in our days and lives.

Bullets or pellets of wisdom.

Each day it is continual bullets of
verbal assaults, confounding
Your balanced thinking,
Irreversible experiences,
Irreconcilable, teething moments,
What can you do, expecting the
accelerated therapy, the
stumbling blocks spring like
Ping-pong balls, kick away those
toys, go to the ground of solutions,
remnants are pearls of wisdom,
you are part of the scenario,
a mute witness to happening,
happening, happenings.

What life is before me as it stands

To day as I am in England,
my tabula rasa with its,
impeccable English language,
with many forms, portrayals,

meagre denials, as it appears
to my perceived eyes,
no raining today, no biting chill,
as I browse, the sun beams

straight on my face,
from tender to dazzling,
as if to scrutinize my heart,
the vast expanse of sky,

in front of my spacious library,
I ponder, the magnificent silence,
as if the expanding dawn, preaches,
why life contractd by man's narrow

vision, why so much of parochialism?
where man is landing,
man is loosing grip of life,
life in its glowing embers,
he converts into a contracted tube

of confusion, still, the sun beams
expand, making a mockery of his
predicament, I only heave a sigh of pity.

This is white, little spongy puppy,

This is a white, spongy puppy....
There is a white, spongy, cute, little puppy,
advantageously positioned,
amorously yawning
wide opening its mouth,

like a penguin , with searching looks
in the veranda, resting upon its tail,
with its occasional see-saw rhythm
of tossing a tiny, white plastic ball,

chasing a kitten, playing and playing,
playing and playing ,non-stop,
hiding behind haberdasher,
to make me happy, happy.

How life presents in different perspectives

In the outskirts of city, outside our tenement of thin dwelling,
snow sweeping around us, nearby foggy, our vision blinded by fog,
on the road, life surrounded by twigs , barren trees, emptied
of their greenery, presenting a weird look, may be synonymous
with the present look of lives, our lives, lives in comparison,
I see, with clarity, what course life is to take,
you sleep, or unconscious,
I ruminate, what is life, devoid of shelter, for many,
Poverty, squalor, shiver in the dead of night,
what matrimony has made many a women?
but you frequent bubs and bars, nerve shattered,
You lie; succumb to desire, that uncontrollable
desire, you fall a prey to that devouring ego,
blood sucking passion eating you alive every minute,
feline routine of your life, I build up every moment of life,
Whereas you crumble , lie on the shambles,
unable to extricate from the debris,
foppery, external fittings, your eyeliner,
your riches, spoils , now your ruins,
I can only pity you , my dear,oh!dear.

Where is Romance?

Romance in her diary and life,
meticulously written, managed in living,
Knows its place, now in a
Shifting paradigm,
She knows to prioritise,
from cot to cradle,
Kisses on the babe’s tender skin,
long love in dimple cheeks,
no longer love in warbling notes,
but in perambulations and cloth cradles,
Serenading and singing,
in tunes of lullaby clothed in wisdom ,
romance in cosy corners,
romance enjoys rebirth,
relives in nuggets and whispers.

Dying fear

Dying fear.
When Cerberus haunts me
in my throes of pangs of death,
the massive teeth of the hoary past
tear me into irretrievable pieces,
I muster courage, like the un gathering clouds,
Know not, if it is the fear of death, imminent,
Or the dying fear, fortifying me,
My quill shivering writes,
You or she or him or it,
One thing is certain, your
Deeds and misdeeds if any,
Sure to be many for many,
follow like a shadow.
Confound not, hence, peace
There be within.

From gooseberry to cockerel

From gooseberry to cockerel

From gooseberry spread on the
Spiraling ground, rolling
and roll Polly, glittering
and kicked to corners,
picked by some to be tasted,

to cockerel creating a mystery
to its arrival and formation,
egg or omelets, hen or chicken,
all the same for me philosophy,
for many choking the secret

of tabulation of much and many,
there is life, there is sure living
in all, there is one God and His
motive pervading, yet for so many,
it is a chance collocation or negation.

An appeal by sex

Un robe me from your sleeve,
for I smell and stink ,
dirty and uncouth, though,
flattened and perfumed,

I am in stygian cave,
day by day a craze for me,
mass of flesh carried across
the river Styx,

instincts of indulgence,
salacious, play constant,
sex syndromes,
infect ional scars imprint

the skin,I need be washed
with the lotion of repentance,
reap the consequences,
Repentance, repentance.

A dirge for the hoodwinked

A dirge for the hoodwinked

He lived by the ditch,
believed the witch,
entangled himself in a
web of inextricable hitch,

He was lured and loved
not by the gabardine jacket,
but the coils of vile lies,
Comatose, he used to be day by day,

Hudibras she practiced,
hollering she suppressed,
it is too late to bridge the hiatus,
Only He can restore the status.

God's eyes

God’s eyes


In my mind’s arena
percolation pervades,
The past ness of the past
like a stinging bee,
buzz around, the past
does not leave me,
foraying and barging
into the happening
present, me, undaunted,
surfacing into the future,
diving into inlets,
hazardous ,foamy paths
that inroad into you,
believing God’s ever
watchful eyes would
pry around to protect.

On honest writing

On honest writing

My flat, straight, straight forward,
unbending, unyielding writing pad,
falls down as if to protest in joining
with my slender refill quill which
will not slander and quibble
in unjust manner,

what is the protest about?
You pluckers or pundits
or pundits of pluckers ,
or concoction of both,
don’t you ever dare to encroach
our salutary field !


our writing is the fresh blossomed
bunch of flowers unplucked,
in the morn when dew drops
still cringe to those fragrance.
The idea, germination,
A tabula Rasa,
A tabula Rasa.

Can you count those?

Can you count those?


Can you count those unaccountable?
Centipedes and millipedes surviving,
submitting in the bustle of humanity’s
trade, treaded steps and stampede,

I walk along the timelessness of
sands of Time, count conches,
rose and white colors pop up
in the ageless mounds of diffusion,

brownish, sulking travesty of
humanity’ thinking wizards,
devious and detrimental,
look! how many thoughtless

in their over maneuvering,
just as the gushing waves,
blow to break to shore,
Facade is falling, falling.

The crayon and the boy at the window.

The crayon and the boy at the window

When the unexpected rains splash
at the window,
like the sorcerers’ magic spell,
in the rainy afternoon, the young, lolling
doll at the opposite window,
his crayon enslaved between the
thumb and the ring,
the center drifting pointless,

His innocent intermittent claps
at the caterpillar gliding outer
into the basket of the vendor,
the sticky drum stick leaves from
whence it springs, his pure white
teeth peeping out, smiling, smiling,
innocence smiles, stretching his
Milk white imagination into

the multicolored paper in front,
staring for an imprint,
there comes the flowering of a
leaf sketched into a caterpillar.

The Mystery of Success.

The mystery of success

In the cupped palm of your delicate
hand, you hold the terrific secrecy
of success, drained water is the
struggle and disappointment at times,
many a time I let them go,
in the sieve of Faith in God,
Sincerity is your strength,
to hold it steady and straight,
undulated by moods and trappings,
with a pot on your head
you do the rope walking,
without losing your balance.
Like a white Dove, Success
Swoops on you, pecks on your body,
thrills you, excited ‘ encore’.

Those good old days

Those good old days

Those good old days
when bad is branded bad,
these days, when brandied
is preserved in parameters,

You sit and rock in your wheeling
chair, whirling so much of
speculations on the mad, brash
mass around you,

what melody can a thrush pour?
what succor a parrot can repeat?
when threnody they sing
in owl’s inflicted nest?

You close your eyes only to
open, witness the uncouth
mass, messy, believing into
impossible, implosions,

the sticky wall posters in
the supermarkets fly high,
you unrobe only to be
more opaque , visible to

the wicked transparency,.
giggling all the times.

No mirror tomorrow.

No mirror, tomorrow.

The shutters opaque and sturdy
swing to and fro, the unfastened hooks
glare on, can’t stand the deafening scare,

I can see the nonagenarian, orthodox
Perform his morning ablutions,
here, the egoistic complex conscious


man of moods, a dandy, hurls
Verbal pyrotechnics at his better half,
Calling bitter half,

Picks up broken pieces of mirror,
tomorrow no mirror to reflect
his customized angst,

no mirror to refract his
compounded gesticulations,
Aquarium tub bespeaks volumes.

Loves's luster

Love’s luster.
Love stretches its searching hands
to the weltering puppy in the garbage,
lying in a state of uncertainty,

Love extends its solarium,
to the dark recesses of hearts
tainted by agonizing moments

of uncertainty leading to despair,
fighting not a loosing battle,
Love waves a flag of victory,

Love’s yielding serene moments,
Unyielding to brutal forces,
give food for thought and soul too,

Love’s luster undiminishing
Cares not for the return,
Love is steady and not shindy.

God is dead

God is Dead.
God is dead in a land,
as dead as a deadwood,
a land bereft of balm of
Mercy to the aching heart,

God is dead in a land
where mortuary is alive
with bodies breathing stink
and sterile, human frames

collage as corpses,
many unidentified and
stare as ghosts at the keeper,
God is dead, clasping
hands with the deleted

from the list of active
humanity, numerous,
God is dead in land of whorehouse
where flesh is cankerous,
where people incarcerate

their conscience , revile
good and avatars,
God is dead in a land
Where culture is the gun
Culture, crime is prime.

Hyperactive

Hyper active

I think I am hyperactive,
I am not so,
in my slumbering and rocking
in my chair,activity
interspersed between
writing and reading,
there are others more active,

there are others around me,
smart enough to out smart
others , at least they think so,
like the full grown corn
with the seeds popping out,
the farmer is late for
the belated harvest ,

I view the tall grass growing
growing, sucking the energy
of the soil, a potential rival
for the fecundate greenery,
tomorrow dawns with the
sickle of the gardener, the
rightful owner to weed and lob.

On a thief entering into the house.

On a Thief entering into the house.

Beware; somebody is walking up and down,
Over the corridors, in the nights,
escaping the vigil and whistle,
sulking in the garage and the corner,


the siren like warning ringing into
my ears, though at times ears clogged
due to battening rains,frogs croak
Intermittent prolonging the ring,


I give credence to these
repetitive assuming wiseacres,
disbelieving my belief into myself,
stuff all my imitation jewels,

into my safe vault wrapped up
in my publications , bundles,
spend my sleepless night ,
looking up at the vault,

who steals whose, when and how?
Who stole Tolstoy’s Anna’s heart
in Aritha van Herks’
‘ Places far from Ellesmere’?


Near by some dragging sound,
Is he the thief in stealth?
A septuagenarian struck by
the lightning, taken by ambulance,

some body scratching my doors,
panic grips me , slowly switch on
the lights, it is the giant like rat
escapes the rain , barging in.

Luxuemberg influence

Luxemburg like influence

It is the laminated, color photo,
most prominently carved, certainly
not black and white, as if to refute,
ever raging hellish fire of jealousy,
venom, senseless defiance of Nature,

lamination looms large, on the
painted wall of the house, with
the all knowing third eye of
seeing the growing sinister syndrome,
igniting far and wide,

yet, the lamination sparks for the
inmates, a Luxemburg like influence,
radiance, resplendence,
darkness recedes, as if driven by
Enchantress’ magic wand.

Feather Touch

Feather T ouch

Believing in the God who believes you,
You look up the blue sky, bright sun,
despite the dazzle, the rain bearing clouds
which play jigsaw puzzle, not far away,

what do they think of us, they keep moving,
any life in them? what is the ultimate
destination? Imperceptibly query within,
for the weight of grocery and old rice

pulls me, a staggering stride,
burdened beyond my capacity,
the tight rope criss cross cuts my palm,
blistering wounds and sudden boils,

you recline on a black stone,
mind retrieves you from memory,
you live your suffering,
you eat and swallow your pudding,

an imaginary bonding, a feeling,
healing by feather touch,
message runs, tomorrow is yours.
Tomorrow is yours .

This goodhearted monkey

This good-hearted Monkey…..

This good-hearted monkey, good Samaritan
impeccably vows to follow me from my
Cradle to the grave, I do not train it,
It caringly trains me and pommel with words
those who hit him, unsparing,

decent and divine,
one not of those scratching and searching
lice in dirt and unwashed hair,
leads me wary to my grape yard,
drops those purple into my

mouths, sane and serene way of
quenching your thirst,
if I am awake, it corners into a nap,
when I am asleep, short tap on my
key-board and computer,

it preaches, it teaches,
without any hitch or scratch,
I am the monkey, I would be
the donkey, puppy and dog,
load and wash and watch,

am the Holy water, hellish fire,
dusty air, musty mist,
float and fly, smile and chuckle,
I am the Avatar,
those with wicked and naked
Eye cannot see me.

Ice cream

Ice cream

Vanilla ice cream instantly decided
A must as a dessert on the carte du jour,
Children finalize in the elevator,
As a mark of jubilation over
the engagement of my eldest,

the youngest winks at me,
no excuse mom,
in the Shindy restaurant,
roof garden with shiny marbles,
family gathering, my sweet

grand daughter babbles in
baby language, in gestures strange,
I look into the white puff of whiff,
Transparent creamy stuff in the
White bowl of glitter,

A narcissus springs again,
Pain!pain! pain!
It is the bewildered cry of
Tooth extraction, root canal
treated, gums shrivel,

one little pinch goes to the lip,
the cup passes to the rest.
my second son nods to accept, alleviate.

She lies

She lies, lies, lies.

She basks her perfumed, powdered face
On his plump chest, golden and white
Counting the silver fur, flesh rubbing flesh,

Countless are her cocooned days,
of bold nights she spends
in his loins, myriad ,

devouring his clean chin ,
her eyelashes paint romantic tales,
in water colors, convincing lies

so many dawns and dusks ,slip by,
as she slips into many a skin,
Today I see her lie in another couch.

It sounds clownish

It sounds clownish

What I hear is the clamor of vociferous
acoustics, season’s bug , the hurriedly
vying megalomaniac’s dream enacted
on the streets, I jump into the pavement,

behind me wailing or whispers not from
sophomores but beginners of the
university campus, yet romping down,
“ no friends, no life, no taste,”

a mad , imbecile craving, I feel,
what good to have many a friends
who stand not in times of dire need,
misguiding and misshaping ,

you are a canoe, rudderless, sinking
better to be alone, to seek a friend
in your self, than faith in fiends,
I bend to pick up a perfumed kerchief,


the red colored double Decker bus,
halts to branch us off to different
stages, the piece of cloth reaches
the owner, she waves and smiles ‘good-by’.

The Terror of Grief.

The Terror of Grief.

The Terror of Grief is like
a frenzied, stray dog, anger
howling in the looks,

The terror of grief is chasing you,
you run, driven by the extremes
gasping for breadth,

you run to get caught, gored
by the massive teeth,
the horror of a victim,

your clean, unpolluted head
for all its innocence and purity
guillotined, blood shed,

the terror of Grief holds you
by its relentless claw,
until blood is drained,

the shiver is a tremor , engulfs you
in its abysmal deep.

Nomenclature

Nomenclature

This potentially hidden primo face
Life force, in the beautified clay,
this body, lurkingly mobilizes,

singly, a manipulating wizard,
goes by many names, life,
breadth, soul and Atman,

how it enters, wherefore it leaves,
this small ‘ it’ is big enough,
it enters the tuned doll,

skips ,rolls and jumps on
large and sturdy Mausoleum,
keyed and controlled by Santa Claus,

this ‘it’ is a rocky boulder,
weeps, withstands, have recourse
to births ceaseless and many.

Those eyes

Those Eyes

I swam into those eyes,
blossoming as lotus or

Chrysanthemum in my
garden, blooming, booming,

no mascara, no eyeliner,
no swelling passion, no anxiety,

Rubric in the face,
A glassy mirror that

is reflective of ceaseless
Creation and vision,

No empires falling, no
kingdoms surrendering,

Neither irksome lust,
Nor seductive charm,


My sweet grand daughter in
Silken robes and sweet smiles.

This little thing on my little finger

This little thing on my little finger

This little thing on my little finger,
White, rounding and rounding,
day by day, bulging and protracting,

they call it whitlow,
not giving me pleasure,
paining and paining,

alienating me from writing,
this little thing is crafty,
I apply rice floured bandage,


Soaked in oil, my beloved
Grandma’s treatment, followed
in good earnest,

this little thing says,
be patient, I’ll go when
only I am satiated.

The other foot far.....

The other foot far…..

Is that the praying mantis in your tidy
bedroom , or a cricket that leaps and chirps?
or cockroaches hurriedly moving from
corner to corner wooden shelves to
colonize as a matter of right,
the bedbugs go hiding underneath the pillow,


Another addition to already bugging mass,
yet, do the insects have the intellect of
sixth sense? Ply my evening by the beach,
the crab dead and fetid, tossed up and
down by the surging waves,
dashing against the pebble, a dead prowess!

Romping boys balloon up the air,
inflate and diffuse, innocence plays,
boiled ground nuts in craving baskets,
Young urchins in rags and tattered,
I part with my son’s T-shirt, loose garment,
A treasure, till youth matures into manhood,


Why this human debacle? I query within,
It is karma, destiny, the Avatar replies,
I move on, move on ,mind stretches far…
London’s stentorian Big Ben chimes,
Many stroll and sit on the broad steps of
Trafalgar Square, my creativity augments.

Celluloid show

Celluloid show.

I am a Celluloid bride,
Showcased on T.V stand with pride,

I dance to the tunes of many,
That many don’t exploit me for money,

What kisses, what hugs, what smiles, know not,
Still, I know, I am not rot, rot,

What Day, Sun or Moon, on me the same,
for me it is only a passive game,

a game to make others happy,
if you are happy, I too am happy.

Penury speaks

1) Penury speaks…

Under the tree sycamore,
She lies threadbare,

lobed leaves, her rich bed,
what more is for her to shed?

she closes her sunken eyes
in state limpid, yet with tears,

a cursed living to pull through,
isolation as if in marginalized borough,

rain or sun, the tree protects,
she has no dreams to protract,

her last breath would be her ideal gift,
much solicited prayer in tout.

He comes through my balcony.

He comes through my balcony.

He comes white collared,
bold as an honest romantic,
unstinted as the copious rain God,

he does not go into hiding,
shiver and fever wrinkle me
as a shapeless bundle,

then I lay, expose my body
to him, drink his warmth as
a medicine,

the dazzling hands extend his
stethoscope, seemingly
Prescribes garlic and pepper,

Slowly goes back the same way,
taking back the accessories
of apothecary he brings in.

Night afte night

Night after Night

Night after night, it is the
Owl screeching, that disturbs
me when my keyboard is vibrant
with tapping alphabets,

the traffic on the road is undulating
just as the heroes ranting in the
nearby clustered cinema theatre,
the gay and gaiety hand in hand

in colorful attire soon to be doffed,
for the weltering after revelry,
even Prudery yields to fetish countenance.
owl shifts its nearby abode,

what if the good news of childbirths
every second or be it childlifing,
or numerous rotten , carcass burning,
night after fight , the owl is the same.

Cake of crumbs

Cake of crumbs

He sits on the woody branch of a
tree, green verdures around the locale,
as if parrots block ensemble,
sudden shake of a feel , caught by blizzard,
those songbirds snug to the thickets by,

the ones recently migrated fear the exodus,
some rustles as though notes of prophesy,
I look up to the invisible and invincible,
“I drop some pellets or crumbs of eclectic
Poetic inspiration, bake a cake of creativity,”

It is appetizing, for the cake
grows bigger day by day.
as though necromancy became
water into it.

The protest

The protest.

There is hardly any spoon of well-cooked
Rice,that goes down your throat,
your trachea turns back,
hungry mouths swallow,yet
the process is slow and segmented,


The pouncing food protests,
just as the watch dog’s barks,
I am plundered and harvested,
from the field not belonging to you,
smeared with treachery, soiled

by greed ill-begotten,hawks and hounds
abstain from smelling that,
Perfidious, venom spits venom,
your coffer is dirty and rotten,
your vault is wrong begotten.

Domestic rant.

Domestic rant.

Those elders who read line by line,
Almanac codified by eminent astrologers
protested, when I was in the threshold
of my house,to book flight tickets for
London, don’t proceed, don’t book today,
for a cat crossed across a few yards away,
the flight was safe with thumping success!

you are in U.K .O.K O.K O.K.
is it raining there? Some good Samaritan
from afar, seemingly raved over the phone,
don’t start from the house for U.S visa,
when it starts raining , it is not good augury,
you will end up in a pizza,
yet it proved to be a big bonanza.

My mind like CD rom whines,
the past when, my neighbor in India,
wished me a grand success,for flowers
came in baskets and bounteous,
for my three children stay in soil away,
your visa is sure today,
alas! It was denied for the day,

me thought they had a fear
I would settle in foreign clay.

Blind man's buff

Blind man’s buff.
When I was ten, I played blind man’s buff,
A self inflicted loss, a game of ten,
blind to the sequel, blind to everything,
though only transient, me thought,
we played and laughed, we clapped,
and trapped, lost and won,
Jubilation as if crowns and kingdoms
were got, riches and spoils donned,

My past rotates in the wheel chair,
Wheeling me into the corridors
Of the hospital, consciousness forsook
Me, beneath the anesthetist,
Lights focused on my face,
I was placed on the clean linen bed,
Incision on the right stomach,
for the wrong diagnosis,

then too, blind and unaware
to surroundings.
My eyes are closed, now, me
on the reclining sofa,
yet bruised feelings awake
to perjury, deception, fraud,
still , blind to growing shams
that creep around.

A Gift For All Times.

A Gift for all times
What You blessed and gave me was not
a parrot green colored sari, glittering,
not a designer silk, nor costly Banaras
to add one more to my overflowing
wardrobe, fresh in warp and weft,

It wasn’t either turquoise ring,
nor oystered pearls beaded in strings,
shimmering diamond studs figure not,
nor the gold coins in big bowls jingling,
not even burnished gold chains brimming,

it stems free ,bounteous and benign,
sanguine and salutary as Heaven’s
ever widening door as of a Banyan tree,
the visible roots hang before me,
It is the much needed, extended Hands

of Protection and assurance,
of rocky stand, for me to fall back upon,
Darkness recedes, diabolic Devil shrinks
thanks to your holistic vision,
sudden pale of gloom and fear,

engulf me, me decked in platinum
and diamond, demurred and reviled,
demoralizing bereft of free conscience,
solatitum denied, would I dare the world?
Supremacy’s ever seeing eyes on me,

The bounteous and all time gift,
His assured contact, a boon.

I am doing, doing, doing.

I am doing, doing, doing.

I am doing, doing, doing.
I am doing, doing, what those
witches and wizards
cannot succeed in doing,
purblind passivity prevails.


I am pawned by this wicked world,
What is happening is a conundrum,
or His time honored scheme, know not,
Suffering is part of His doing,
Struggle and submit, alone His doing.

The chicken hung in the marketplace,
as if in a haberdasher,
colorful, yet caught in a canine trap,
soon to be disheveled, torn asunder,
their doing, doing, these en masse dying,


I am dying of envy of those
Flamingoes wading,
Suffering and submitting,
A doing of HIS.
Enjambment continues.

'semi-naked' reflections

‘Semi-naked’ reflection in the mirror.


The newly installed German cut mirror,
square and glossy goes up and down
like a wary watchman relentless,
and Rhadamantine judge, in the
often, power blocked Lift,


I see my face, a prominent mole
below the right cheek reflected ,
shining with my garnet earring,
a birth mark for the ration card
or election Id to be photographed,

The usual, habitual buzz,
the lift comes to a halt,
imagination stretches far beyond:
I am in the London tube,
reading Sylvia Plath,

the pages of Emily Dickenson flutter,
the intercity express passes through
Rugby, Arnold is reborn:
It is slowly lifting me up,
the lift is coming down,

Yet another reflection of the tribal
woman, in tattoos, breast feeding
her new born, a bamboo basket
on her head, the picture too
fritters in the fast rotating fan.

FEAST

Feast

Today I have full round of feast,
sounds and drumbeat for those
who don’t love music,

for me, nostalgia rivets
Music and melody and memory
steeped in glittering vibrations,

of compact discs,
vibrancy rotates in notes and nodes,
voices envisioned to a dim past,

The egg omelets slip off my plates,
jerking at my jauntiness,
my three year old playing ping-pong

weaves a rhythm to the tune,
toast to the drum beat,
disc lost in enchantment, winds.

Walking and walking

Walking and walking---
You and I are walking and walking,
walking along the just getting dried up
Soil from the recent rains,
See a parrot sitting and pecking
On the rosy buttons of the mackintosh
hung on the water dripping branches,

I am Penelope weaving and unweaving in
Mind’s eye many tales of injustice
distraught and mystified,
The Jupiter in you wondering at the
Universal laws guarding us, we the believing,
Most of us misreading, soon to be in mishap,

The young girl picking up the
Gooseberry, chuckles, for her gooseberry
is the only matter,
I hear London’s Big Ben chiming,
Poetry takes as many rounds on
The wheels of London Eye,


We float in the dream,
The halo of Madonna
and the Buddha under the tree,
encircles and glimmers,
you and I are walking and walking,
you and I are walking and walking.

Thanking the Devil

Thanking the Devil
You and I are crossing and counting
the upturned slabs of the precincts of
the temple with the ruling deities,
the cracks in the redbrick peeping walls,
unwiped, augmented saffron marks,
bespeak of the decor and devotion,
in the ageless, uncared construction,
our visits are a daily routine and ritual,
immersed in the sacred waters of
unstinted faith and devotion,
stabbing enemies are stabbing and stabbing
at the back, smiling smiling,
the ultimate mounting mysteries
Unraveled, unlocked,
Allahuddin’s lamp glows, in the
Surrounding dark.
How often we crossed the long ropes
Carefully fearing to be snakes,
We thank the harrowing devils
for making us cling to God.

I desire not the forbidden

I Desire not the forbidden.

Calling! Calling bird’s melody in my garden
echoes in my ears: no midnight, no morn,
some unreasoning, irrational call it a cacophony,
my somnambulist child stares and smiles,
I pick out the apple from the refrigerator,
the cute apple of my palm size,
place it on the flowery bowl on
the rosewood, oblong table .
like humans , the appeals too need the
warmth and hug;
the sharp knife with the shimmer,
goes berserk, slices it into two,
half rotten, half ripened,
I still bite and chew the ripened,
to know what it is to be hungry,
I desire NOT the forbidden,
I desire NOT the forbidden.

A ghost raves in the library.

A ghost raves in the Library.

Something raves in the fritters of papers,
those musty,outdated history books
half moth eaten, half rat smelling stuff,
with dates of wars won and lost,
dusty journals torn asunder by hasty
hands of readers for whom it is a show,
norms followed more in violation,
than in volition and discipline,

Rape of the lock craves for Restoration,
to its neatly combed upper loft,
Paradise was Lost in the ugly syndrome,
Addison’s Spectator papers with mere
lookers on, some popping out,
Pride and Prejudice and Sense and sensibility,
Slammed and shattered into pieces,
Twentieth century dethroned into

Shaking rack of twelfth cantury,
A piece of cloth crumbled into
Squirrel like form, sulking
in a corner, once upon a time
for wiping, now weeping of disuse,
Something raves in the fritters of papers,
Something raves in the fritters of papers.

River of Fear

River of Fear


It is the River of fear that is perennial,
that flows in my heart’s chamber,
awesome fear for God that rivets
toying physique and craving soul,

it is the River of Fear that is flowing
unpolluted by the muddy, quagmire
of skeptical rim bald that is vociferous
Putrefied, prevails upon many,

It is the River of Fear, which is undried
with ripples of faith circling ever, ever,
no sands of dis harmony can ever encroach,
It is the River of Fear that is perennial.

Gamin in the kitchen

Gaming in the kitchen


This gargantuan, all ruling Power,
deserted for an hour ,my apartment,
me plunged into darkness,
as the candle melts, merciless,
entering into a tie up with the dark,

I devour a cup of porridge,
as this macabre ruler, of all,
Hunger eats me after
a day’s toil, squeezing the
thews and sinews,

some little intruder entered
through my half closed window,
I wanted sunlight, but in
came a freedom loving
Brat of a Rat, nibbling

some pieces of coconut
scrambling up and down,
toying with the utensils
meddle my foot casual,
moving in cross, across,


in the criss cross of the
five /five kitchen,
playing acrobatics
mastering somersault,
loosing the prospects of game.

LOVE IN SOAP WATER

Love in soap water

After a day full of love making,
from hectic morn till midnight,
Love in the kitchen, love with the
sharp edged knife, love with


the rotten brinjal, cutting and cleaning,
love and play with the utensils
in the sink,the aroma of foamed
detergent lingering still,


Dove is melting of love
in the cozy bath tub of
hot and cold mixing,
Dove is melting Dove,

in the bath room the cornered clothes
cry for love for your feather touch,
love in soaking and washing
rinsing and wringing,

Love is work, work is worship,
Love is work, work is worship,
I lay on the mosaic floor,
head on a pillow improvised,


Robert Frost by my side,
His poem ‘nothing gold can stay’
in memory and meaning,
whispering a philosophy of life,

Love, love everywhere around me,
Love plays on my cheeks,
Love covers my chest and hands,
The next day my love printed

loose jacket in a bucket of
water, letters in soap water,
love is everywhere,
love lying in soap water.

This thinking mind

This tinkering mind hounds me like hunting dogs,
The same, thinking,deviates, heals me like an apothecary,
of my sudden bouts that are my queries,

The hard white shell that protects
the pith of Yellow and white, egg globular
broken and jettisoned into a bin,

for crows those egg shells are
Superstructure, their nests,
Coves to fondle their chicks newborn,

In the nearby show, I see a calf
dead and tied, hung on a rod,
already stiff as a stick,

for the morn a fancy show,
in the evening a fraudulent show,
the milkman to appease the mother cow,

over there, fire in the car, nothing but the
charred remains, a ghastly sight,
here, a rammed car into the tree,
a break failure, a life’s rupture,

The same thinking mind tolls like
bell with in me “it’s like that.”

Deserting sands of Time.

My newly bought shoes get embedded on
the ,brownish, countless sands on the shore,
am I brooding over countless sands of Time,
who deserts whom? Does Time with its winged
Wheel desert you? or you gibe at the Honesty
of Eternity, saying it is only in books and looks
not in living or saying,

Yet, I see honesty in fair children, nearby,
themselves, pretty pair of dolls,
the colorful fringes and frills touch the ground
while they round and round on the sand,
yet those sands speak volumes
of undying, still unread pages of the past,
as even rocky waves dash and recede only,
to silence the harrowing hubbub of
humanity in deliberate cacophony,

those pretty dolls, with their mouthful,
blowing empty balloons up the sky,
emptied balloons come, not heavily
back to the sands of shore.

A humble birthday gift

A humble birthday gift.

It is designed into white papered
and penned in letters Bold,
neatly pressed into folds,
well captioned, a birthday Gift,
a poem of how to be calm,
while your man rages storm,
how to let it a big Go,
when his ego pampers him so,
neither gold nor silver nor platinum,
will always stand by you in distress continuum ,
shrewdness and diligence with ambition,
take with you in any adverse situation,
follow a piece of Advice from this experienced,
to have a life handy and Blessed!

On a less sunny day

On a less sunny day like today….

I dry up my hair standing in my balcony,
No hair dryer, no desire to have one either,
as the breeze rustle through your silk sari,
gently serenading your cheeks and face,

What brouhaha it frees from the
Melee of cocks crowing,
a painful, sincere mourning,
for a fellow crow trapped in a wire,


A sudden shudder, a fear of tornado
of rains, battening, shattering your dream,
What if the trees are uprooted by storm?
One hanging big coconut falls on the
Passersby unawares,

It is only a fear, assuaged by less warming sun,
fear goes westward along with the Sun.

The poet and the swan

The poet and the swan

In the wake of the serene dawn
When half of the humanity is still drone,
On the bed, for it is still summer,
A bed coffee, but a bad beginning of the day,
For them both are the same,

The tender sun’s rays gentle and straight
On its commuted unswerving path,
My muse betokens me for a stroll,
I see a swan as pure and white
As un spoilt purity and uncorrupted
Conscience, stone like strong as ever,

The static swan move less as the judge,
Our universal purveyor, God,
Knowing and seeing all, yet giving a nod,
Salmon and the fish bypass by the puddle,
On the sand, the crab plays hide and seek,

I see the swan, the swan too smiles at me,
Questioningly wonders why man should
Drag the unseen, yet all seeing into the
Quagmire of dirty, devilish,
Purloin the spirit of Independence;


Yet, the pond and the sand are the same,
Just give a nod but not to blame.

My mouth waters at the crispy bite …


My mouth waters at the crispy bite
of the cashew nuts,
In the summer afternoon, the sun’s
rays dazzle in my face, the beams pass
through the balcony farther to
touch the mahogany TV stand,
my grand child agile and angry,
playing Frisbee, now comes out
from underneath the steel cot,
ceaseless effort to trace the hidden toy,
what if for the child, sun or rain,
it is we who bother about the
seasonal shifts and wet clothes
to be dried.



Noon passes to darkening eve,
On the ground a sudden
spell of showers, as if a lesson for
mankind’s temerity, they all flee
home. We are all living in a Globe;
Sun doffs at man’s folly hides
in the orb.

Back again with my poetry thrills,
My mouth waters at the crispy bite
Of the cashew nuts.

In and around you

In and around you---


At the end of the day, when you sit,
On the pyal, your eyes closing slowly,
do not wonder, it is of No meditation;
letting pass your thoughts unscreened,

in a rehearsal of desperate despair,
brooding over the syndrome of sins,
and sinning creatures,
just as a pinch of salt in everything,

Just as the holocaust of tsunami,
and typhoon rocking in front of you,
You are a helpless, passive onlooker,
Can you stop those gathering clouds?

Those Rose buds in the garden still dance,
the other day in the lunch box,
when it is just opened, the droppings
of crow cawing, not knowing the hazard,

those duty conscious squirrels on the wall,
weaning away the half- bitten nuts,
the colorful butterflies saunter around,
my eyes open to view many more hidden vistas.

Me, the rains and the ground!

Me the Rains and the open ground


You are so sudden and shower like,
Springs of water from spa,
you do not appear to come from Heaven
or from the rain bearing clouds,
as we were used to read from books,


I see the parched land of stem and stalk,
felled and spread like wounded battalions,
bleeding red, like thick paints,
no longer their valor solid by them,
for they fall a prey to the soil’s anger and greed!


You come to sing songs of requiem for them,
You undo the heat of the unabated and thirsty,
Nearby play ground, children disperse with dolls,
hopefully to come back to play with sand houses,
I see they are harbor of pearls of wisdom.

we are too small

We are too small!

The green leaves which rustle
under which I sit and read,
Say they might touch the ground soon,

The wind blowing with a shimmer
not seen, yet seems to message
I don’t expect anything in return;

The growing anthill by the tree
and by the steady line speaks
not of dormant state,

The dried pond reminds me those days
When the washer men dipped
and dried their colorful clothes,

Yet we look up and smile,
I am too great and big!

An obstacle removed in my dream.

My drooping eyelids close,
as the gatekeeper closes the main door
unwillingly, for he is a good Samaritan too,
some more last arriving inmates,

Yet, Tomorrow came into my dream
removed the thistle of yesterday,
A static car from the garage came out,
weaning out the rust and dust,

Thank God, I removed the thistle, else
It would have pricked my soft foot,
Who knows it would have pricked many,

My dream itself a fiasco,
A flimsy gossamer, a diaphanous
film torn into erasable segments,

I woke up to see the sun shine,
Somebody was already bleeding
for the thistle has already pricked up.

Rape

Rape
Reena was a bubbling girl of Rose,
having a sip of Orange alone in her house,
enjoyed the movie too, each sip by a straw,
little did she realize her life would be straw,

Two gang men entered the bungalow
to enjoy her youth and beauty with a glow,
She lost her virginity, a victim of rape,
Did she have a hope?

Why God is eyeless on these many- eyed men?
When Lust makes inroads into their den?
Is there no law to drain away the lust
from these outlandish clout of dust?

I saw a bird calling,craving

I saw a bird calling, craving.

On a mild sunny morning, when the rays of the
Global Sun just as if from his majestic cove
Spiraling, aiming escalation of His radiance
And confidence around everywhere,
I saw a bird from its own nest built by
Its own labor and necessity, with the
Sundry sticks and handy picks and leaves,


The bird was calling, calling aloud,
with articulation, wide opening its
orange beak, I could see the symphony
in the open and close,
I could hear the universal Rhapsody
I saw the bird craving for oneness
Of the clan, sharing its crumpet,


The bird is calling, calling aloud
The bird is calling, calling aloud
For the symphony of serenity
Echoes in my mind too.

Midnight Moorings


It was past Two in the Night,
how lucky those stars are in
the blue, still and serene,
I go back to my past days when
I too would move along with the
Stares, high and unaccountable,

I stare through my balcony,
for some poetic fowl and chicken
to be fried upon in the pan of
Undisturbed and unpolluted
imagination, fertility shoots up
in a steady write-up.


When humanity is sleep,
Some snore, some pretend, some toil,
I am awake, my eyes wide open,
There is neither sex nor secrecy,
Only eyes wet with tears, for willful
Suppression of secrecy and tactful
manipulation of it,


decades don’t collapse,
the secrecy is laid threadbare,
on the tree some bird calling,
articulated language distinct,
calling, calling calling
like London calling,
like London calling.

Summer ramblings

Summer ramblings

It is summer receding, yet with usual power failure,
I sit by the door with the bamboo fan, country made,
fanning my face,
inherited from my grandfather
both the habit and the bamboo items,
my left hand turning the pages of
Andrew Motion, still am motionless, for the
Sweat is flowing like what,
running water on my forehead.


I hear the whistle of rice cooker,
After all we should have one eye in
the kitchen too,
as our cogitations burst,
to have outlet,
the sound of whistle on the lid,
gyrating.


I look up at the multi-storied building,
from balcony still in progress,
a high scaffolding and how those
Laborers suffer the heat and weight
of cement and concrete?
For them does life have concreteness?

Yet Life is for all of us,
Yet living is for all us.

Her panama reminds

Her panama reminds.

She adjusts her souwester with her hands,
the blister in her hands in comparison with
her soft silken hands that thrust some sweets
into her popping out bag.

The cotton panama flies in the wind,
She concludes the sunset of her life,
Dusk intrudes, no more brightness,
All pervading sun’s rays straight on her
Sunburnt face, she forgets one moment,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

Hopefully she can feel the sunrise,
Again she adjusts her souwester in her hands,
Her mouth watering, the smell of
Sweet tempts her,

Hope heals her swelling heart of sore,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

The thirty minutes in the Lift---


The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Made me a dead plank, the power failure
ran down a tremor into me.

the suffocation, the sense of my being lonely,
the thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
sent a shock of despair and trauma.


the thirty years of living in this world
with atheism creeping in me,
agnosticism, all shattered into nothing.

I am one with the POWERLESS now,
I am one with the POWERFUL now,
The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Turn a powerless into a powerful now.

Hope

Hope

Hope sits on the top of a full branched tree,
Green leaved, in the grip of full-blown Spring,
as green as prosperity in a glass vial,
till yesterday, jollity struck
swinging along with the jubilant parrots,

sudden glimpse of a bleating cow,
Hope sees on the other side of the mountain,
environment goes berserk,
hope is slowly melting as ice cubes,
transparent white chunks thaw and liquefy,

do I have a future, where do I go?
Hope introspects sad and bemuse,
Ageless rocks of the mountain, ready to
disband the inhibited tears of hope, say,
look at us sturdy, even mighty waves
cannot shake us, hope! hope!hope!

who needs prayers

Who needs prayers?

Sitting on the broad branches, broad
as big as a drum, though felled and dead,
Still seemingly alive, for the wetness is green
with brownish color, for the soil struck roots
are strewn are here spread idle on the corner,

looking up at the sky at the injustice done,
I too look up at the sky, it has forsaken the land,
the gurgling waters of the pond murmur
we are in the throttles of death trap,
aridity is our slow and frequent visitor,

the horse effortlessly grazing upon the
withering grass, sand and pebbles popping out,
the nearby mango tree has two regular
visitors of parrots pouring in,
counting the life span of the tree, fruitless,


the graveyard is full, people mourn
looking for a burial ground,
the stench and stink rotting the wind,
stack the busy throb of life,
who does not need prayers?

Mother gets a message from abroad.


Mom, when I think of this head ache,
me in my cot within four walls,
this shiver runs through my veins
like an electric shock,
I experience a windy day, ice cold,
chill wind intrude unquestionable,

how often you would knock at my door
barred by my obstinacy, to give a hot
cup of coffee, arrange my assignments,
papers in order, remove those china cups
with left over tea with sediments,

these unwashed clothes in the corner
longing for a washing machine,
remind me those days of your
quick decision of their removal
and cleaning with murmured affection,

these empty plates in my shared kitchen
downstairs mock at my laziness,
for how often I had hurriedly left
food stuff on the plates still held
by your caring hands,

oh! Mom, I miss you for many many
things, the very thought you is
energizing, now I get up and go
close my window for the frost is poking,
Oh! Mom, it is a costly miss.

Indian Summer

Indian summer

It is very hot, here in India,
I sweat, perspire, squeeze my
handkerchief wet becomes
droplets of water, on my handbag,
sweating on my forehead, as if
to shed ego and pride,
giving advice to ego,
as I come out, you too wean ,

I forget this weakfish like,
Green colored, lurking in the
Corner of my bag the umbrella,
as I unfold it, it spreads like a
Cute little girl spreading her
frilled frock, dancing before me,
dancing on the smooth mosaic floor,

I picture my granddaughter who
Danced, dances, rounding, holding
her frock, this is not the age for her
to realize, that life is a mosaic of
seasons and serendipities,
I cool in the late spring showers
Of my London flat, the mild white
Snow, a companion to my bath tub,
Dove is creamy white, with its froth,
Bids adieu to trivia, trivia.

NOW is only time for her

‘Now’ is only time for her.



There is enough grain for porridge,
just for now, just for three,
her eyes reveal no prospects of tomorrow,
her thin wiry hands pumping the stove,
intermittent cough visiting her,
those squirrels jump over the shed,
there are convenient gaps, both for the
squirrel and rats to exchange interplay
in the thatched roof, sunbeams too pass
through as a matter of fact,
the sick nonagenarian,
sits up on the sinking cot, dirty pillow,
the third inmate, the white cat, fondly
licks the plate of porridge,
the grand old woman with a porridge
reaches the old man, looks up,
near the threshold, Now is hers,
she admits, nothing about tomorrow.

Garbage speaks

Garbage says---

From the sprawling mound of garbage,
for it is called so, papers soiled fly,
onion layers stinking, rotton tomatoes,
ooze as if bemoaning their last degraded stage,
looking at the bright Sun, flutter
“you are bright, shining,
we are decayed and decomposed,
man has crushed us and thrown away”,
cock and hen with their
cleft, star like feet, scramble upon,
as if searching something,
the chuckle mock their being
Uncared for, flies feed upon them,
some cleaner gives them protection
gathers to dump in a black cover,
promotion from the corner to van
to the dump yard,
Sun shines there too!

JUNGLE

Jungle

Life is a sapless tree, when man loses faith
in his spouse, poison stays back as a
sediment, dregs vile corroding him,
home becomes a jungle, man
shouts like a wild animal,
Obstreperous, thunder,
dregs of poisonous vasps
stinging all the time,
even trees shed tears in the forest ,
but man is hardened thick stemmed,
ignited by the lion in him,
roaring, roaring he dies from within,
in the unrefined jungle of his heart.

note books

Note books

I preserve the note books of my youngest kid,
Not a record of strenuous schooldays
twenty years back, a childlike and childish
curiosity and transformation of hardwork,

listings of alphabets ABCD, capitals and small,
cat ,mat and rat in rows and lines,
in cute hand carved in pencil
again innocence speaks, speaks,

Mathematical tables written and re written
Sums multiplied and subtracted,
Additions and omissions right and wrong,
Tiny hand and cute workings,

I browse my note books of recent days,
Where day today account is maintained,
Provisions bought, home loan paid,
Paper and milk due and phone bill doubled,

Note books are the same, what matters
Is that the inside difference it makes..

Responsibility

Responsibility

As is the responsibility
of the seasons to spring and flower,
to summer and glimmer the warmth,
to dry, shed and fly, helpless,
to shower and cool in winter,


As is the responsibility of the Gods
To create, care and protect,
In a cyclic process of creation,
Procreation, protection,
Destruction and devastation,



A cosmic process time-bound,
Predetermined and God ordained,
No need to talk about deluge
Tsunami and typhoons,
It is also the responsibility,

of the Gods and Goddesses,
A Cavalcade of continued responsibility.

Creation and killings

Creation and killings

Why should you scan and ban?
The soft fetus within the globe
of carefully designed pouch,
grows with life infused stage by stage
kicks to your pleasure and rotates,

After ten long months of struggle,
Hard labor, squalling, the baby comes
out, peeling its skin,
playing, seeing, around,
smiling, sitting down to fall, to grow,

your only rights are to grow it,
not to throw it, not to abandon it,
if umbilical cord is to give a
new lease or release of life,
new beginning, fresh showers,

why should go ,search another
cord or rope to hang round
to take away your life?
Your precious life, Life
Infused by the Creator,

Oh! Man it is not your job,
It is not your job, job.

Morning Meditations

Morning meditations

In my home garden,
Cock and hen chuckle,
The askance looking crow
Sits on the fence, pecking
With its beak the tiny dead bone,

The Vedic chantic
in the nearby school,
the members of the house
cawing for the first decoction
coffee in the hot boiling milk,

the so-called learned pundit
of the house calling by name
the daughter-in-law of the house,
Medication for the grandmother
Bundled in the corner,


Repeated calls for second round
of coffee , the children flying
on their heels for learning,
the utensils rolling sound
in the sink and kitchen noisy,


This was some ten years ago,
When no time for morning
Meditation, only altercation,
But now I close my eyes,
Thanking God for all strength
and support to surmount
all wickedness surrounding me.

Little things

Little things may become fiasco,
or great mishap, if we ignore,
as little, as very little.

A careless throw of a plantain peel
though on the corner,
is a matter of risk , slip and fall,
the pedestrian faces fracture
and unexpected expenditure.

A match stick still half burning,
Cast on the straw on the
thatched shed, like evil eye
burns leading to cataclysm,
flames engulfing whole.

Belief and pity the wrong woman,
bring woe to the man.
give her shelter and money in need,
poison becomes your food,
a thing of little only to sting you ever.

In a temple precincts, where monkeys
Stay, play and prank,
A bag of valuables, passport
Currency and jewels, by your side,
You turn head to the other side,
Gone with the monkey,
Your trip is gone,

Neglect of little things may lead to
great failures and costly miss.
ruin life's happiness.

I hear you.

I hear you

I AM THE UNIVERSE
I hear the voice of the unseen
When the resounding waves recycle,
White surf in booming tides submerge
destined, I hear you in their destiny.

when the dogs bark, redeem the newborn,
from the buried layers of the heaped mound,
the baby wails the unlucky mother for the
fate which is to befall for the sin,
I hear you in the innocent cry of the babe.

In the wake of the sunrise, when
the birds chirp and surf on the blue,
the mellifluous flute mingles the air,
what a wonder! the bluebells dance,
I hear you in the song and dance.



Meaning and melody through a
metal of compact disc, rotating,
eclectic power and enchanting rhythm,
human voice in a voiceless mode,
I hear you in the rendering of music.

Oh! God! I hear you! for I have
A will and wish to Hear You.