What is on your mind today?

What is on your mind today?

There is nothing on my mind to-day,
for my mind wants to be a blank sheet,
to recline in a unique corner of my home,
where no media, no radio, no mobile,
distracts me, but to look up the vault
where a lizard is catching up an insect,
in a sudden move of devour,
yet both cling on the wall for a survival.

I continue to maze into the past,
So many knots and riddles, some
are solved, more need be for
proper guidance,
my single blank page multiplies,
There is a sudden trigger of a
lightning through my window,
just as a revelation from above,
which most of us care only to defy,
nothing can escape HEAVEN’S ambience.

I look around to what

I look around to what?

I look around my amphitheatre, what for,
it is lonely, barren,weirdlike,
autumnal leaves shed and shrouded
by the murk of the soil, what do I want?
hugged by the double frost-laden coat,
my shivering feet move on, occasionally
entrapped by the slush, winter is pioneered
by the thunder and lightning, even my linnet is
missing, I crave for the tender sun, warmth
as tender as fragile as a newborn, summer’s
morn by the kitchen is salutary,
but Spring’s budding blossoms ,
With song birds around, an impetus
for a fresh write-up.

For survival

For survival
That was a green locust by my pillow,
it wanted to escape the ice cold,
nugget on a small green leaved
food stuff in a micro oven dish,
I blew it up afar by my bedcover,

I saw it with my naked eyes
rest on a thick branch of
jasmine, white buds
about to be blossomed,
my quill visualises ten poems
on the ice lets, glassy,
I drew back blanket on my
face, quick interface with
the feel of a poem ,
a sudden hit on my forehead,
that is the frost hit locust
that was driven by the wind,
back through my door ajar.

Secret chamber of my heart

Secret Chamber of my heart

That is a secret chamber of my heart,
as sacred as the creator’s master plan,
that is a sacred chamber of my heart,
inundated thought s flow diving up and down,
not , not, in a purblind move
of permutation and computation ,
along with the blood flow, cogitations,
hurt feelings ,inexplicable too,
tabled in a preset tabernacle,
yet colourful as the fish dandling with their
cute fins foraying up and down the water,
symbols and solutions as sacred
as the rivers the mighty Himalayas.
That is a secret chamber of my heart.

The paper boat by the rivulet

The paper boat by the rivulet
Yesterday my lady wrote something on me,
I heard her whisper poetry, poetry,
between her bath and lunch,
Plugged me in between her book,
lest I should be elusive from her,
writing and striking, reading and revising,
by noon uploaded into the computer,
in the evening by the maid,
pushed from basket to bin,
crumbled and crushed to be
downloaded as a waste.

The wind footballs me to you,
In a high pitch of goodwill,
My dear water, I am by you,
We move along, we sing along,
We move along, we sing along.

"what those dead bones and skulls have to say?"

What those dead bones and skulls have to say?

“Is it for this illegal trade for money,
did we lay our flesh, to be hawked upon,
hungry vultures swarmed around to
peck upon our bleeding sores?
“is it for the perpetuation of this
Colour consciousness and bigotry,
that we became one with the colour
of the sand of this land?
“is it for the word love bereft of love
that we were gored to this land?”
Gone are those days when you
were afraid of us, bones and skeletons,
We lost our sleep, our peace in our
Land of peace, our graveyard,
“every time we hear gunfires,shells,
there is a tremor of fear in our bare bones,
those scary bombs and missile
make a dent on our already rough frame,
don’t send anymore corrupt to us,
for we are at peace and perfect here.”

What a fire!

What a fire!
It is the fire of hellish, negative energy
Stimulated by envy that kindles them, the
defiant group uncompromisingly fanatical,
their hearts completely trafficked by wickedness,
It is the fire of positive endurance,
Optimism and forgiveness that sustains
the chosen suffering lot,
It is the vibrant energy propelled
by the fire of determination unspoilt
by laziness and ennui that brings
for them the success and laurels,
It is the fire of the angered gods
that cause deluge and devastation.

what is she searching for?

What is she searching for?

She is a lone climber on the craggy mountain atop,
A septuagenarian, whose wrinkles on her white face,
Unfolded her age, aging and struggling,
betrayed her strife with life, strewn with her
ambition and hard work, not to be dubious,
to b e deceived by the sham,frivoulous,
yet, her fast pace upward the hill,
she was once a mountain like, erect,
who was inching upwards, self conscious,
what happened to the improvised, thatched
cottage? Where is the stone epitaph for the
dog, her lifelong companion and protector?
Where is the shady Sycamore?
Her breathless steps answer her,
What more is there for her to search for?

Times are changing

Times are changing

Times are changing, Times are changing,
we are in the grip of changing Times,
yet, Time does not change,
Time is the same, Time is the same,
Time sets the timer for all of us,
in the wake of seasonal changes,
in the wake of climatic change,
flora and fauna change,
man changes, mind changes,
Time is the same, Time is the same,
The sun and the moon don’t change,
But you and I do change,
Time is the same, Time is the same.

A New Earth

A New Earth


What we see and what we live
is new earth bereft mostly of
conventions, cacophony leads,
growth of cactus and fungi
replace sandalwood and camphor,
I see before me a truck by OBrian,
Carrying brick and mortar and mud,
What was once a beautiful abode of
living, now a dilapidated murky stuff,
what we see and what we live is
a diabolic vile of abomination
and doom, mostly self inflicted,
just like dashing against a concrete wall
and complain about excessive bleeding,
what we see and what we live is an
Unfenced garden of shrubbery and stigma,
What we long to see and what we long
To live is a New Earth of Splendour and Peace.

Oh,England!you are the cradle

Oh, England! You are the cradle



Oh, England!you are the cradle
who nurtured my ambition,
you are the rich, fertile soil
that saw my growth from afar,
you are the Daffodil white,
made my heart, more and more
serene, you are the dream,
perennial in my heart,
you are the mighty Pegasus,
on which the poets aspiring
like me fly and high,
yours is the language supreme,
ruling far and wide.

on sleep

On sleep

I am a most welcome crony,
I tap the door of both the lazy
and lackadaisical
I surreptiously creep into the
tired body of the diligent,
like a fairy pervade into a babe
protect the sick and ailing,
wanted by many, hated by none,
I am a most welcome crony.

It is a foggy day

It is a foggy day


I fold my duvet, to see through my thick
window panes, a double routine
every day, cannot see for the thick fog
has besmeared the window panes,
I cannot but wonder that just
as man’s reason been clouded
by egoistic arrogance,
to appease my angered dismay,
the usual black bird with tiny, sharp
orange beak comes only to glide back
to its iron mound fencing the garden,
my garden at Silsoe flat,
there are many to join the clan,
small, cute, orange necked but
brown colour in body,
one or two in a pride of
monopoly over the tall trees,
the lanky trees, skyward for the showers,
they too have been purloined
of their growth by the seasonal
swift, unleaved , barren
yet not bereft of hope, swinging
as if waving upwards,
I too swing on my wheel chair,
A break with a coffee and crumpets,
desiderata, my duvet craves
manifold folds and folds.

Between the bed and duvet--

Between the bed and duvet


Between the bed and duvet,
there is no flesh, no kiss, no romance,
No hugging, no whispers,

between the bed and duvet,
violent passion runs,
Passion for writing and ruminating,

between the bed and duvet,
there is a diary and a quill,
to record and to narrate,

between the bed and duvet,
the songbird’s music and the
silent dawn like the flowering,

between the bed and duvet,
dawn flowing like a cascaded
sheet, something twined with chirping,

between the bed and duvet,
there is no sleep for me,
fresh moorings tap anew.

How do I find time to create each day

How do I find time to create each day?

I catch fast running Time
by its forelock,
feign to stop it for a while,
dip my quill of emotion
and experience in the
multi coloured oil paints
of fertile imagination,
each minute a new creation,
each hour with a new passion
for articulation, each articulation
is a matured flowering of expansion,
nearing to perfection,
Each day is an expression of
Feminine, fetish ebullience,
Nearing to perfection.

What will you be wearing?

What will you be wearing?

What you will be wearing?
I will not wear the mask of honesty,
to cover up my dark, sinister spec of
hypocrisy, if at all there is any,
What will you be wearing?
I will not wear jeans or tight pants
for I am too old to fit into these,
to show off myself, nor my qualms
nurture me to don these before
my grown –ups, to be doffed,
What will you be wearing?
I will not wear the costume of
Transparency, shining and silken,
for I believe in the transparency
of my thoughts and feelings,
In this wear and tear of life,
I believe to have a smooth sail
without any snag or strife.

Transparency

Transparency

As I recline on my chair of mahogany,
Ponder a while, why there is a decline
of the songbirds in my garden of Silsoe,
there is a swift choir of chirping of two
three birds, a sudden awakening, as if
a miracle to occur, a mystery to clear,
I rise to worship the universal Sun-God,
Chirping of Song Thrush, Linnets and
Bullfinches in melody of rare musical
Notes, inviting me too for that rhapsody,
The Sun as if a big shining diamond, cut,
Polished, the sparkling beams of which
Straight and impartial, as straight as
The sceptre of adamantine judge,
Focus on my face, peep into my mindset,
What a transparency? What a lovely,
Soul-searching transformation in me!

Man and his moribund nature

Man and his moribund nature


Oh!man,are you still not aware that
Your self is pawned and pledged,
and even bought by those hardcore
businesslike, life for them is fulcrum flesh,
who crave for convivial merriment
and lucre, not wanting to know, that
their existence is only a punctured
balloon slowly reducing to nothingness,
they sit on the broken twig, slender,
slandering on the passersby below,
the twig is slowly crushing down,
they are not monkeys to skip from
branch to branch, agile and awake,
I can see they are falling, falling
Under the felled branch, to be
bruised and incapacitated,
Oh!man, at least now you wake up.

The shadow is ephemeral

The shadow is ephemeral


Like a good Samaritan wielding prowess
in one hand and talisman in the other,
the chariot of Sun God descends slowly,
Sparkling white beams straight and impartial,
The pail of water in my hand glitter and gurgle
into the flowers purple and violet, and double white,
just as the gathering clouds shadow past me,
I long for the warmth, why the sudden shiver?
By the meadow yonder, a cowboy and a shepherd
make up with their dumb pets that graze leaves
dried lettuce, a vague wandering,
those urchins gulp tamarind rice amidst hiccoughs,
the sunbeams revive, give a message of assured love,
glare on me, only the sun is real and universal,
the shadow is ephemeral .

Home, my home, my sweet home

Home, my home, sweet home



Home, my home, sweet home,
home is where I dream and delve
sweep and mop, cook and clean,
so I cannot roam, shall not roam,
the mansion where I relive my
Multiple desires, drink the honey
of Jubilation ,drown the villain of
abomination and doom

Home, my home, sweet home,
Within the precincts of which
I roam, roam, chant a song and
Within roam from room to room;

Home, my home, sweet home,
From my pooja room to prayer hall
to balcony of rose pots,
the petals of which deck my deities,
the aroma of sandal and camphor,
the fruits in the bowl,
the jasmine and betels
in trays of copper and bamboo plates,

Home, my home, sweet home,
from kitchen to culinary,
the mirror in the cleaned
Silver vessels, I see my alarm on
the refrigerator, reflected
in the mirror, not a mirage, a mirror,


Home, my home, sweet home
Within the precincts of which
I roam, roam, and roam.

what if my poem is rejected?

What if my poem is rejected…


What if my poem is rejected?
my avid quill does not stop
enthralling my pages of endless
quest of truth and justice
what if my poem is rejected?
does my heart cease to function?
Does red blood swell to
reddening mark on your face?
like a staggering deer to the
abode of safety from the den of
growling lions, I move on,

what if my poem is rejected?
my undaunted spirit never
connives to forsake the abode,
neither does it intrude upon my
thin yet strong structure, aging body,
what if my poem is rejected?
I am not dejected at all,

My peering eyes look through
the bright, glassy window of Silsoe flat,
do the pair of swinging black birds
on the barren twigs of the tall tree,
refuse to sit and dance and view the
mini pond or the jingling leaves of
Greenery not on the far off mountain,


What if my poem is rejected?
My quill shall never reject me at all.