A rare gift to me

A rare gift to me



One day she beckoned me with
a warm smile and a peacock like radiance,
it was a soothing and assured message,
It was a pot of goodwill and respect to
my ingrained feelings, gifted to me,
England’s rare gift to me,
I nurtured with a soil of mutual
affection and bond,
my dictates watered the well sown seed of
Creative aura with imagination,
I treasure the gift in a velvet cove of
sincerity and diligence,
untainted by lazy resilience.

It is coming hard into this hard world

It is coming hard into this hard life

Tender and spongy as a velvet towel
layers of skin still pealing and pealing,
the soft feather like hand with its
Growing nail inadvertently moving
hither and thither , Scratching its face,
a filmy line of blood stain , narrowly
missed the eyes below, it has come
a hard way, into this hard world,
The creator’s just perfected,
Completed entity, the baby into
The mother’s arm, sharing warmth,
To counteract the cold of this earth,
It is coming hard into this hard life.

The colour of the blood --many

The colour of the blood is many!

When I am struck by a motor bike and lay
unconscious, the stretcher in the hospital
Wheeling me in the ward where I can not
feel or see anything, bottles of blood are
needed for emergency, schools and colleges,
are more, the donors are more,
yet the blood group is rare,
Now the colour of blood is Mercy!

When the bloody wars are fought,
Miserably lost and miraculously won,
When the bullets pierce the body,
The soldiers fall flat, the blood
Congealed, the battlefield,
decayed with rotten corpse,
the colour of the blood is sacrifice.

When the plane is hijacked,
When they hold all their lives in fear,
Somebody fights and shot at,
In the fear ridden aircraft,
the colour of the blood is bravery!

When we are related by blood,
People call us blood cousins,
blood brothers and blood sisters,
the colour of the blood is affinity
or affection or affectation too.

Blood and roses

Blood and roses

Blood is oozing, thick red blood is oozing,
as if wanting to be let out of its blue veins,
my blood stained thumb with a white band aid
doesn’t succumb to its wounded pride,
Still stands erect, the culprit is the penknife,
While cutting the lady’s finger, yes!
the lady’s finger, red blood on my white nail,
I run to the garden to pluck my favourite red roses,
Red roses with the hidden thorns,
I stumble upon an uncared
for plastic rubble, the soft skin
Underneath my foot reddens,
Red blood is oozing, oozing,
I look up the red roses,
Those that smile with a message,
‘ beware of the thorns in us, the roses.’

clean your house in ten minutes?

Clean your house in ten minutes?

It is not cleaning my house in ten minutes,
Much of clearing the pile of ten meters,
more of dust and bin and baskets and bamboo,
Cleaning and cleaning, carefully clearing,
Every nook and corner, the fallen cobwebs
On the shiny wooden floors,
My mop wipes the running sweat too,
It is not cleaning my house in ten minutes,
More of cleansing my body as well,
for the more I perspire, I aspire,
it is not cleaning my house in ten minutes.