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.

Get Ready

Get Ready

We are racing in a quick start
get ready world,
When I get debunked and demystified,
My experiences, pepping me up,
Wake me from my slumbering mood,
We are racing in a quick start,
get ready world,

get ready to face the mounting
challenges, each day is an unexpected
experience, stagnant knots and twists and
turns, but I am ready to untie, relax
the adverse situations,
to my convenience,
meet up the get ready world,

like stuffing the broken pot
with soil to grow colorful flowers,
I get ready to take away those flowers,
I am not getting ready to say
Pluck the flowers, sounding harsh,
Those flowers are getting ready
doubly smiling and ready,

With their sacred aroma to deck the
Gods and Goddesses,
These Gods and Goddesses
Are getting ready to stand by me
For ever for ever, never never forsake me.
We are racing in a quick start,
Get ready world.

Free-for-all

Free-for –all

The half closed metro water allows water
Free-for all on time,
I am awake suddenly from a dream,
Dream free-for all, does it measure
Rich or poor lower or middle?
My five year old, smart and sweet,
Free-for-all imaginary daughter,
Profusely sweating comes in,
Throwing her skipping rod
In a carefree manner, goes to the
Balcony in a free- for- all air to
Refresh her,

I invite her for a home exhibition,
The big caption in the newspaper
advertisement catches my attention,
a free-for-all, A to Z individual stalls,
I wonder what is free? Entry fee or the
Commodity to be picked free –for-all,
Or the venue free-for –all?


In the free-for-all hall, a thunderous
Announcement over the mike,
Five year old girl is missing in the crowd;
Is the suffering free- for- all?
Or the sharing free-for-all?

Hunger

Hunger

It is the hunger for literary pursuit and knowledge of
Scripts that make me write for hours together,
unmindful of culinary smell from my kitchen
Pervading my reading room,

It was the same hunger which made me addicted
to my writing desk, when one evening got a phone
call that my close kin was involved in an accident,
that rushed me to the spot.

Real hunger was substituted by instant anger,
Anger for the rash tipsy drivers,
But can you argue with those hardcore
Hungry villains who buy law into their hands,

Now on the way back home, I was really hungry,
for I skipped lunch and dinner,
I was equally angry to see a van overtaking
auto, really hungry for lucre,

my searching eyes chanced upon the
nocturnal birds hungry for flesh,
roaming and preying upon the flesh,
Powdered and perfumed to be fumed.

Dont ask

Don’t ask

When her three year old son plays
In the water when it rains,
Paper boat is the child’s excitement,
the caring mother chides not to
go near the water,
“ why mummy?”
don’t ask questions, the mother replies,
you will get ill.


when he is in ten,
when she takes him to a party,
she cautions him not to go
near the ice-cream side,
he pleads mummy, mummy, he pleads,
“Why? Mummy?”
Don’t ask questions, she pats him
With a firm admonition,
You will not be able to sit for
the half-early examination
if you have cough and sneeze.

When he is fifteen, the curious
asks the mother, who is that
aunt? is she dad’s girl friend,
who gets a a lift back home?
She nods her face, yes she
Is your dad’s office friend,
Don’t ask silly questions
any more, she replies.


When he is twenty, the mother asks
the son, my child, who is the girl
who chats with you for hours
together my I know?

Don’t ask me questions, mom,
I am grown up and can take
Care of myself and my future.

Directions

Directions

What more and better directions you have
than the Directions from Above to the
right if you have copious faith in Him,
in this land of meddling and muddled,
posing to be genius, landing themselves,
in pointless directions,

from my garden I see a covey of birds,
going in one direction, wisdom, man should
draw from that Direction, to lead a life of
sanity coupled with sanctity, but pity,
a sudden volley of shots from a sadist,
distorts the group in different directions,

I close my eyes, serenity strikes as the
flowering of aroma embedded Rose,
two many poetic metaphors, crop up,
as the sacred waterfalls and riverbeds,
sages have done penance to give by,
one proper Direction to the world,

The long poem gives the Message,
The Law of Virtue is the Direction of God!

'Always' speaks

‘Always’ speaks


I don’t know why more often than not,
People abuse me,
I am always in their tongue,
most of the people take me for granted,
I wish I were gifted with the power of speech,
to negate their falsehood,
it is always a matter of peanut matter
for some to abrogate the meaning,
I am always open-minded,
Yet some doors are always shut,
My perception is not ‘ Apposite’ to them,
It is always a matter of pride for me,
It is also a matter of pride for some
Use and abuse me ‘Always’ always.

Victim of old geneation suffers

Victim of old generation suffers.

What is that curled up bundle in that corner,
in that dark corner, darkness enlarging into
human shape, telling humanity,
it has imbibed the limpid darkness ,
from narrowed ruling orb of
man’s heart,
the afflicted spirit of a woman, no wrinkles
on her bright visage, in her yester years,
yet wan with untold misery ,
the shadow of injustice haunting
the house, her pent up feelings echo:
concubine cool as a cucumber,
vile suspicision,concocted lies
strangled her life, a fair flower
was smothered into a dusty heap,
the shadow haunts the house.

Inside my wallet

Inside my wallet

The peacock green colored wallet,
which I got for fifteen pounds in U.K,
hangs on my left palm , folded to my chest,
my right hand carries a bag of vegetables,
vanity hangs on,

two handkerchiefs slightly torn in the corner,
yet perfumed, peep out, mocking
my vanity, overlap my five rupee notes,
only two, my vanity hangs on,

inside my wallet, a small postcard,
which I forgot to post on time,
reminds my negligence, everytime,
the wallet is opened and closed.

My hair clips and a folded coil
of ribbon lies in a corner,
waiting to spin round the zip,
vanity hangs on, vanity hang on.

wicked's justification

Wicked’s justification.

Wicked stood on my T.V with a rod of scepter,
giving a big lecture, to justify its stand,
wicked, wicked, they brand us wicked,
are you all good to call us wicked?

the cute transparent liquor bottle,
the pride and possession of my previous
tenant angrily bursts,
why they do they buy and
and drink us, getting a kick of us?
we are called wicked, yet,

the nude show and the sexy movies
Triumphantly chuckle,
We are liked more than the
Domestic themes, which do
You call wicked?

Wicked winks at the ugly doll,
Why do they stare at the dross?
Why your wicked eyes are
on the forbidden objects?

wicked, wicked, wicked.

Dead bones' plight

Dead bones’ plight

They asked me to pay homage to the dead,
I stood by the stone epitaph to add one,
while my hands bent to pickup the paper,
envisaged the dead bones’ dilemma,
“when we were alive we were powdered,
Perfumed, periwigged, on the flesh,
when we fell we were cared upon,
lest you should flounder to walk,
we were, dressed up, meticulously
Massaged, some of us were powdered,
Now, you are walking upon us,
Beware of our plight, our
Shadow might fallow upon you.”

Pay day

Pay day

Ten years ago, my pay day was a hay day,
when I could afford my children a shopping,
a promised treat for the bygone birth day
of my kid, a pizza hunt, a jolly day,

today my pay day is no longer paid day,
today my pay day is a painful day,
rickshaw man who seats the kids
in three to four steps in his two
Seater luxury to school,
Pleads for advance which cannot be gainsaid,
For his bread and pittance is our pleasure.

The luxury of car and home is ngated
when the loan reminder is sent with interest,
the telephone bills are up abominably,
Children hour-long discuss the questions
wonderfully,

the telephones and the mobiles are busy,
children say that we are fussy,

by twentieth I go to the bank not for
deposit, nor for withdrawal,
to pledge my jewel for a smooth sail..

In my purse

Inside my purse


Don’t expect to see perfume
or moisture cream which my
five year old niece imitates
just as the media person
to apply on her soft skin,

Inside my purse the zip
of which is always striking,
bus tickets of six months old,
half torn, the other half folded,
many papers of local addresses,

my identity card almost soiled
by the ink, the purpose of my
black and white photo
is defeated, jingling coins
for five rupees, almost hidden

Underneath the layers,
A mint pocket half popped out,
Sticky and smelling,
my purse needs a wash,
my purse needs a wash.

inevitable

Inevitable

As the sun and the Moon and twinkling stars
are inevitable on the vast blue canopy,
as breathing is inevitable for man’s
day today functioning, a ceaseless activity,
else the tent of flesh and bones is a
collapsible shade,
equally inevitable is his lack of faith
in Him the Stage Manager,
for Man staggeringly loses his own self
in the inevitable miasma of life.

as birth and death are inevitable part,
Preordained human existence,
as creation and destruction,
God’s planned rotation, as seasonal shift,
changing man’s attitude and ambition,
as the suckling babe growing into growth
when teeth cutting are inevitable,
suffering and acceptance are
inevitable pages of human life.

Ahead of his time

Given an option whether he would choose
Computing or English Literature,
his preference was for the former,
he wanted to be much ahead of his times,
since he aspired to be in tune with the
technology of his times,
abrogating Maruti Zen as outdated,
driving the Sumo, he construed,
he was much ahead of his times,
accruing wealth in the bank,
finding the loopholes of how to
save his tax, he was ahead of his times,
when his new paint smelling wardrobe
was replete with latest garments, he knew,
he was ahead of his times,
he wanted to be in the first row,
in the cinema theater,
he was much ahead of his time,
trekking on the mountain, on top,
Viewing the humanity below,
he felt he was much ahead of his time.
When he discovered many theories
in the lab he was much ahead of time,
when his seven year old son asked him
why he did not have faith in God,
no answer, for he was far, far, far
ahead of his time.

Time stood still

Time stood still

When nations fought at the peril of human lives,
guns shot, gunpowder spread,
Time stood still,
like a most obedient servant before his master,
with folded hands, with a ready to serve face,
Time stood still, allowing things to happen,

When epic battles are won and lost,
When ethics are violated,
Sages appeared and appealed to
deaf ears, the code of conduct,
Time stood still, allowing things to happen,

When the fight between sin and celestial continues,
Man in his audacity argues and amplifies,
Not what he has seen but what he wants to be,
Time stands still, as a passive looker on,
Time stands erect, making a mockery of man’s folly.

Friendship is cute

Friendship is cute

Friend ship is cute and caring,
as long as it doesn’t bypass the
Scriptural boundaries ordained
by ageless sages of wisdom,

Friendship doesn’t belie faith,
mutual trust built upon not
Yesteryears but longstanding
fort of understanding, cemented
by honesty and sense of sacrifice,

Friendship always blooms
like the hyacinth and bluebells,
of Spring and Bluebell’s rhythm,
Friendship cannot be animalistic,
else, sinks like a rudderless ship
in mid sea of gale storm.

It has many names!

It has many names, faces.
can I say “look, there it comes!”
how it comes, how it enters to take many shapes,
it is a conundrum, but it cannot be idle,
with its lopsided imagination, it achieves
what it wants, with its seemingly good
looks it hits the mark, it does not sleep
till it is won, it walks in sleep,
like corrugated iron, folding
its way into corrosion till it
swallows the victim, scholars
have christened it many a name,
spleen, illwill, jealousy, envy,
hydra like, preying upon itself.

It's been along time

It’s been along time

It’s been a long time since I
sat upon the Mahogany chair,
exclusive property of my grand father,
as majestic and as royal as any
Monarch who wielded the scepter
Strict and undeviated,
It’s been a long time nearly three
decades since his passing into
eternity, the ancient house of pillars
forcibly closed for there was none
to maintain the country type,
the heavy bunch of keys which
I got by ship from my uncle,
It’s been along time since the
undusted piece of wood breaks
into a peal of laughter, with
every wipe, every shining,
my memory recollects the same chair,
by the side of which my faithful
grandmother used to sit and peal
the drumstick leaves for lunch,
it’s been since a long time that
I tasted her culinary expertise,
for she left this soil within a
month of her master,
it’s been a long time since
generosity is gone, tradition is gone.

Behind the times

Behind the times

I was far, far behind the times,
while the busy humanity, barring a few,
was much ahead of the times,
I was far behind the times,
Solely minding my work,
cooking cleaning and washing
reading and writing, brushing
many cobwebs that intrude walls,
unaware I was frog in the well,
the ones who care for others’ problems
were much ahead of their times,
aiming the poisoned slings and arrows
to dizzy heights, not sparing even
the gods and God sent,
I was far behind the times,
ever to write my cogitations,
those were far ahead of their times
to read in between the lines,
I was far, far behind the times.

Busy streets

Busy streets


I trudge along the busy streets,
let go the busy people busy,
hawkers, vendors, peddlers,
haberdashers jostle in the
motley crowd, making the
road busy, streets more busy,
I trudge along the busy streets,
draw food for my thought,
benumbed by the sight of the
slighted beggars, pavement
dwellers, labourers on the
scaffold, green vendors who
go dry, dry as their leaves,
ambitious men berserk,
driving fast, faster than the
rules permit, make me
Stupefied, where they go,
I trudge along the busy streets.

Fresh air

Like Cleopatra’s moods the fresh air,
glides in when I sweat profuse,
When I am cool and comfortable,
touches me and passes off
as the magic wand of a
mystical wizard,
yet, we have no mood to
abhor or abrogate you,
oh! Fresh air, you rule the universe,
how you come and go we know not,
I pity your predicament,
You are despoilt of your purity
by the garbage and human waste,
the stink of which merges you,
as the evil can pollute the good,
else how could we lose Paradise?
You are alone you are good and clean,
in my home garden how you breeze
me with the aroma of jasmine and rose,
in public you are easily corrupt,
oh! My dear don’t venture out of
precincts of your privacy.

Far away

Far away, far far away,
there was a lone woman
staying in a cottage
wailing for her child
today nearer she came,
nearer to me the frequent
visitor to the temple,
which oftener she too
would visit, more to complain,
that God was blind that
her daughter who was sold
could not be traced
in that small hamlet,
I said, far far away,
The covey of birds,
On tree tops tend to
their chicks, she was
Smaller than them,
God was not blind to her,
She was blind,
for she sold her own blood,
far, far away the cow licks
the calf and kicks the man
who milks the cow,
she must be far , far away,
from humanity’s purview,
being bereft of motherly care.

(172) A day by the beach of Dorset

        ( 172)     A day by the Beach of Dorset.

When humanity hooks me by its bait,
the sad memories of my being hood winked,
lingering as dive as a fish, me unstable,
I retreat to the surfing beaches of Dorset,
sip those just released vapors, smokes
dancing up, cream teas of Devon, sustain me,
yonder in the coarse waters of the surfing sea,
a fisherman in free play, with his fishing net,
It is not for bread and bed alone his struggle,
it is for bread and butter, a life of better,
His breathing is hooked to a tackle,
A bread of cheddar cheese,
folded in his paper roll,
what joy can you not derive?
in the cocooned casement of ship and sea,
I sail towards South west,
Sing along, sing along the see breeze,
I sail toward the southwest.

(173) Turning the pages of the past

1 73)   Turning the pages of the past----
Sitting, in the busy as a businessman railway thronged
station in London, waiting for the next connection,
I was turning the pages of my past, my dark past
where half the book was filled with ignorance
where the rest was bleak with innocence,
I looked back, I was pushed to a corner like
a cobweb which was a waste and trash,
or a spider which spins and spins to be nullified
by a broom, and my helplessness was a cloth hanger,
where many a dirty and clumsy and worn-out
was hung and more to witness the haberdasher,
while many held me to be guilty,
Gods ultimately took pity on me,
and sent the AMBASSADOR ,the divine angel
to me by my side, strong and to sail safe,
whom the seasoned, guilty mischievous
would not spare as sinning was in their blood,
as struggle was in mine, a sudden revelation
struck me ,if there were to be no sinning
how else the angels would descend,
the train came like a good Samaritan
to carry me to my destination.

A day in my life.

A day in my life.

That was a day in my life,
that was the day in my life,
when, my Mentor, Avatar came into life,
when my living was full of strife.

for a few were cantankerous,
jealousy and passion made vociferous,
everything in them was amiss,
to me His advent came as perennial Bliss,

That was the day in my life,
when Avatar Himself into my life,
spread His Benign blessings of leaf,
A golden leaf of protection for my life.

Day Dreaming

Day Dreaming.

When he was perspiring and sweat drenching,
his cotton shirt to squeeze and wring strong,
exhaling the heat of the tiled house,
feeling the comfort of the Air-conditioned,
himself pacified, he was only dreaming, not deceiving,

Bread and rotten tomato sufficed his hunger,
gulps of street tap water coming in murk
and mud quenched his thirst,
imaginary sip of coke and apple juice,
himself pacified, he was only dreaming, not deceiving,

cotton multi-colored patches, a shirt to be proud about,
it found its place on the hanger well in tout,
simple towels and torn pieces to cover his chest,
Self-admiring in the robes of silk and velvet,
himself pacified, he was only dreaming, not deceiving.

My grandfather clock

The Grand father clock

That was a grandfather clock,
framed of sturdy Mahogany,
the ancestral pride of five lineages,
with the golden colored pendulum,
ringing the stentorian chime,
Ding-dong, as majestic as the
Bell of Justice in Indian Court,
When the inmates were away,
how often the ding-dong
broke the eerie silence
of the ancient pillared house,
That was the Grandfather Clock,
a terror of alarm for the exam sitter,
for the local train commuter,
for my grandfather to feed the cow
a timely siren and stimulant to
scan the paper from top to the bottom.
That was the grandfather clock,
Shone like a prince by the broken
Cleavage a lengthy line on the wall,
by which lime and mud were falling,
That is the grandfather clock on which
Sits the wedding photo of
My son and daughter-in-law,
en emblem of eternity and bliss.

London was calling.

London was calling, calling.

You were bogged by the cold, ice-cold,
mounting coldness surrounding you,
when you did not know whether
your suffering was due to cold
or allergy, London was caring,
London was calling, calling,
When my Muse was seemingly
lethargic, needed a warm pep up,
London was calling, calling,
London’s Big Ben was chiming,
To remind me the Timelessness
of creativity, Big Ben was calling,
River Thames was calling, calling,
To reassure the ever flowing
thoughts in my poetic vein,
River Thames was calling, calling,
London Eye was calling,
The wheel of London Eye
was calling, calling,
The wheel to emphasize
The cyclic pattern of Life,
London is, is calling,
London is calling now, now!

How much of Spring springs on me!

How much of spring springs on me!

When March marches like a coy mistress,
bemuse what happens to these dry leaves
almost pounded, like disowned relatives,
when penury is writ large on their face,
April advances in silken robes, all smiles,
I enjoy the soft and velvet foam of Dove
Cream soap in my bath tub of London flat,
lingering aroma still on my wet skin,
a lavender sari to keep up the tempo,
while my soothing memory dates back
to Heathrow’s terminal three where a
a hot sip of Cappuccino with wavy
smokes elusive escape to nowhere,
a covey of doves on the elevated
car parking, enjoying the take off
and landing planes, perhaps,
I partake of the thrush and orange
necked white bird in their semi-chorus,
with the cuckoos, in their melody,
I bid farewell to those notes of lugubrious,
injustice and clever deception,
Away! Away ! You dark, dismal
wintry days! Unmooring me.

A look up at the sky

A look up, at the sky.
My good Samaritan neighbor gives me a lift,
the smooth wheels of his Sumo drive,
yet hit upon the mushroom like spread
jasmine that has encroached on the road,
I know not whose fault it is, the gardener
who took pity on it not to prune,
or the mechanical wheels that crush upon
half withered, smiling flowers,
who cares for these voiceless?
Through the same window panes,
I look up at the minaret, a bird
as if releasing into freedom from
its cove of self inflicted stay,
surfing the vast blue, merry, merry,
I have heard a bird hitting a plane,
who can hit the bird unless a
merciless bullet aimed at something else?
My paining neck slows downward,
Who cares these voiceless?