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.