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those musty,outdated history books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.