On a thief entering into the house.

On a Thief entering into the house.

Beware; somebody is walking up and down,
Over the corridors, in the nights,
escaping the vigil and whistle,
sulking in the garage and the corner,


the siren like warning ringing into
my ears, though at times ears clogged
due to battening rains,frogs croak
Intermittent prolonging the ring,


I give credence to these
repetitive assuming wiseacres,
disbelieving my belief into myself,
stuff all my imitation jewels,

into my safe vault wrapped up
in my publications , bundles,
spend my sleepless night ,
looking up at the vault,

who steals whose, when and how?
Who stole Tolstoy’s Anna’s heart
in Aritha van Herks’
‘ Places far from Ellesmere’?


Near by some dragging sound,
Is he the thief in stealth?
A septuagenarian struck by
the lightning, taken by ambulance,

some body scratching my doors,
panic grips me , slowly switch on
the lights, it is the giant like rat
escapes the rain , barging in.

Luxuemberg influence

Luxemburg like influence

It is the laminated, color photo,
most prominently carved, certainly
not black and white, as if to refute,
ever raging hellish fire of jealousy,
venom, senseless defiance of Nature,

lamination looms large, on the
painted wall of the house, with
the all knowing third eye of
seeing the growing sinister syndrome,
igniting far and wide,

yet, the lamination sparks for the
inmates, a Luxemburg like influence,
radiance, resplendence,
darkness recedes, as if driven by
Enchantress’ magic wand.

Feather Touch

Feather T ouch

Believing in the God who believes you,
You look up the blue sky, bright sun,
despite the dazzle, the rain bearing clouds
which play jigsaw puzzle, not far away,

what do they think of us, they keep moving,
any life in them? what is the ultimate
destination? Imperceptibly query within,
for the weight of grocery and old rice

pulls me, a staggering stride,
burdened beyond my capacity,
the tight rope criss cross cuts my palm,
blistering wounds and sudden boils,

you recline on a black stone,
mind retrieves you from memory,
you live your suffering,
you eat and swallow your pudding,

an imaginary bonding, a feeling,
healing by feather touch,
message runs, tomorrow is yours.
Tomorrow is yours .

This goodhearted monkey

This good-hearted Monkey…..

This good-hearted monkey, good Samaritan
impeccably vows to follow me from my
Cradle to the grave, I do not train it,
It caringly trains me and pommel with words
those who hit him, unsparing,

decent and divine,
one not of those scratching and searching
lice in dirt and unwashed hair,
leads me wary to my grape yard,
drops those purple into my

mouths, sane and serene way of
quenching your thirst,
if I am awake, it corners into a nap,
when I am asleep, short tap on my
key-board and computer,

it preaches, it teaches,
without any hitch or scratch,
I am the monkey, I would be
the donkey, puppy and dog,
load and wash and watch,

am the Holy water, hellish fire,
dusty air, musty mist,
float and fly, smile and chuckle,
I am the Avatar,
those with wicked and naked
Eye cannot see me.

Ice cream

Ice cream

Vanilla ice cream instantly decided
A must as a dessert on the carte du jour,
Children finalize in the elevator,
As a mark of jubilation over
the engagement of my eldest,

the youngest winks at me,
no excuse mom,
in the Shindy restaurant,
roof garden with shiny marbles,
family gathering, my sweet

grand daughter babbles in
baby language, in gestures strange,
I look into the white puff of whiff,
Transparent creamy stuff in the
White bowl of glitter,

A narcissus springs again,
Pain!pain! pain!
It is the bewildered cry of
Tooth extraction, root canal
treated, gums shrivel,

one little pinch goes to the lip,
the cup passes to the rest.
my second son nods to accept, alleviate.

She lies

She lies, lies, lies.

She basks her perfumed, powdered face
On his plump chest, golden and white
Counting the silver fur, flesh rubbing flesh,

Countless are her cocooned days,
of bold nights she spends
in his loins, myriad ,

devouring his clean chin ,
her eyelashes paint romantic tales,
in water colors, convincing lies

so many dawns and dusks ,slip by,
as she slips into many a skin,
Today I see her lie in another couch.

It sounds clownish

It sounds clownish

What I hear is the clamor of vociferous
acoustics, season’s bug , the hurriedly
vying megalomaniac’s dream enacted
on the streets, I jump into the pavement,

behind me wailing or whispers not from
sophomores but beginners of the
university campus, yet romping down,
“ no friends, no life, no taste,”

a mad , imbecile craving, I feel,
what good to have many a friends
who stand not in times of dire need,
misguiding and misshaping ,

you are a canoe, rudderless, sinking
better to be alone, to seek a friend
in your self, than faith in fiends,
I bend to pick up a perfumed kerchief,


the red colored double Decker bus,
halts to branch us off to different
stages, the piece of cloth reaches
the owner, she waves and smiles ‘good-by’.

The Terror of Grief.

The Terror of Grief.

The Terror of Grief is like
a frenzied, stray dog, anger
howling in the looks,

The terror of grief is chasing you,
you run, driven by the extremes
gasping for breadth,

you run to get caught, gored
by the massive teeth,
the horror of a victim,

your clean, unpolluted head
for all its innocence and purity
guillotined, blood shed,

the terror of Grief holds you
by its relentless claw,
until blood is drained,

the shiver is a tremor , engulfs you
in its abysmal deep.

Nomenclature

Nomenclature

This potentially hidden primo face
Life force, in the beautified clay,
this body, lurkingly mobilizes,

singly, a manipulating wizard,
goes by many names, life,
breadth, soul and Atman,

how it enters, wherefore it leaves,
this small ‘ it’ is big enough,
it enters the tuned doll,

skips ,rolls and jumps on
large and sturdy Mausoleum,
keyed and controlled by Santa Claus,

this ‘it’ is a rocky boulder,
weeps, withstands, have recourse
to births ceaseless and many.

Those eyes

Those Eyes

I swam into those eyes,
blossoming as lotus or

Chrysanthemum in my
garden, blooming, booming,

no mascara, no eyeliner,
no swelling passion, no anxiety,

Rubric in the face,
A glassy mirror that

is reflective of ceaseless
Creation and vision,

No empires falling, no
kingdoms surrendering,

Neither irksome lust,
Nor seductive charm,


My sweet grand daughter in
Silken robes and sweet smiles.

This little thing on my little finger

This little thing on my little finger

This little thing on my little finger,
White, rounding and rounding,
day by day, bulging and protracting,

they call it whitlow,
not giving me pleasure,
paining and paining,

alienating me from writing,
this little thing is crafty,
I apply rice floured bandage,


Soaked in oil, my beloved
Grandma’s treatment, followed
in good earnest,

this little thing says,
be patient, I’ll go when
only I am satiated.

The other foot far.....

The other foot far…..

Is that the praying mantis in your tidy
bedroom , or a cricket that leaps and chirps?
or cockroaches hurriedly moving from
corner to corner wooden shelves to
colonize as a matter of right,
the bedbugs go hiding underneath the pillow,


Another addition to already bugging mass,
yet, do the insects have the intellect of
sixth sense? Ply my evening by the beach,
the crab dead and fetid, tossed up and
down by the surging waves,
dashing against the pebble, a dead prowess!

Romping boys balloon up the air,
inflate and diffuse, innocence plays,
boiled ground nuts in craving baskets,
Young urchins in rags and tattered,
I part with my son’s T-shirt, loose garment,
A treasure, till youth matures into manhood,


Why this human debacle? I query within,
It is karma, destiny, the Avatar replies,
I move on, move on ,mind stretches far…
London’s stentorian Big Ben chimes,
Many stroll and sit on the broad steps of
Trafalgar Square, my creativity augments.

Celluloid show

Celluloid show.

I am a Celluloid bride,
Showcased on T.V stand with pride,

I dance to the tunes of many,
That many don’t exploit me for money,

What kisses, what hugs, what smiles, know not,
Still, I know, I am not rot, rot,

What Day, Sun or Moon, on me the same,
for me it is only a passive game,

a game to make others happy,
if you are happy, I too am happy.

Penury speaks

1) Penury speaks…

Under the tree sycamore,
She lies threadbare,

lobed leaves, her rich bed,
what more is for her to shed?

she closes her sunken eyes
in state limpid, yet with tears,

a cursed living to pull through,
isolation as if in marginalized borough,

rain or sun, the tree protects,
she has no dreams to protract,

her last breath would be her ideal gift,
much solicited prayer in tout.

He comes through my balcony.

He comes through my balcony.

He comes white collared,
bold as an honest romantic,
unstinted as the copious rain God,

he does not go into hiding,
shiver and fever wrinkle me
as a shapeless bundle,

then I lay, expose my body
to him, drink his warmth as
a medicine,

the dazzling hands extend his
stethoscope, seemingly
Prescribes garlic and pepper,

Slowly goes back the same way,
taking back the accessories
of apothecary he brings in.

Night afte night

Night after Night

Night after night, it is the
Owl screeching, that disturbs
me when my keyboard is vibrant
with tapping alphabets,

the traffic on the road is undulating
just as the heroes ranting in the
nearby clustered cinema theatre,
the gay and gaiety hand in hand

in colorful attire soon to be doffed,
for the weltering after revelry,
even Prudery yields to fetish countenance.
owl shifts its nearby abode,

what if the good news of childbirths
every second or be it childlifing,
or numerous rotten , carcass burning,
night after fight , the owl is the same.