True love sparkles from where?

True love sparkles from where?
It is not in the meeting of those craving eyes,
love sparkles, it is not the yearning passion for
flesh which eats alive flesh, love sparkls,
it is not in the apparel, scented ,serves as
an extravagant foppery ,love sparkles,
it is not in the comfort of the cushiones,
luxuries that love takes off,it is not in the
compay of constant kisses and hugs that sprkles,
it is in the craving for the longing soul, for the
oneness , it is in the unanimity, it is in the
unique feel where no insidious elements intrude,
that true love sparkles, shines, sustains for long.

There is rthythm evrywhere.

In the cosmography or the study of
His Creation, the unique, mystifying cyclic
Process of destruction and devastation,
There is a glowing rhythm.

When the brakes of wheels move forwards
and backwards, the commuters move
across the vestibules, in tune with the
wheeling mobility towards a destination,

when the colourful buds of jasmine and
rose blossom, aroma casting a divine spell
around you, cicadas sing in shrill sound,
covey of birds in moorings towards migration,

in the lullaby of a fondling mother,
in the proper intonation of English language,
when the vocal chords vibrate and in the
sound s of vowels , diphthongal glides,

in the chiming of Big Ben, the lights
glowing in the wheel of London eye,
in the chanting of Vedas by learned
scholars , in the expanding Dawn,

there is rhythm , there is marvellous rhythm,
there is rhythmic rhythm.

Colour of the colourless

God ,holding the big amplifier
Proclaims HIS message, loud
and emphatic, to reach the
deaf ears of the bawdy , arrogant,
blue is the vast firmament,
The deep blue is blue,
The unroll able bed, my creation,
which you tread upon ,
viewing with your prejudiced eyes,
Is vast and wide and invincible,
You solidify your clean conscience
Pure Dove like white , convert
into blackish hellfire ,by your
Decoloured thinking,
and red blood into depowered
cells by artificial immunisation,
Frequent and imbecile play
with syringes and drugs,
I gave you greenery,
But you made it into
Dry and wry by your
bedraggled methods of
Deforestation, molestation
of the flora and fauna,
my colourful creativity,
now a spasm of vacuum.
Colour and colourless
Is in your eyes and acts.

God in coco cola bottle

God in coco cola bottle.

Miles and miles away from India,
my country of birth, my home town,
the ancient soil where people heard
and saw divine voices and visions,
penance in Himalayas’,
myriad mythological gods
and godheads much to our
Stupefaction, scriptural dictums,
Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva,
Creator, protector, destroyer,
Three in one, all in one.
Trinity in one and only one Avatar.
Redeemer and Saviour of Humanity,

What convictions, what undeiviated beliefs,
held in traditions ,now converted into questions,
questions after questions , nimbi- pambi poking,
convictions all crumbled into pieces,
the hungered and hungry in their vile looks saw
the life in coco cola, whole life in wine and flesh,
what trinity, what affinity, only nitty, they opine,
I see a presentiment of diluted umbrage
Here in England, the sun straight into my eyes,
the beams straight into the lab and library
as straight as the thinking many,
weaving in dew drops, a symphony.

November is no longer sober...

November is no longer sober and sombre,
here in England with its wintry morn,
Straight sun beams, in egalitarian mood,
Pop up on the fields, the slanting grass,
Weans away my fear of shiver and cold
brambly roses, barn and brooks,
rabbits run races, cicadas bring peace,
the shed leaves , a loose garment for the
much plodded fields, and my paced steps,
November is no longer sober and sombre,
Merry bells of Christmas already in tunes,
November is no longer sober and sombre.

He is reflective

It is in the same garden much materials
are buried and burnt , transformed as
fertilisers ,it is here , where, big ground nuts,
have been wholesaled,

The septuagenarian drives into his garden
by his wheel chair, just returned
from hospital, rheumatism causing his
Counting days, his garden, his nurturing,

His upbringing now passes off to another
owner, from the next month, for the
landlord has sold the house,
the fresh, jasmine, aroma of the

flowers still hanging on to the stem ,
now uprooted by the merciless
Gardener, the wheel chair moving forward
but his eyes can not envisage,

rude crowbar commanded by the master,
the plant stuck to the soil , wet, not yet dead
smell s rusty , musty , its roots still
craving for ancestral anchorage,

another implantation if possible,
he wonders how the shift
has changed the plant’s
destiny, the man sees the cycle

of life, be it a plant or garden
in different perspective.

A passion for writing.

A passion for writing.
When the passion for writing is
Ingrained in your blood, irresistible,
flow of thoughts, round the clock
running into streams, fluid currents,
not congealed , not static, MINERVA
allows free play of art, checks the
entry of trade and traffic ,
writing booming round and round,
writing becomes this forte,
writing and this passion sail
in the same compartment,
reach the destination of
augmented creativity.

What more Gift of God...

What more Gift of God you
need than the all seeing, pervasive
unseen image, expanding,
contracting, you call it a
mirage, or miracle, or
abracadabra, following you,
with an assured contact of
halo surrounding you, HIS
extended , hands, dipped in the holy
balm of far fetched vision
and Mercy , flagging the victory
of successful endurance.

A pampered child

She in her feline eagerness
wanted to achieve all she desired,
all she wished , aspired, to possess,

not knowing the limitless boundaries
of limitations, ate marmalade,
pointed towards apple, offered forthwith,

Craved costly cotton dress,
her parents did not say ‘ no,’
pointed silk saris , the emporium,

her mother billed , bundled and parcelled,
gem stones, latest models, ornaments,
readily came to her doors,

she wanted that married man,
blue and globetrotting,
father to be her husband.

Day and night for her the same,
stealth and lie was her game,
her siblings gave a 'go'

out she came with a
thud of fall, fail, pale was her
face , with God’s wrath and fury interface.

God in a tete-a-tete

God in a tete-a tete ...

When, fear of this bugging karma
theory sits in the corner of the room ,
looming large, giving a constant tap
on your mind and memory ,
be it at park or singing lark,

weaving rhythm of its own,
may be from this looming large, don’t know,
or imperceptible to your naked eye,
A voice descends as
if giving commandments,

“Count your meticulously earned coins,
Carefully preserve your currencies,
in a case of thrift and scrutinised
economy, desire not the undue and
undeserving, be not polluted by the

desire of excessive greed or passion,
pamper your vagrant, vibrant, motives,
pamper pets, puppy and kitten,
breed and feed sparrows and squirrels
but pamper NOT lust and sinister flesh.”


At the end of the day,

Good by to those

Good by to those.......
If your dress is going to undress,
my private sense of shame,
arouse my sleeping passions,
stir waves in me
to the height of dashing
rocky shores,
if your transparency is going to
play jugglery in me, undo
my being in me,
tickle me into nothing,
then fie upon it,
fie upon it.

Life speaks..

Life speaks.....
Like God’s panoramic sweep of His
Umbrella, vast, unfolded,
ever wide, ever opened,
I am, what if in U.K or U.S.
Or India , I move on, look up,
look back, sides, with my unstinted
glass of unique vision, try to beckon
you too, before me standing bewildered,
offering , you a cup of therapy free,
Unbounded, you refuse to catch it up,
hounded by fleeting group of desire,
weltering in stygian cave,
stubborn like stubs of thimbles,
getting pricked up, bleeding ,
blood clots hanging around,
what can I do? I go on, away,
there is someone, sane and sanguine,
to shake hands with me.

we want not
Coins and currency,
Coffers overflowing,
bundles and packets,

Ill-gotten and mismanaged
riches and robes, gemstones
and diamonds glitters , glamour,

renting other lives we want not.
Deception and fraud and scam
dare not enter into our lives,

encourage we will not
such sham and sinister lies.
No, not in our days and lives.

Bullets or pellets of wisdom.

Each day it is continual bullets of
verbal assaults, confounding
Your balanced thinking,
Irreversible experiences,
Irreconcilable, teething moments,
What can you do, expecting the
accelerated therapy, the
stumbling blocks spring like
Ping-pong balls, kick away those
toys, go to the ground of solutions,
remnants are pearls of wisdom,
you are part of the scenario,
a mute witness to happening,
happening, happenings.

What life is before me as it stands

To day as I am in England,
my tabula rasa with its,
impeccable English language,
with many forms, portrayals,

meagre denials, as it appears
to my perceived eyes,
no raining today, no biting chill,
as I browse, the sun beams

straight on my face,
from tender to dazzling,
as if to scrutinize my heart,
the vast expanse of sky,

in front of my spacious library,
I ponder, the magnificent silence,
as if the expanding dawn, preaches,
why life contractd by man's narrow

vision, why so much of parochialism?
where man is landing,
man is loosing grip of life,
life in its glowing embers,
he converts into a contracted tube

of confusion, still, the sun beams
expand, making a mockery of his
predicament, I only heave a sigh of pity.

This is white, little spongy puppy,

This is a white, spongy puppy....
There is a white, spongy, cute, little puppy,
advantageously positioned,
amorously yawning
wide opening its mouth,

like a penguin , with searching looks
in the veranda, resting upon its tail,
with its occasional see-saw rhythm
of tossing a tiny, white plastic ball,

chasing a kitten, playing and playing,
playing and playing ,non-stop,
hiding behind haberdasher,
to make me happy, happy.

How life presents in different perspectives

In the outskirts of city, outside our tenement of thin dwelling,
snow sweeping around us, nearby foggy, our vision blinded by fog,
on the road, life surrounded by twigs , barren trees, emptied
of their greenery, presenting a weird look, may be synonymous
with the present look of lives, our lives, lives in comparison,
I see, with clarity, what course life is to take,
you sleep, or unconscious,
I ruminate, what is life, devoid of shelter, for many,
Poverty, squalor, shiver in the dead of night,
what matrimony has made many a women?
but you frequent bubs and bars, nerve shattered,
You lie; succumb to desire, that uncontrollable
desire, you fall a prey to that devouring ego,
blood sucking passion eating you alive every minute,
feline routine of your life, I build up every moment of life,
Whereas you crumble , lie on the shambles,
unable to extricate from the debris,
foppery, external fittings, your eyeliner,
your riches, spoils , now your ruins,
I can only pity you , my dear,oh!dear.

Where is Romance?

Romance in her diary and life,
meticulously written, managed in living,
Knows its place, now in a
Shifting paradigm,
She knows to prioritise,
from cot to cradle,
Kisses on the babe’s tender skin,
long love in dimple cheeks,
no longer love in warbling notes,
but in perambulations and cloth cradles,
Serenading and singing,
in tunes of lullaby clothed in wisdom ,
romance in cosy corners,
romance enjoys rebirth,
relives in nuggets and whispers.

Dying fear

Dying fear.
When Cerberus haunts me
in my throes of pangs of death,
the massive teeth of the hoary past
tear me into irretrievable pieces,
I muster courage, like the un gathering clouds,
Know not, if it is the fear of death, imminent,
Or the dying fear, fortifying me,
My quill shivering writes,
You or she or him or it,
One thing is certain, your
Deeds and misdeeds if any,
Sure to be many for many,
follow like a shadow.
Confound not, hence, peace
There be within.

From gooseberry to cockerel

From gooseberry to cockerel

From gooseberry spread on the
Spiraling ground, rolling
and roll Polly, glittering
and kicked to corners,
picked by some to be tasted,

to cockerel creating a mystery
to its arrival and formation,
egg or omelets, hen or chicken,
all the same for me philosophy,
for many choking the secret

of tabulation of much and many,
there is life, there is sure living
in all, there is one God and His
motive pervading, yet for so many,
it is a chance collocation or negation.

An appeal by sex

Un robe me from your sleeve,
for I smell and stink ,
dirty and uncouth, though,
flattened and perfumed,

I am in stygian cave,
day by day a craze for me,
mass of flesh carried across
the river Styx,

instincts of indulgence,
salacious, play constant,
sex syndromes,
infect ional scars imprint

the skin,I need be washed
with the lotion of repentance,
reap the consequences,
Repentance, repentance.