A String of fallen threads......

           A  String  of  fallen   threads......

 These  bunches  of  fallen coils,

 Unable  to  extricate .

Mehendi   abnormally  usurps

   the  white colour,

these  demented,  entangled   on the

yellow  white  comb,

aging    head  dethrones them,

 Some  slick  hand ,promotes

Them  for   a  wig.

These  fallen  angels 

Giggle  and  smart

Ready  for up gradation. 

Poetry in Motion.

Poetry in Motion.

If brooks and rivulets can inspire ,
swoops of birds and soaring kites
take poets to seamless heights,
poetry is in motion, poetry can also 
be in commotion, crowds and platforms,
trolleys and chocolates and bookshelves,
signals and throbbing tubes, 
smiling ,crossing hurried 
faces, cigars in corners, 
poetry is in Motion.
poetry can be flawless inspiration
from poets and stations and statues.

Piquant Notes

              Piquant   notes

          Day's dull, monotonous , drab, drags  you  away,

         Night's serene, tranquil quill pulls you to sway

        in outpouring piquant  pieces  
                            of Creativity  and Tranquillity,

          you proceed  in  all agility,

          Snow  or   Rain ,shiver or tremor,

         it  all runs through  in  aquatic   vigour,

        my  day  is my  Dross,

        my  night is  my  Bliss,

         When the world sleeps,

         I keep  myself  awake,

          with my  ascetic  Muse.

My empty coffin...

I am thrilled to see my coffin

Set   sail  in watery  weather,

It is not made of iron box

Full of ice chunks for there is

 No  pounded    body  to be buried,

No   scalp to be covered,

no  ceremonial  mourning.

It is  made of bamboo sticks

Nor to be burnt, but laden with

burnt  desires,  desiderata of

bygone days, in accessible ,

it   sails from this  end

  to  a   different long  shore

it  sails amidst  rough weather

but unmindful of it,

I too follow it

Hoping to   reach it  intact.

It sails, sails.......

It comes like what...

 It  comes  like what....

It  comes like  emboldened   rat

Rattling  upon the    brass  vessel

In the corner of the kitchen

meant to store the droplets of

Water through  the leaky roof,

Rattling, rattling, rattling.

I see it in the massive heart attack

arrest  the  normal  function, a recent dysfunction

cardiac  failure, failure,

the  sheets   of water inundate

 the cities,    swamp  surroundings

by   shock waves, tidal    sweep,

the   falling of   asbestos  sheet

in the back yard  of the garden

by   the   tornado   undoing my

bamboo  shed into pieces,

the   arrogant  sceptical  

always questioning,

cross questioning, weaves

a  dithyramb  into undignified

doubts   multiplying into  doubts

oh! God, when this is coming to en end?

When this end is opening up?

My Muse Today.....

    My  Muse   today...

My ascetic, not acrobatic MUSE

Is    annoyed, sad ,

Segregates  into  a  corner,

refuses  to  be  profuse  with

my   quill   and  uncivil 

with  my blank, polite  and unspoilt

papers  looking  up,

thin  decreasing  pabulum

why  confronting  today?

Bartender  in   my  Devilish 

Spirits   barters   with 

My  Sacred  Muse,

I am   bemused , amused.

Poverty in my potpourri..

Poverty   in  my     potpourri....

My  choicest   platinum   bracelet

Riveting   on my   wrist   wrestles

With my  bony  skin,  my  protruding

Pummelling  Desire   dons   a   diamond

Ring  on   my   pointed finger, slowly   all

My   fingers  are   adorned,   Desire  and  designs

Don  other   slender , but  not    slick  fingers,

 My   ostentatious  ,heavily     showy

  ten  sovereign   Gold  Chain,  is  not

bothered  to  hide  behind the  multi layers

of   my   thick   Gold   rimmed   silk  sari,

the  bundles  of  popping out/peeping currencies

from   my  iron  safe , refuse  to  be food

for my dining   table,  variety  dish ,

My  gold  rimmed  eye    glasses  

Question  the  Poor staggering,

Maul   them  an eyesore.

The  scholar   scrambles   the  dictionary

For the  word  POVERTY.

A butterfly in the corner

                             A  butterfly  in the  corner.

I  view  it  since  a week,

mistaking  it   a    just  released  spider.

It  is   a  tiny  butterfly, stuck to the 

Corner  of  the  high  vaulted  roof,

A   new  varnish  tempting ,

tampering  the   ceiling  as   well,

 it  is  not      prying mantis  to  hold

If   a   Crore   is   inlaid   the  walls,

 From  afar, a   lizard  fast  approaches

to  gourmet    the    innocent, sleeping,

My  pointed  stick  prevents   the   holocaust.

May  be  the   butterfly  does  not

dash to  go ,  dare  the    traffic  of  the

trafficking   world, 

happy  to be  in   its    halcyon days :

there  is  a   sweet,   tweet

as  if  touch  it  not, disturb it not.

December to Dismember

        December to   Dismember  .....

Broken    glass   pieces  of  inebriated

Symptoms   sprawling   in the  zero   hour,

Crammed   on my platform, the withered

flowers  and  centipedes  surrogating

creeping   many: I am  alone  ;

It  is  not  necromancy  nor exorcism

By   a   seasoned     expert:

The  crude surgical   hands of  autumn

Laid   my  stems  bare. I am  looking  up

At  the   good Samaritan  Sky.

The    cold   frosty  wind 

entwines   me with   a  hug,

Hopefully   the  numbness of  November

and   the   chilly  wintry  bed

 will   be  gone, gone.

December bells  start  chiming,

To  Dismember  many  sad   notes.

Come  December, Come, come. 

 

A wish for the one whisked away.

A   Wish  for  the one whisked  away.

It  is  nearly   two  years   since  you  are gone.

Trailing  behind  two  thousand  memories

heaped   around  the  environment,  INERASABLE

I would not   say   haunting  around .

They  are  Memories, Memories

 questioning  Even  times.

not    pebbles  nor gravels,  nor  the

myriad   grains of   sands  at  the construction site,

nor  are  the  clipped wings  to be burnt by

many   a   hard  . Merciless   cries   in the  vicinity:

 Memories  and memories ,

I still  look  around  for  you,

Are   you  still  traversing the path

to  reach  the  starry  heaven?

Or   you   want  to  carve a  alcove

For   yourself?

 Does  your  soul  still  select  her own society? 

A limerick on salt and winter

A limerick  on salt  and winter

When  Love ’s frosty  winter  on open terrace ,a  grimace      

With   costly  paramour draining   your   purse, a growing   menace,

You  offer   her  only   pepper  water,

Her   demurred  looks ,plain  salt  water,

Also   there    swarms   of    bugging   mosquitoes  you  countless  interface.  

I hear something significantly portentous

I hear    something   significantly   portentous

“ I   hear  America  singing”.

 I hear London  calling,

Calling, calling   for cornucopia

Of  images  for  Creativity,

The   ghost in Dr. Faustus  is  being

  exorcised     by the   cool  moon tidal

waves  of  the  River  Thames,

Rippling!    Rippling!

The  wheel of  London Eye

Wheeling, wheeling  into  a

Realm   of   unexplored  serendipity.

But  I   Hear  in      India

Some   teguments  weeping,

Wailing, for  the  slow  loss

Of  Sanctity, the country of

Vedas  is   crumbled  to   KURKURE

At  tea-time table.

The  ancient  thread of cradle                                                                                

Of  ages  and civilisation

Is  deviously  crumbling to pieces:

 Life  is  only  for  limca     not           

For    litany  or  serious  discourses.

 I hear  Now  India  weeping.

  

ON MAYA gruelling..

        ON  MAYA gruelling..

I    slowly begin  to  refresh,

 read   the   quick  moving  present

for each  day is  a  nonstop  roller coaster,

in   the   blank  page   of  the  past,

I    traverse    the  path,

blanketed   NOT     by   the  jamboree

but   by  the  gruelling  Maya,

a  horrendous , selfish  environment

 a subtle  intricate  monster

admonishes me, checks me

you have  to  internalize,

Epicurean   stares   from    distance,

I seek   my  way.

When Adam delved......

         When  Adam  delved.........

When  Adam  delved, Eve  span,

Malefic  Satan  came to  sham,

Satan  spied, Eve yielded,

Evinced   Adam , both transgressed

So  mankind was born:

But  then  Satan  came  along,

Faithful  in every  era to  question

To nullify  the  purpose  of   Incarnation,

to  argue, to counteract, to tarnish:

queued  to  swell those in  quandary,

 possibly  to be dethroned to  the

eternal  realm  of devious   dormitory

for   there  bound  to be  No

Call of  Awakening   for   those   adamant. 

A moment in a solitary corner

             A  moment in a solitary corner 

      I recall   my grandmother’s  cow

MM---AAA-----AAAA----S, in her own  garden

Labour  for her,  also the consequential  labour

For my grand ma, tending, caring, cleaning,

Innocent  calf  falls  to the ground,

Tether  and crowbar witness  gleefully.

For   many  a  human, helpless,   I foresee,

Why  this  Birth? Why this  birthing?

Why   take  a  Bath or holy  dip?

As  for  those  deliberate   inhuman,

Callously  dipping in  vials of sin,

Is  it  absolving  karma   or  abrogating

Dharma , insignificant moments of 

Foraying  into the otherness of existence.

A  church  bell  peals out ,disturbing   silence,

It  is  also  part  of  Karma,

Karma   admonishes   

You  cannot   banish me, bear  with me.

X poem: The old woman's pondering

   Xmas  poem :  The old  woman’s pondering

When  the   November’s pall of gloom

Is  just  receding,   the  sheets  of  water

On the  streets   like  the  massive  orgy

  flowing, overflowing , a  force,  a    fear ,  repellent

much  the chagrin, panic   of the   hut   dwellers,

farmers, the   Golden  boughs of  December wave,

 the glimmering  Hope  of  Christmas   beckons

around us , the  glow  of   bulbs on the

Christmas Trees, the plums, and cakes:

Yonder   a  slender  woman   wears  a 

   Diamond     of   strong  determined  will  

Of  Charity ,looking  at  the  bright  stars,

Stormy  arguments under  control,

Why this mindless  hoarding   of  currency?

Pondering  how long  will  the  Soul  take

 to  reach  those stars,  are  the stars  only

the  destination? are   there   any  more 

sequestered    boundaries?  How  many

 would  have     died   of   starvation?

How   many  hankering   after  of   hungry

miles ,   a   voiceless  query? She  is not

able to  attain  a   limpid  solution:

Jesus   or  some  Incarnation   or  incantation

Santa claus  arriving  soon  ,hopefully

She  continues  her mission under

The   Christmas tree.

Nuggets of November

               Nuggets   of November

I   peep   through  the  half  visible,

 Transparent   glass   shutters,

 besmeared  by  water  drops, 

the  perverted  gloom  gathers

like   pell mell   infecting walls   and  roofs,

Now  it is  November, partly raining,

Partly  the  thunderous   clouds  spark ,

 The  usual  calm  blue   hiding  behind,

 The  crackers  in the wet  soil  benumbed,

don’t  burst,  lie   idle on the ground,

much   to the  chagrin   of the   kids,

some  crackers slowly  catching 

  burst  half,   drop   helpless,

I   read,   behind  some  embers

  of     subdued    glow and   spark,

 there is  no   spark

 but   pretentitious   ire  or  cow down,

 or    corrugated  mood,

 behind   some ,   the  mourning, the

  dead   in the    coffin   iced,

 there  is  the warm   calculus  of

coffer , the  value of  mosaic

newly  constructed,

the  box  moves,  but   man

with  the  calculator  , refuses

stuck  to  the  tiled  floor,

looking  up  at the  vault,

 how  to  reach  IT.

Here in sombre October......

                       Here  in  sombre   October 

             Bonfire  glows,  ghost  stories  run,  Halloween

              waves  the  other  side  of  the globe,

               here  in  sombre  October, when  leaves

           abandon  their tawny  shreds, many  claim

           to  recompense  their  lost   youthful  exuberance,

           picking  up  their leaves  or pastel  shades ,

            a   fresh  brew  in the log of fire,

             many  a  walking  goes on  with

           ambitions  on the   crumbled,broken    leaves,  

            a    twaddler  comes, somebody’s daughter,

            somebody’s  bother,  who knows

            A  Mother  Theresa  or  Mona  Lisa

            In the offing,  She   moves on.

            The  leaves  rustle   and    rue.

       

At the end of the final journey...

                         At  the  end   of the   final  journey......

       

   Alaska   to  Africa,  Nebraska  to  Nainital

Mapping   in  the   mind ,tracks  on

The   rout less   journey;

 A   self  willed      Wallkie   talkie

At  the  end of the apparently

Conclusive   path, nothing is conclusive,  

  you   read the  meandering

Past, so  much  has been misread

 and   misapplied , some  pages   are

even  kicked off   to the donkey

as    fodder ,  human   intelligence

works  faster,  some  break   is  inevitable,

 the     cover   of the   taffy

Peeled   off. Not  a  tasty  bite

But  a   sobering  tale ,yet

Destiny  tunes  , takes it own   course.

You   read  and   rehearse  the tale

to  the   dormant  society.

I weave a dream of...

           I weave a dream


I weave a dream ,
the colourful threads
are broken in the process,
the needle pricks me,
a  blatant reminder
pinafore of planning
looks pathetic,helpless,
for it is avaricious dream
a dream of impossibility.

The boy on the third step...

              The   boy   on  the   third  step

The   smart  boy on the third step

Of  the  staircase,   broad   and   safe,

A  place  for  most  to  ruminate,

for  some   for  alms,

 three   is  always   his   favourite,

 plays into the  web of  algorithm

 works   out    algebra,

hawthorns   and    pale     primroses

  dare not    sprawl   before his

mathematical  eye,

bends   and  minds  his business

fully  aware  he cannot solve

humanity’s   hump teen  sorrows,

for  THEY  are stubborn,  thistles ,

a  mild , sudden ,   spooky  sound  before  him,

it  is  the  spoon, with a  shimmer ;

the  spoon , deliberate  or  inadvertent 

he  knows not.

His  eye is his  algorithm.

Meekness

          Meekness



Meekness is a like a tusk
Remove it by the branded
axe of arrogance, see saw
with the blade of assured returns,
assumptions that are
returns which are no dividends
but deadline for doomsday:
your majesty is gone, invite danger,
you are powdered and pounded
on the Mother Earth,
Embodiment of patience.

The Raven in most of us

       The   Raven  in   most of us...

It is  past  ten  at  night, I am  awakened ,

I   see  through  the   window,

The  coal wagon  comes  to  a halt 

for  want of  signal,

Smoke   and  coal   and wheels,

Black   puffs of  smoke  blinding

blending  the environment

those   are  decades  age.

From   afar,  a  Raven  like

 Popping  out , be  discoloured

by   brown  twigs   and  leaves.

The  prurient     raven  in most  of  us

lavishes    unethically   protruding  wants,

 they  are  desires ,   jostling  to the forefront,

 unaccountable  wants, jelly fish,

those  are belligerent quacks

impinging   upon  our   reason    and dignity.

  

My Home

                My Home


Home , a glittering coin of two sides,

elusive, the coin rolls and
triggers , your hidden verve, mine too,
whose possession is it going to be,
methinks ,home too is
a block of concrete, cement slabs:

Mending wall, appeasement for hungry
Stomachs and hankering souls,
Home is a also a dividing wall,
where leeches breed, renting
Relationships , partnerships, counting
In terms of loss and profit ever,

I cocoon myself in a corner,
taps on my laptop,
Singing to the rhythms of
Creativity, occasional
munching of cashew nuts,
My vista, my tabula rasa.

Homecoming

             Homecoming



It is the fervent homecoming
of a beloved chick hugging
the care of its mom, warmth,
encoded affection only for life’s sake,
Affection is Life :
The chic so far shattered by a
not limpid multiple influences
foraying into his thinking:
and distancing itself ,
Coired by tremulous cocooned shell,
Now ,mother’s shadow
Permeates the flaggy wool of serenity,
Mother's  shadow goes well
with the Homecoming.
The Homecoming of the chic.

The High Speed...

        The high speed



It is the feline chase by the tom cat
that the otherwise sprightly sparrow
Speeds up to seek asylum on my window:
The spongy wings flutter, is it out of jittery
Panic or automated course of flight?
Combined both. Could be.
Now it slows down to peck the grains
Sprayed slender plastic bowl.
The High Speed of the water tanker
 overtakes the heavy loaded auto –rickshaw
innocent children , a morning ritual to school,
a bunker slows it down, slimming the route.
Shaping their fate .
It is the high speed and manipulated
Connivance, your patrimony is seized,
God’s Boon is a methodical, slow Gift,
Consequences are His High speed Shift.

Winnowing

           Winnowing




The sequestering chess master
Pulls and cuts in between the
Black and white on the pliable
Chess board, construing it
as if it is a Life of game,
so immersed is he that the
silent night is stretched
to the waking dawn,
yes, we all need a waking
dawn to redeem from the
boisterous clutter and claptrap
bemusing most of us,
the chirping birds fluttering
swoop out of their cocooned nests,
their nests, their home, their efforts,
a matter of pride for the winged ever
to come back and cuddle their chicks.
Some agricultural reformer
Swings a sickle ,
I can only look up for a wind
Or rain or solace from above.
Ground erupts always.

While he bites the ice .....

                   While he bites the ice......






When he bites the iced water
Of the blocking cakes visible ,
from the transparent pet jar of
his ten year old fridge , cool and carefree,
mocking man, for his frozen and moribund
attitude, overrated by a pretentious cult of
nonchalance and indefatigable synergy,
while he drinks the beauty of the dark eyed,
flowing into dithyramb , the future which
he revels into a mellifluous song
becomes a dark, dark chamber of commerce
irretrievable . He still stares at the pet jar,
white iced blocks stumbling in the neck
ready to pass through his throat. His
transparency is reduced into zero.

What a difference!

What a difference!


My Labrador does not sulk in the
Corner of my broad garage
but with its accustomed, massive,
wary, watchful look purveys
the surveyor and the casual passersby.
the white spongy , tail wagging,
Puppy, my puppy , now sudden
crosses with a dried bone
dexterously holding or handling.
Limpid or dried what does it matter?
there goes a woman in synthetic sari,
half covered and half let loose,
yet holding that cloth bag tight,
with unassumingly simple cloth bag,
not to provoke any suspicion
not nitwit, but meticulously arranged
carrying not papers but sins of supple
and manipulated texture, lithe , forged
and implied fornications,
denigrations of Gods,
she amply furthers , not knowing
when fallen , kicked and given Dog’s treatment.

When I close my eyes..

When I close my eyes........

When I close my eyes, to turn away
from those conceited , turgid, engulfing
sights of scenes and segments,
avoiding a geometrical turbulence,
surrealistic escape into calmed meditation,
You look up the unaging firmament:
what are those glittering stars?
Each star is a triumph of the newly transported,
mocking at the ground, you wonder
if it is a virtual representation
of the departed soul, adieu to the
agonising soil of clutter and grim battle.
I stare at those unfading stars,
Silent shining voices of the demented.

In my Space...

              In my Space .....


In my space of ten by ten , small
room, zig zagged tiles, white cement
blocks yet to be evened by the labourer,
Definitely no white ants spotted,
Masons’ finger marks on the wall,
Inadverantly placed foot marks
when leaned against, either
to be construed cautious lizard
Or a sunflower or even a plant
to be watered and nourished.
within the salient four walls,
a miniature show enacted,
Improvised theatrical ambience,
A docile indoor game,
no sound of acoustics,
No water splashes , no
rants of the villain , me
performing the soliloquy
 the wall figures  stare on.

Krishna consciousness

               Krishna consciousness

Krishna! I beckon upon you
with your coxcomb like
Peacock feather stemming from
Your bluish forehead,
Yourself immersed in self,
Yet permeating the Universe,
Playing upon your nimble
flute emitting supple melancholy
Notes, Oh! Where are you now?
Oh! Krishna, I am the lone sufferer,
On the Seam of intended
seamless existence, it is
a sheer struggle for survival,
Long ago you said ‘ fight it out’
In the battlefield.
You addressed a different audience,
But is it possible for me now?
Unable to counteract the slings
and arrows and mud
cast in a subtle way?
Why Krishna this pallid
State of confusion?
The battle delivered a
Message for all times.
The Gita was born,
The Gita is torn asunder,
Pages are misread, under suspension,
Oh! Krishna, come to reset,
Be a devout surgeon to
Perform this lobotomy,
Krishna ! be apart of us.