What Man has made of Man

In my drawing room, I am
no longer cosy and comfortable ;
my reading divan dilutes my attention,
The Book of Modern Verse
Prefers a trajectory pushed to
corner, for the post modern
paradox of a problem ,what
Man has made of Man has
Possessed like a Devil in me,
Man hankering after crazy
fast food, growing old age homes,
wives abandoned, wedlock
ending in dead locks, matrimony
blighted due to of husband’s
parsimony, greenery blocked
and burnt into dead wood ;
stoves burst for in-laws angst ;
craze d lure for money infecting
like swine flu , new born in garbage,
cankering corruption amidst disgruntled
plots and parasites, Sodom seduces society.
This is what Man has made of Man
and more and more.

Knitting a facade into a flower.

It is a Climb atop
a scaffold meticulously drawn
with mounting pressures up on you,
a climb that inevitably draws you down,
mood of threnody weaves round ;
look down the demented soil
that wears a worn-out visage,
hunger and un augmented desire
inextricably knit into chaotic corruption.
Sprawling around cacophony of confusion,
a pointed peg pokes my collar ,
in between the spinning patches
of assurance, many stark revelations,
echoes of cropping revelations :
is it Maya or ignorance that
encapsulate me, or collective
connivance isolating you?
Ruminations into profundity
merged in rooted thoughts
into words into cavalcades
of mystic expositions.
A poetic flower blossoms:
Now you are fallen in wrong times,
Times are topsy turvy,
Topsy-turvy are Times’ values.

--------- The melange of thoughts

I sit on the vast green lawn, browsing Ginsberg,
The aroma of of greenery, the smell of wet moisture
the murk of wet soil inviting your poetic sense of
perception, what a fine breath the air permeates with!
Nearby the terracotta with its uprooted grass ,its stickiness
lying exposed upwards, unwilling to die, to dry up,
Whiff of sudden wind blows the fluffy dandelion,
Only the gauzy is driven off , the flower stands on,
a melange of thoughts come up,
why this life? why this breadth? Where are those
familiar faces? where are those souls wandering?
Where are those afflicted whose life full of
torture, because of diabolic devils , intruders?
I am a karma yogi ,those unanswered questions
linger on ; like the blood oozing from wound cuts,
in the process of healing up, from wireless nearby,
I listen to warnings of landslide, storm, torpedo,
ants line on innocently, sparrows close by peck
grains, both unaware could be danger
and destruction, extinction from human heart too.

Knit a poem

Knit a poem

On the bed of upfront grass,
I make a bed of convenient table
to lay forth my imagination
to knit a sweater of poetry
for my granddaughter sweet,
with the dexterous needle of
vibrant creativity .

Rhyme or no rhyme? the
Question taunts me,
Why waste time? let your poetic pen
decide as it flows; let the predominant
idea be the colourful thread ,
the thread of chubby cheeks,
the ruddy round face.

She springs by me sudden,
I allow the flannel to be
the most vibrabtly embroidered,
embellished collar.
Her smile is the rhyme,
dancing posture is metaphor,
a poetic jubilation is fructified.

Give it a thought

Give it a thought.
They say toads breed in the stones,
Stones sing and stimulate,
Here, in the caves, I see shapes
chiselled out of stones,
rivet and roll,
you are un malleable ,
even rocks corrode and give way,
You are trendy tawdry,
give it a thought,
give it a thought.

Zero and zero

Zero and zero

The music galore is on ,
the gorgeous , colourful
shows and gambols take
grip of the stage,
sudden darkness plunges
you into a sea of revelations.
Convulsive tremor strikes the
Podium of thinking; Zero hour
Zooms, in the zeroed significance
to your appendage, those that
revel in your devaluation
continue to delight in the
deglorified mischief of many
forms .Thought of their sins,
the whyness of which bewilders.
Sodom uncompromisingly
Prevails, you are bound to share
the sufferings, bugging and
goes on,
yet in the zeroed hour
pleasure and pain dovetail,
your zero is zero
with values and experiences.

Where are those souls?

Where are those souls now?
Where are those souls
who quit this rubble zone?
Are they clustered behind
twinkling stars? Wish to be
eclipsed by the strolling white
puffs of clouds? Or shake
hands with comets?
Yet they desire not to
return to this mound of
hellish fire of corruption
jealousy embittered by hatred
and devouring calumny.

She wears her tears

She wears her tears.

The pages of history
fritter in my hand,
that beauty queen Cleopatra ,
her affinity for her brother,
that is history,
my eyes go beyond the
half closed curtain;
the septuagenarian, cross legged
in the opposite before the polished
mirror, new flat, new luxury;
her wrinkles on her neck
a matter of yesterday,
today, her hanging skin
decks her coral necklace,
a bracelet of sea pearls on
her shrinking coil of hands;
every honk from her son diffuses
the smell of Dove and perfume.
His wife is missing in the hearth.
Yonder, the waves , roll and weave
A tale of woeful narration.
The old lady ,the bundle of untimely
Desire wears her tears .

He converts a garden into a garbage

He converts garden into a garbage.

He welters in the water of his life,
Navigable, Steady and steering,
He determines a cool pond
into a dirty pool, stagnant,
unable to realize life is not
for stagnation, leaving the
grip of steady progress,
like an elephant run amuck,
trampling upon what ever comes by,
roses into crushed piles,
devalues God’s boon into a bane,
delving a self –made garbage
Devil is reigning supreme his roost.