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.