Micro -poem -This is Life

Micro poem-- This is  Life.

Half  the life  is  Gone.

Hard earned  wealth  is   Gone.                                                          

Remnant  is  regret and  pain,

What  you   gain   in  redoubles                                                                    

Is  renewed  Faith  and  piety.                                                                                                                                                  

Solace   and  study of  humans

In  hidden colours.

Take on Guardian’s To bend the grass for light and space by Lotte Cramer.

Take on  Guardian’s   To bend the grass   for light  and space by Lotte  Cramer.

Bend  the  grass   for  light  and space

Cut   the  weed  and  clear  the  uncouth  race,

Bend the  grass  for  more   creative space,

Let  the   Light   glow    and   shimmer   apace.

Bend   the  grass  for  more   supple    brocade

For   the  shade   to   come  and  fall  to  prevent 

Any   unpleasant ,despoiled    umbrage.

Bend  the grass , let   butterflies    fly

From   nearby plant  to plant ,navigate,

to    spread  wings  on  pollen   to

sprinkle  on  grass  for  more  creative  race.

Listeners

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  3) Listeners.

My soft  pillows,

Patient  listeners,                 

The  covers  attest my 

Silent  whisperings.                                                                                                                                   

Digest my tales of sorrow,

Manage my moods,

Delve into   unregimented  

Areas of happenings,

Mysterious  and  monologues,

Tomorrow they will be

Gyrating in the  washing machine.             

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

The Balloon

2)  The   balloon

 Soft, yet inflated, roaming ,

Like  a wandering minstrel 

Blows  nuggets  of  ethereal

Philosophy, on air, piercing

The  Blue, frittered 

by  the pull of  

The  tether from  ground,                            

You  are   a  medley        

Of  look  up  and down.

The Weeds

The   weeds

Like   fibroid   they grow,

I count   one, two, three,

They  are   the weeds, by

the  green grass,upfronting

the blue  sky ,merging 

with  the    bunch of  grass,

taking care of  selves

by the soil, the mound,

rather   sharing, rightfully

all the  benefits, bonus,

that   Nature’s bounty  bestows.

Very  difficult to identify

The nature of  weeds, for

Their  colour  is  such,

Similar  we cannot distinguish

The good from  the  bad

Of  humans that easily,

Yet  the wind  blows

The  same,  salient   on  all.

From  afar, my pages  fritter,

Book mark flies  near the bunch,

Why  it  cares?

Lullaby

Lullaby

She  sings  a  lullaby for  the newborn,

Her  own sweetest  compositions in the Morn,

foraying into the world’s path of  thorn,

Rocking  the cradle ever and anon.

She  sings  a lullaby in the noon,

Wiping  the  sweat  of  Summer’s  croon,

The   child is laid  to  sleep with the fan’s boon,

She  comes   back to   her  place  for a siesta of noon.

This  was   some   thirty years  ago,

The  same moon  shines  in the  brisk of  eventide,

Yet,  no lullaby, no  cradle  and  no  soothing  words,

For  now   foster mothers  and  crèches  multiply. 

The Glass

3)      The  glass

She   is   young  and  cute ,

Tactile  lass  in  her charming twenties,

conventional  aura   alcoves

a  special  rhythm  on  her forehead,

She    holds   the Belgium  glass,

Her   Transparency  in the

Double   transparent water,

Face  reflected in the still,   static liquid,

Not  a post modern girl , sees

Her grand mother’s visage  now

In the pure white  water,

Tradition  speaks  silent.

Her Willed Bed

          2)   Her willed Bed.
   It   is not   a cot  of  iron criss cross  rills 

   Unfolded , a seat    by influx of  visitors        
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

to inquire  the health of  septuagenarian.

It is  a  knitted  mat of  coir, her WILLED  BED

Holding  her  in  stress   and duress,  the  stared up

Layers  oftener, prick her skin, she turns aside

To  escape  the tantrums.The  high  vaulted  roof

Consoling  her  cap a pie. Can she go  back  to  those

Days   of hop skip  and play  around  the   pillared structure?

Generations  have  passed  and stayed, all  have  gone.

This  curled  up  sponge, may be breathing  her  last

Tomorrow  in the same coiled   mat.

The Dollar Chain

1) The  dollar  chain

Puffed in hot air, Sunday  glides in

With  a note of  search engine ,urging us

to  heed to revered grandmother’s  call

of   reminder,picture  ticking  often.

 It is a polished grandfather  teak  wood

Cupboard, stacked up with grand mother’s Curios,

On a Sunday  Morning, a  deliberate  pry,

salvaging  from  moth and dust.

Corrosion in corners.

 A Heavy square  brass   box,

Her storage of private accessories,

Age   and   Time  tightened   its lid,

Blissfully  passing, age  has

 also released her secrecy,

Her affection, that  the dollar chain

be gifted to her grand daughter ,

Her legacy , her Blessings on  me.                                                       

                                                                 

         

Summer (theme ) Micro poem

# Summer (theme ) Micro poem

Summer’s  mild  morn,

A gentle tap for your parched skin,

Rays  are   cheering  spell,

Fears  thwarted,

Enter into a   realm  of  Hope 

and  a  new Rhythm.

A Take on Eccc Puer By James Joyce.

A take on  Ecce  Puer  by James Joyce.( An old man is gone)

An   Old Man Is Gone

Triple  Pillar of the house is gone.

An Octogenarian, stentorian in voice,

Is  gone. Gone in  sleep.

Nothing to grieve, for  when he breathed his last,

It  was all peaceful  and calm.

Yet, a matter of neglect  and repent is that

paddy from his  field,

Hitherto not supplied  came in bulks

and   gunny  bags. A delayed matter,

he was  deprived  of this rightful claim,

sad   irony, some people  don’t enjoy,

don’t  get, during their lifetime

what they deserve. But  now  the

matter of recompense  is that

A calf  is  born, where the man is gone.

  

A Take on Ecce Puer by James Joyce.

        A Take  on Ecce  puer    by James  Joyce.

A Rosy flower,tender  petals surrounding,

The  spongy,soft layers of skin, peeling,

It is just  the new born, new  arrival

Cosy from the womb, to this uncomfortable

 Cruel Earth, just  born,  inadvertantly  moving

 Its  tender nails, scratches over the nose, eyes,

Forehead, Child’s play, God’s play, yawns  and

Sleeps . The  dangling  cradle echoes  a  lullaby

“you  have to  perpetuate the memory,

 the  dawn of  Wisdom,and sacrifice,

The  Grandma’s Glory, life.”

A Significant page in the Calender

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

 4)    A  Significant   Page In    The  Calendar.

 Don’t   turn  this  page off,

for  it  takes  you to  a prime

 era of  nudge  and negation.

You are  taken to  the corner,

 The Bull  stares, perhaps

Reminds   one   to the Great  Saga

In the annals  of  History.

The precedings  of  the past ,

Live in the realm of  mortified  Glory.

3)     Water

It  stays, sacredly  originates,  traditionally

On  the  braided , twisted   hair of  Shiva,

God  Shiva  is  not  possessive, How  can He?

Gods  are not possessive, Shiva lets the water

flow  to the Earth, Ground,Mountains, falls,

it  riggles,wiggles adapting   the path it is

destined  to  go by.                              

 Be it  normal gland,

membrane gland, you  watery regime,        

you protect  impartial,bounteous,as the

Merciful  falls  on the  ground, saving  our  lives.

You are in the basin in the hospital ,onlooker.

Glory to you! You are in the  Tulsi  leaves, the

Last  drop  on the   bidding  adieu to the  earth,

The  fluid  that  consecrates  the   ones  seeking 

Holy bath in the  Ganges, Gaya.  You are  Maya,

Mystery, manifold directions to go and  flow.                                         

Hamlet On Skull

2) Hamlet  On  Skull.

Hamlet picks  up  the  skull of  a    Debtor and  delivers  a  cant.

This  looks  like   the frail, thin man’s  skull,

 the   frequent borrower in  distress,

in   dire necessity, ostentation  not.

This  is the  skull  of   the  debtor,

His  skull  as  corrugated   as his skill  in dodging,

Fie  upon this  frequent  borrower,

Who  encashed  upon  my  leniency, my    good will,

My friendship, our class   room days.

How  much of  currency,  blank cheques,

Failed  to return  till   his  bones  turn into

Guilt corroded conscience, his  skull  stares,

Speaks ,vouchsafes  his  failure  turned  inability.

Perhaps he  did not  know  Shakespeare’s   dictum

“Neither a  borrower  nor  a   lender  be”.

The same holds  good  for  me  too, for  I too

Nourished  his  pockets ,cherished  his purse,

Compelled   by commiseration, and  softness.

How  often   approached  his  hearth,

But  turned  down  with pleas  unwarranted.

Falsified  statements, no attempts made to

return   my  goodness ,my  coffers   are  turned empty.

This  is  the   trickster’s    world,  drove  me 

to a  realization, that  is  almost  an  adage,

good is oft interred with  the bones.

Hamlet  now walks off  the stage.

"So Much in The Cover Of The Book"

So  Much  In The  Cover Of The  Book.

   This  gorgeous   cover   is the  spectacular  epitome,

  this   laminated, this polished   title  forays  significance.

Pollens  and   petals ,  colourful  and  gorgeous, 

fragranced  flowers ,crown the stems,

 butterflies, crabs ,

seamless  pearls  decking   the  slim neck of

the  first   page  takes me  to sequences, and  turns,

of   life’s   twists, journey’s   aeons .

The end   is   not   the  grand   finale,

Ongoing    process,   skips  and   shorts,

taking   you  by   surprises, and   serendipities,

you  marvel  at the  Mosaic.

A Take on Guardian's "I see men as Trees Suffering"

A  Take  on  Guardian’s  “ I see  men as Trees   Suffering”

I see  men  as Trees  Suffering.

As  Trees  germinate, grow, yield copiously,

Finally withered  or   in  haste ,  felled  by the

Cruel  hands of  urban  sickle  or

Who   knows,deforestation ‘s  crude  motives?   

God’s  supreme  creations  unequalled ,

 Men  and  mortals ,   humans are  born,

In this  earth  where , shell  and hawks  dominate,

dormant   they   continue  to be, though

His  chiselled Marks are  already set in,

Highly  unaware of  His  motifs,

Inchoate , man lives in the template

Of  his  own self-willed  imagination,

Suffers, suffocated by  his empathy,

Jealousy,  morbidity ; yonder  the 

Trees  burn ,emit  embers, cinders

Of  man’s  angst  and  hunger.

A Take on Guardian' Salima Hill's poem

Bees  and butterflies  that  wool-gather  honey

 also   frequent  the    pollens, acts of  nurture

in  the silken  eve.

In the  even tide when the tide of your life

dashes against  aging ,falling ,retired , tiring  days ,

crave   for more  and more

Life  ,living   and   ambition  that wool-gather   many  traits of gifts.

But  Life has  no  meaning, nor  has verve for some. 

This  is   no longer  only  the   Vedic  land of  chanting

Bones  buried  and  those   buried  alive

Skins  peeled, flesh  burnt horrendous.

 For Land, cheating, scam  and  embezzlement.

It  looks   as if   those  bones  stare  back    and 

Get   stupefied  at  the shell shocking  incidents.

An evening  walk  together  with  my  iPod  and

Pet  cat,   make  me  say  what  we  want  to say.

Hope   and diligence  knit  together,

Grant  us  what  we want. Summer   gleams .

This summer holds me good.

This  summer holds me good,

This is  my summer  special,

Unfolding   like  a cute  umbrella,

Thwarting   my inhibitions;

The  wall  hanging  with a  picture

 Of    Ooroboros   mystifies me,

Many questions   baffle me,

Does it signify  beginning  or   end,

Or recreation or cyclicality.

The  spring’s pouring ,melodious

Cuckoos  still  ring , parrots  chatter

On the  twigs ,beating  the heat

In the summer’s  shade  and  eventide.

I am agog with the morrow’s  boon.