A humble  take  on  Guardian’s   “Brief, brief, but inside me now,
which the stars could never be.” From  A Work of Fiction.

I read,re-read  the pages of  my life,

Turning  over and over again,

There is  no last page,

It is never-ending, looks  like.

It takes  me  to  a vague  beginning,

A  sad  unravelling,  a  wave of  sorrow,

Where  are those good  souls,

Afflicted, suffered for no fault of

Their own, where  have they gone?

It is silent suffering, merging

Themselves into  Silence.

Not one or  two,  but  myriad, countless.

I walked  out,  distracted,

Into  the night, looked up the

Pouring stars. For  whom?

By my side, a glow worm

Winks  at  my  distraught .

This tiny, shiny emits,

Many  a  brief, brief,

But  inside  my troubled self,

Stars  could  never be.

A take on Guardian’s “ The sea hath fish for every man”

A  take on Guardian’s  “ The  sea  hath fish for every man”

The  sea  hath fish  for  every man,

The  wind  blows  cool  for  all,

The  crabs  glide  in and out  the  sand dunes,

Gnarling  waves  pose  a  threat 

If  they  would  cross  the boundary

Swamp the  city  with  its  heavy  toll.

The frothy  foams  inculcate   a fear

In  every  man, whose   net  caught  a bite.

 I am  before  the  edge  of  the  beach,

 Dismayed  by the  breaking of   the waves

Tossing  up  and  down,

Luck  and  loss are  nothing 

Before  this   tricky  Dame  of   watery  Cove

Who  formulates, rings    the rickety

Move   of  our  life.  The  Blue  nourishes

The  fins  and  pearls  and  oysters.

Now  Never  and Then, each has

Its   meaning and mode.

A Moment With My Cupboard.

A  Moment   With My Cupboard.

Thursday  noon, without  a siesta,                

Ticked off   prominently  on a

nailed calendar, for  assortment.

 I stack up my wardrobe,

 Not post –modern  any more,

my laundered, folded,

pounded clothes,  hands go by

for  festive,  casual, cool  and

summer, Winter  and worn-out,

Varnished  aroma  on the exterior

 Vies with  the  hot permeating,

 The  colored  and  white

Join hands in giggling,

We  are  crushed,  still,

The pride of  morrow’s function,

Your promenade, your path.

You  are  white collared,

Pick up your collar, yet

Nearer to failure, if

Cant mix with your make.

The city is at peace

The  city is at peace.

It  is  eventide, the   Sun  goes  down

His   Orbit ,his  oranged  ambers

Still  hanging  on His Majestic  Abode.

There  is  a staunch bodied strong  willed,

He is  sniper, well marked for his

Ambit of  targets. Seated  at his  armchair,

At  the crossroads, he has a visionary gleam,

Papers, bottles,tattered  clothes, strewn all

Around him; many more numerous

and variegated, symbols of  war torn  atmosphere.

The  aroma  of  coffee shop is  enticing,

Poets  and writers’  promenade.

Hope of  public  activity,

Poets, writers   and club Walla’s

Will  throb  and  revive .

Full throng  of  public  worship .

A spark  in  his  eyes glows.

He  anticipates  life in both  sides.

A humble take on Guardian’s “ Look –out”.

A humble  take on  Guardian’s “ Look –out”.

For   now  the  city’s at peace .

No  noisy buses, no automobiles  plying,

It is  close  to  midnight, still and  soundless.

No cinema theatre, may be  a   vow

In honour of  veteran soldiers.

Still  is  terrifying, scarring now,

Excepting the clock ticking eerie.  

Do  you  wonder it is  an utopian dream?

May be it is  after math of  mighty

Celebrations of  War Memorial   events,

Televisions    channels  busy,   jubilant

 over  lively  broad casts. Independence

is indoors could be. May be  a mapping

envisaged  by  a playing  school   child,

efficient   and  drawing .

Only the  coffee  shop opened,

For  the  cops  who go on  night

Beats, vigilant and duty conscious,

Their  watchfulness  goes on, no matter,

Who comes and goes round.

I  recall  my grand mother,

Lonely saddened recollections,                                                      

In  a big house, when bereaved by the

Death  of my grandfather.            

you smirk at us, Water!

# You smirk   at us, Water!

Water! You glide,

Glow  and flow,

Flow, fall. Free Fall from                     

a  height and  above,

Froth and  foam

Below, holy bath                       

Water, You  Permeate  from

body  and  bougainvillea

from heart  to head

red blood ,watery  and warm,

yet  Oh!  Man, your

heart is dry most

of  the times! Why?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

A humble take on Guardian's Book by F.T.Prince.

Guardian’s " The  Book."

 It  is  the  Book  of  Timeless  philosophy,

 Dare  not  cross  the  periphery, my hand  is  not

Dead, for  browses  pages  of  density,  agile  and  eager.

At  times  re-reads  the life’s  intricacies    and  snapshots

Of   a  much  a  troubled  soul.The   Book  is  The  Making

Of   a   Saga’s   history, transmitted  down  to posterity

Dipped  in  sincerity,foayed  by a  visionary’s  appeal.

As   my drooping  eyes  don’t  move further,

My mind  ruminates   cosmogony distraught.

No  kissing,  no writing, it is  a sound sleep,

 Slowly darkness  recedes, wake up  morn  comes,

Wind   blows  through  the  curtained  window,

A plastic  flower   comes   as  a  go between

Me   and  the  cherished  Book :

A new  light  beyond  decay

Comes   and  unfolds  a  future of  Bliss       

To  enable  me  to see  a world of

Visible  growth of  phenomenon.

Take On Guardian's Virginia Woolf's Angels 1919.

Take on  Guardian’s  Virginia Woolf’s   Angels  1919.

I  am  not  here  to banish  the  Angel of  my house,

Neither   it is  Simpering  for  it  is  genuinely  

A guardian, Golden Angel  thwarting  inhibitions,

No  whimpering, no  sign  of  slither, also

 Assuaging  bugging  fears, dispelling   cold  trauma:                                                    

 Propelling  my imaginations flying  high.

 As   I bend  and write, the   angelic notations  

 Would  spread  far and wide, infusing  a

 Sense  of   authenticity  with a   swish  of  wings  

 Of   malleability   and  dipped  in  colourful 

 Inks  of   success  and  calibre.

Paper On MY Table

             Paper  On My Table.

  It   fritters, unable to be stable,

  heavy with  the concerns of  my import,

  freedom  it takes into its  flimsy hands,

  flies ,far  beyond  its boundaries, but,

  the   paper  struggles  out  with    rhythmic 

  notes  of    opposition, carrying  all heavily

  endorsed  outpourings and  pent up feelings.

  You sit there  tight on the  table, with  a  name            

  Paper  weight, the paper  defying  you still.

  I  indulge in tete-e –tete ,                

   I sit  there laughing  at your  tenacity, now

  weightless  sill, for  the  gush of  winds

  blew  form  my  window, sitting  nearby,

  my  much adored papers , the other end,

   closely eying, flying away, scarred,

  from you,  from  me  as well.

  My imaginative  output on the

  Paper is gone, you are no longer

  A  weight, you are now   feathery.