Can I say,I  have never seen You?

Can   I say? Would I dare say?

But   I am always feeling your benign Grace,

In the wintry forest of  my heart

Where  storms  of  apprehensions  rule

Due to blatant ignorance  and connivance,

Your  predominately good Grace and Solace

Pervasive  day in  and day out.

I always see You with my Third Eye,

Hear  your messages of  vibrant notations

Through the pulsating  throbs of Divine whispers.

In my head  you  run  from me in a  reel of  gyration.

Winter  lakes pine for night, I feel the chill.

No one  comes. True  no one comes,

In hard   Times, no one comes,

No one  came, all  stubborn spectators,

Me passive  struggling, believing, wriggling.

What if  Canada or America or England?

Does heart change? You rule the roost.

Cruel  horns grip  me with  attack,

Yet, your calm, soothing, tone appease

All who take refuge in You.

My rugged  bones  stare at me,

Your  Merciful lakes are God’s plenty.

No one   comes, no one  came,

But You Came. Unforgettable.

You  stay in other  ERAS to come.

A Cardboard Box

         A   Cardboard  Box.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

The   big  white card board box ,

It is  white house  in this  lawn,

Pathway ,where  a  park  too  stays.           

The white house  has tiny rooms

With  amplifiers  are  set

To listen to the radio music.     

Side  by side   there   are  

Some  more  cute  white buildings,

The    child   improvises.

In  the predominant white house

Many dolls, big eyes,

small  eyes  exchange looks .

bicycles ,cars   and  trams  too ply

in this prestigious town plan.

From  afar,  some culinary smell 

Taps  the  inmates.

                                                                                        

Two Blades of Grass

Two  Blades  of  Grass

Bunch of   Grass,

Sharp  and upfront,

Shiny and shimmer,

Unfolds  your poetic vision,

You  draw  a  sketch

On  the  notebook.

How  tender  they  are!

Dare not  trample upon.

The child  who follows me

Cushions on them, views

Two  blades of  grass,

A  quick  scrubber  for  her slate.

They are elated by her

Feathertouch.

                                                           

        

Peasants

                  Peasants – Not  a  satire  but  a  good  label                      

At  home peasants  eat porridge in the morn,

 With till on  their  neck, and sickle in the hand

 Go  to  the  fields, the  poor lady or daughter

 Brings curd rice with pickle for the lunch.

 The  peasants  are not  peanuts.

Sweat on their  forehead   brings tillage   

 A name of   vintage .This  class, this

 Inevitable  backbone ,this heartbeat

 Is  the pride  of  nation. They  sow  the seeds,

 They own the country, reap the  harvest,

Look up to the  Heavens, monsoon and rain

Should not fail  the crops.

 Then, Reap  the bonanza,they own the country.

       

Take on " Come back to my sad heart".

         Take on   “Come  back to my sad heart”

Ye! Lovely, divine   chattering  birds

Regular   visitor  to my  ancestral garden,

Ye parrots!come  back  to my sad heart,

Sing  along  with  me  to  the tune of my harping

Violin, melody  and practice long  forgotten,

Yet ,the memory   heals  the Soul’s Malady.

Melody revisited, revived, in hums   and

Painful tunes, pain  of  unsurfacing   angst.          

Ye Birds! Little  for  the Sun we cared,

And  little  for  fame  and Name.

Your pouring  a requiem for   the

Grand lady, grandma   of the house,               

Bring the end of all times, you continue.                       

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

Take on The end of birth's enterprise-Dylan Thomas.

     Guardian’s take on  The end of birth’s enterprise  -Dylan Thomas

  The end of  all  time,

The end of  birth’s enterprise,

I earnestly pray that it should be

The  ultimate  and final end of

All testing, vicarious,  bad times.

This  end  should lead to the glory

And birth of all good times and deeds.

                         

The end of birth’s enterprise  also,

As  it is with   its eddying  current

Like  a  River  meandering,

 zig zag,  directionless, its

 destination too .Like  the humans,

the  River also feels  that   its

flowing, living  is  Birth’s   small crime.

 I shun  not Sun,   and   I little

Cared  for identity  and  quick  fame.

I wish  to   tend  in my  garden

The  salutary plant of   jasmine,

 I  lay down and closed my eyes,

 Seeking  for  a new lease

 Of  life for  the Soul.

                        

                                              

    Poem 2- My Life  Cries  out For Water.                                              

It is not Eliot’s hot water at ten,

What does  it matter if it is at eight or nine?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Nor  is it  the coldest  ring of ripple

In Majestic  Ganges’ wintry bed.                                                                     

Water flows  copious, you shiver  

Looking  at the Sun hidden, slowly coming out

Piercing  the dominant roots of cloudy caps;

While  taps  deliberately go dry and wry,

Elsewhere, man  rations water.

My life cries out for water, water,

To  dispel, break  the  solidified  nature,                                                                    

Of  Man’s  swelling  pride and hard as stone.                 

As  the adage goes, there is water even in stone,

When Stone is man’s heart.            

My life cries out  for  water, salient and

 Silent   Reaching out  many in dire need. .