In Cries and Interventions.

                      ... “In   cries   and  interventions”

                 It  is  a  log  book   of   logged out  episodes,

               A record of    ongoing process, where you

               Feel  sky is not  the limit .He is  a  sea bird, midst,

               Gushing of waves, surfing, swimming, a passion

                And his birthright. Like me  looking  up

               to  Heavens  and  crying  for  Help,

               in times of  tornadoes, though sea   whales

              a  child’s play . Superior’s Intervention

              is the only  Intervention. Relief  in  pain,

               “In  Cries  and  Interventions” a   great   Solace

              For  those  who  are  in duress.

Belittle Not Thyself.

                Belittle  not  thyself.                   

                                                            

Belittle  not  thyself,  your esteemed  Birth,

The Spirit  that  dwells  in you,

For  a  thing called stomach is there :

Prince  or  Beggar, starving  is  a  Sin,

Fill  in  that  irking  space, through

The  soft palate. At  that  moment

Of  hunger, it  may not be soft,

But  a gulping  portal,  a  passage            

To  nourish pancreas. There is  a

Thing  called  Stomach. Belittle

Not thyself. Be on  the   Move.

A Domesticated Bull

      A  Domesticated Bull.                      

They  trained  the  bull  for  years,

In  good   earnest  and  novel  forte,

In   hard  rigour   and  vigour,

To be  supple  and  brisk,

Domesticated, to  obey  their  will,

In the  hot  sun, it was  trained

To   follow   donkey’s

Practice of   carrying load

Of  clothes  to  be  washed 

By  the  accepting  river, seasoned

To  wash  and  dry  by  the  bed

Of  the  sands. All  along  the  bull

Stands  afar, ruminates ,waits

To  be fed  with   plantain   leaves

And  fruits. No longer  a  Spanish

Bull but dutiful, domesticated.

All in   the  training.

This Celestial Morn

        This  Celestial  Morn

This Celestial Morn,  this breeze ,

 Not The  plenipotentiary  Agent from 

Above  but gentle  and  sweet, touches

My personal  computers.  I view  the  city

Of  Guardian, the  quill  doth  glide 

At  its  own   will,  the Muse  staring 

Gently  by. Golden   Sun  out  of  its  orb

Visits   Earth’s  busy   nook  and  corners,

“Earth  has  not  anything  to show  more  fair”.

These visitors, my pet pals, birds ,

Chirp  their   usual  rhythms like  a  choir.

Broken  rice  balls   are   their  manna.

Dear  God, never  have  I felt  a  Calm

As  this  morn, for   my  Soul   experienced

 Unique   serenity of  its  Being, here.

Those  still  asleep, I  know not if  ever

Will  wake  up  to this  Realization. 

It Fell

          It  Fell

It  Fell  with  the  Biblical  warning like:

Pellets,   also  like   the   young, New Born  Calf,

With  the  thud  touching  the ground,

The  red blood  fell  on the  red oxide

Merge  with  the  heedless  base.

No  blood  counts,  now strangely.

It fell ! the  pain  fell !

Most   thought  not  of  gruesome  sacrifice,

But  of  lands  and  villages   lost .

Erewhile   ago the   soldiers  spoke

Through  their  ergonomics,

Not  of   ethics  of  life.

The   squadrons  on  the  air 

Too    voliate.

I am in the harteless maze.

       I am  in  the  hartleess    maze.

Your Face, bounteous  Grace, knit

With  patience ,so  faire  and so sweete,

So  Sharpe,  miraculously Timely

as   The  Supreme’s Intervention.

His  bounteous Boon,  a forethought

For  this  YUGA, or  ERA, however

 you  Call it, a predestined  mode,

myne   perception  always recall.

You came  to  share the pain

Of  devil’s doings, harte  cannot  sustain

 growing  misdemeanour,

your  meek affirmed  prediction,

a disdainful  taste  and    acceptance

for  many   a revolting  nutmeg :

for   them  a prick of  play,

For  Him,  a  pavilion  for  the next Birth.

Mine thoughts  and  precarious  journey,

Set right  by  your  wit  of  excellence

Kind understanding   nod:   your  face

And  will  doth feed  and solve my  angst.

In the Spring OF His Life

     In  the  Spring  of  Life.

It was mid April, the fresh  air

Like  rejuvenating   Mantra  touch

His  Soul  and  permeating  Body,

 Quite  far    he  sees  a   den.   

Nationalistic   vigour  tremor like

Upon His   heels   aims  and  arrows,

He becomes   Achilles  like,

The   young soldier  with  the

Ombudsman  like   walks  upon 

The   heath   of   breathless, flooding

Bleeding   and     vultures  marauding,

“With  the  blood and flesh of  Death in the spring  air”

He   takes   a  vow, if  this  is going  to

Get  us   Honour, pride  wealth

And peace, Geographic expansion,

Fie  upon  arms   and  armaments

Artillery   and weapons. Next 

Clean   burial  awaits .