Auriferous days

      Auriferous  days.

The field is turning into gold,

When man’s mind is becoming

More   and   more  drawn  towards

The  land of  gold   and cow,

Green   and  fertility  boom   and born

In the wombs of pastoral  roots

Nourished by riches  and ancient customs .

Yet, the  desire  for  gold is unabated,

Seldom  do  the  select  few  realize

The  toil behind the  fruits  and fecundity.

Gold  land  mocked  the lazy, and decried,

Dry  roots  don’t  fetch bonanza,

Unless  you  sweat, there wont  be  treat.

Grandma  sits  on the   mound,

Laughs, the  lads  and  ladies   don’t

Begin  and belong  to  this  soil.

The  field  is  turning  into  Gold.

In The Wheels Of Climate Change.

         In the wheels of climate change...

  It was isolated, rummaged car,

 Shed as well, shedding its ownership.

 Abandoned years ago,

 Though corrugated, stands steady and still.

Huffy  winds  don’t scar  the immobile,

Slightly  tilted  and  stable;

Winter  and  thunder  all the same.

Birds   and  barks of leaves

throng the inside  space

with   a  touch of  comradeship.

I too with  a  rug  on my shoulder,

Feel  the warmth inside the  shed

To protect me from the frosty wind.

Puranic  mediation  goes  on   here too.

The Bear

        The  Bear.

The  stone  and  the growl,

 The  bear   and   black  fur,

Rock   and  trees   silent and  demure:

They  dare  not  counteract  the  anger

And    look : The  edge  of  the city,

The  statue  of  town  God and   worship

Of  the  mass, still   not  moved by

The   Bear for  it is only  a   statue,

A warp  of   craftsman for  the 

Market  Fair. The  Nullah  and  the

Distant  echo  of  evening  prayer,

Ring out  your  sorrow  and  fear.

The   Bear   is  there.  Seasons  change

And change,  it  remains  the same.

On Soul's Pact

                On  Soul’s  Pact.

We  are   not   Faustus, nor  are  we craving

To  Sell  our  souls  or   Save  our  souls.

Our   souls  are  compacted, predestined

into   another day care  of  mission.

These  days  are abominably  dry.

 Also  more  care  for  bodies,  health  care,

Beauty  care   and bounteous  care.

Time   may cease: trees may  get  burnt out.

Mounds multiply, pooling  may  go  dry,

Yet  Time is  set by  Eternal, Eternity is set

By Time. Soul  flies on the wings of  Eternity.

It is  a   mystique travelogue. 

poet's Soul.

    Poet’s Soul.

Poet’s  Soul  does not  fritter   or  fumble,

Nor  does  it  romp  in  idle  gamble,

Unless  meant to be in writing  with  a

Specific purpose. It does meditate  with

Yogic   splendour. In search  of  an  oyster

With  rosy  sea  pearl embedded in

Words of  wisdom, take it or abrogate it,

It  doesn’t  care.  I   view   her  Soul in

That piece of  paper, crumbled  though,

It isn’t a  tomato  or  rotten  egg

Jettisoned  in disgust or  waste.

It is  moving  ahead, into  realms

Of   semantic  Searches.