Manna From Heaven

  Manna  from   Heaven

Shelly’s  wintry bed,

Byron’s   mighty ocean,

Keats’ west  wind aura,

Wordsworth’s  leaping  heart

And   colourful Rain, the

Azure  sky  carrying  so

Much of  innovations and

Technological intrusions,

All  get wet, jubilant by

The   rain bearing  clouds

 Concomitant   drops.

The  dry  leaves  fallen

On  the ground  typify

Age’s  metaphor. For All,

for Those, rain drops are

Manna from Heaven.

    Our itch  and Sketch.

“  our   Beauties  are not ours”.

Autumnal Flowers, the ground

Smeared, loaded with  uncanny

Leaves, the  broken sounds

Of  aridity on the  pond, nearby.

Age  has its toll on them too.

We  are no exceptions, wrinkles

On our  skin, the itch and  sketch,

Are  the  undoubted  monopoly

Of  Age. Age’s doing and undoing.

 Oh! Man! Slow  on your steer, 

  Let  the Clutches  be under your

  Purview. Our  Beauty is  only

  A passing shadow. In  due course

  They  are our  Beauties are

  At  the mercy of Beauty parlour.

  

Grey sky, white beams of Sun

 Grey sky, white   beams of  Sun

  Grey   sky, Straight white beams

 of    gubernatorial  Sun, twinkle  of stars,

A galaxy carrying  all our ancestors’ souls;

All  get clouded, transient   and temporal;

All come and go, take  turns  to govern

Yet  on  a  lasting  ambiance.

Small  or   big Nature  always fascinates,

Enthralls, tutors   and  warns  all of us.

Grey(ing )is  always there in

Some  unpalatable  form or other.

We  sit  still, stillness  is  there

Only calm and  guide.  We watch

The influx of humanity moving

About, throb  and sensation .

Extraordinary   moment of  

Ordinariness   stemming  into

Realization, grey  is

Inevitable. Live the resplendent

Part  and remember it.

We  continue to write

And reflect  and record,

We have to live.

I Hold My Love

   I  Hold My Love.

In My Cupped palm

Of  criss cross lines,

I hold you, my Love!

You  are my breeze,

My bonanza, my bouquet!

Opening  like a  flower

Blossoming  into eternal,

Lasting  fragrance  dwelling

In Unshakable  Edifice.

I   hold  you my  Love.

Hidden  behind   gossamer

veil of fritter  and  frill,

aroma  of  Breeze peeps

In   and  out  of  the  window.

Curtain  partakes   of  the

Jubilation  Of Love’s  mirth.

 I hold you my Love,

My song, melody  rejuvenates

From   the tombs of

Antony  and  Cleopatra

Their  dead  angst into

 Not  A  Permanent  Threnody

But    everlasting   Bliss.

I hold  you  my  Love.

 Not a   cake, but a   cakewalk

Into  a life of  serendipity

And  high  thinking.

The World Is..

The World Is .....

The World is in

 In The  Process of Ending;

In  an imaginary  quest

Of  burning  the

Hot  sand, the  lonely  

Desert, not as  a marauder,

A ride on the horse,

Hoofs  make imprints.

Trample upon uncared for

Dying Plants, half  dead insects,

Sands, sand  dunes  voice

Eerie, lonely  chores.

Huskiness  dwells in.

Far  beyond  the  edge,

A  spooky  giant  like,

A  Tree  by  a  pond;

Miles  to go  far beyond,

When  Thirst  throttles

You  are not dying:

World is almost ending.