On the semi naked person

On the semi naked person,
like a burst combustion engine
She fell upon his white, marble like
body, his face only a just withered flower,
kisses are like Heaven’s showers,
a thin cotton cloth covering his loins,
tattered, life’s full fulcrum
i s gone, time spent in the army,
transparency is seen in his
uncovered story of his life.
she wails and weeps on the
semi naked person.

All zeroed to nothing

I lift both my hands,
to worship the sun god,
rising with a smiling nod,
lines criss cross,
my folded hands,
age has its slow and steady
impact on the subdued body,
undaunted will prevails
yet, the bickering monkey,
the braying donkey,
the caterwauling felony
eating my flesh,
as some feel, if at all,
all zeroed before the
dwelling deity,
The Avatar smiles.

Change is inevitable

Change is inevitable
Miles and miles away,
from my home country,
here, in California, I see
the popped up rosy buds
amidst barren twigs, the wintry
winds blowing, those magnolia

limpid , crave for the warmth of sun,
with the changing seasonal shifts,
how much of change , change brings
in the distance of Time and
Wuthering, weathering days,
God alone does not change,

I live the present
With a fervent hope to
See the tactile drama
Of ordained life in the future,
While viewing the past,
How much of challenge

One sees in the negatively
Pointed, corroding ego,
Inner vision presages
like a sooth sayer,
change for the better is
inevitable, imminent.

A reply from Prometheus

A reply from Prometheus
I asked in an imaginary poetic mood,
A question to Prometheus
why can’t you quench the fire
which you thoughtlessly stole?
Hell fire is raging in Heaven,
Earth is quaking, shaking,
Out came a prosaic reply,
I can’t quench, there is NO WATER,
too much of sinning around me.

A sense of belonging

Clear us of our uncouth mess,
with the craving look of utensils,
in the dishwasher, your soft hands
deal dexterous, wash and wipe,

the spooky sponge counteract the soot,
the accumulated foam slowly
down the sink, there is a sense
of belonging, longing,

with the tactile tap on the
keyboard, with the pop ups
blocking, you avidly blog,
there is a sense of belonging,

warp and weft of the sari,
shiny on your delicate skin,
the weaver and the design,
there is a sense of belonging,

the taste of Indian culinary masala,
the subconscious recording of poem
which is a tabula rasa,
there is a sense of belonging.

A few ramblings

Folding the teguments of groundnuts
in piece of paper, once very useful,
both now crushed as waste,
I throw them into the stream,

In a stream of conscious mood,
Sit on rocky stone, a stand by,
let them go, allowing your
Vagabond ideas limited freedom.

Nearby a tent, the playful urchins
enjoy burning up all old,
on the one side paper boat,
burning up, the other side,

Bonfire engulfs all old tattered clothes,
a vow is taken new roots in my pages,
it is difficult to erase old memories,
Promising, they usher into new vistas,

a facelift for the old,
the plastic is recycled into
a new silver wrapper,
the bonfire still glows ,engulfs,

painter busy for his livelihood,
sturdy brush coats the scribbled,
the painted wall, still is wall,
Yet New year booms with messages.

Seclusion and silence

Silence after the intrigue,
What can you do philosophy followed
by the pelican monsters of king Lear,
after the battening storm, there is silence,

when you look at the canopy, the galaxy,
your neck racking, countless stars,
still the planes pierce through
puffy clouds, silence after the

unanswered mystery of the universe,
how life is instilled into the embryo,
the unborn in the cozy womb,
‘child the father of the man’

Cuddled within four walls
absolute silence till it
comes out into this uncanny ,
drum beating silences the

Resilience into silence,
after the last breadth,
silence in the congealed blood,
closed eyes, silence accompanies

to the disrupting graveyard,
but the ashes and the bones
weep for the charred, wailing
coupled with silence.

Bath tub's wailing

You make a monopoly of living
in my oval spaced white shiny
construction, you rub the tub,
time and space beyond your
jurisdiction and limit,
surfing blocks my head,
your degraded shampooed
hair lines spread their
wings to spoil my glow,
they coil round and round
to move not further,
I know not how long this
Serfdom to endure.

Their survival

Staring at the prominent four
corners of the walls of my
un frequented upstairs room,
for it is a lumber area,
but the cobwebs lumber
Not, they have to meticulously
build their web of survival,
for me it is a rejection as waste,
yet how much of purblind
plan goes into weaving and weaving,
their white layers, flimsy abode,
one stroke of firm brush to
undo their artifact,
for some it is a total rejection,
while for the weaver,
it is a survival.

She thought in a different way

When merry bells of Christmas jingling,
trees glowing in bulbs and plants,
Pave way for rejuvenation,
Singing in Carols, keep her spirits,
high and glowing,
there is the other side of her
thinking, as always the other side
of the coin, how much of
Crucifixion, struggle on the
Cross, incarceration behind
this celebration, thought of
Cross made her cross.

Holiday

Holiday

You came from a village,
Sari tucking up,
Oil oozing out into
Your forehead,
Your tightly hung pigtail

with a ribbon,
bath by the well,
a relished custom,
now a shower
is ever once you

stepped into the city,
a lavender aroma
you imbibe in the
oval shaped bath tub,
for hours together,


I made a Holyday of my Holiday
assigning the task of cleaning
and wiping the floor, to you,
which you refused, for you are
a totally changed city girl.

forgetting your roots.
I sit before the idols
closing my eyes, while
the TV is on with full
volume before you,

for you the Holiday,
for me the Holyday.

God too, the pretender.

God at the threshold of
His unique mansion, sits,
reclines , for it has to be
Eternal watch,

Spreads with His
ever vigilant eyes,
don’t you ask me if He is
short sighted, or long sighted,

He is inarguably, Omniscient,
innumerable transaction in His
market place, buyers and loosers,
amidst incessant sinning,

giving a nod or go by,
God does not grin, but saliently
Smiles hoping against hope
that man would correct one day,

He can never be Myopic,
but only extending His long rope
of forgiveness, extending many chances,
we pull it fast and soon,

He watches, waits, sees, the
Struggling humanity, of its
Self inflicted pain of
Thrombosis , applies the

Balsam of remittance,
Man ,again revokes his
addiction of sin and mischief,
God pretends not to take notice of,

As we pretend, He too pretends,
how long this charade prevails,
we know not, too high He is,
how far, beyond our ken.

Time still ran out.

In my childish curiosity,
thinking I was at
Wonder-work, lockedup
my watch, a precious gift,
double covered in gabardine
in a beautifully painted,
floral decorated box of iron.

Times ran out, I grew up with
the maturing times,
the rusty box started peeling out,
the incarcerated clock
stopped, no tick tock,
but time runs on, on,
my wall clock caringly,

destroys the eerie silence
of the house,
Time runs on,on.

It means much to me,
hope an undeniable fact it to be,
living within a square,
life within four walls,you stare,
breathing and moving
bereft of business and potboiling,
an empty space, outside
of it,a large gambit.

Space less still?

In my single room apartment,
much hue and cry about space less
adjustment and making space saving
Cupboards, all over again,
I sit in my own corner, my own
Space, balsam to my aching heart
Comes from parrot green twittering,
repeating viola, pet cat’s silenced paw,
white puppy sauntering around,
Morpheus shies away,
Copious space in front of me.
New paints from empty cupboards
Varnished ask them , space less still?
marble floors look askance
at the empty walls bereft of resonance.

Monday

Monday
Monday comes after Sunday,
Sapping away all energy,
Monday is a thug of nuisance,
followed by charts of events
bugs, pains and domestic chores,
for some Monday is a rubble,
a fall , not a spring,
a parrot in a cat’s paw,
Monday makes us run, run
for no point of return,
Monday is bully, a monotony,
Not a fresh beginning but a
brutal start with a poignant
lore of past happening.

Trees.

It is the sapling that goes into a broad
branched, green leaved tree,
the tree, that is mercilessly felled,
both in life and death, the tree
serves hard humanity, hard timbre
from timber, a magna lesson
for the man, for the dearth in
living man, a deadwood,

it is under the tree the Buddha
imbibes revelation, enlightenment,
for the afflicted soul,
it is in the roof of a tree many
shelter less construct a haven,
it is beneath a tree, that many
siblings play and pick up cherry,
it is the once upon those tall trees

now are homes and floating boats,
it is the log of wood that douse man’s
dying embers , pounding him to soil.

it is the barren twigs that crave to be green.

Showers

Showers

When the surrounding is in
drought, she sees eclectic
exuberance in showers,
at eighteen, blossoming

romance, it is like holding
a rose fully blown with
fragrance, thrills her
hobnobbing moods.

In early thirties
limpid and progressive,
Luxury it is for her,
Showers like lavender

in her wardrobe, ever
radiant, glowing,
vibrant and renewing
perfumed and glorified,

in fifties and sixties
showers spell discomfit,
release unease,
jug displaces flowery showers.

I meet challenge in this challenging world

I too meet challenge in this
turbulent, challenging world,
I drink not wine in London,
Ice-creams do not tempt me
any longer for cream of
ever flowing creativity
flows by river Thames,
I only imbibe essential
Goodness of humanity
Seen around me in west,
East is terribly demanding,
Sin is snowballing,
People pledge and pawn
their conscience to devil,
West is soothing,
beckon me to world
enriched with hope
and cornucopia of success.

Thanksgiving, thanksgiving

At the end of the day,
when dawn and dusk
have been duty conscious,
performing their meticulous,
parts, without failing in their
steady paths,
a certain section
bent upon pushing you to the corner,
Improvising all impossible,
even these are duty conscious,
in their own way,
even this certain section chosen
by His design,
You tend to sit,
face heavy in hands,
absorbed all the tirades,
volley of venom aimed
at you, yet another mode,
this was all in blood,
sugar coated pills, your
inborn, open-minded unable
to bear this topsy-turvy ,
no longer questions why?
why? but to proceed to
conclude, this is so,
your heart overwhelmed
with thanks to the Almighty
for sustaining you, by being
with you, you draw the blind
curtain, an end to all blank,
only thanks , thanks thanks
to Him and ever and anon
thanks to Him.