A String of fallen threads......

           A  String  of  fallen   threads......

 These  bunches  of  fallen coils,

 Unable  to  extricate .

Mehendi   abnormally  usurps

   the  white colour,

these  demented,  entangled   on the

yellow  white  comb,

aging    head  dethrones them,

 Some  slick  hand ,promotes

Them  for   a  wig.

These  fallen  angels 

Giggle  and  smart

Ready  for up gradation. 

Poetry in Motion.

Poetry in Motion.

If brooks and rivulets can inspire ,
swoops of birds and soaring kites
take poets to seamless heights,
poetry is in motion, poetry can also 
be in commotion, crowds and platforms,
trolleys and chocolates and bookshelves,
signals and throbbing tubes, 
smiling ,crossing hurried 
faces, cigars in corners, 
poetry is in Motion.
poetry can be flawless inspiration
from poets and stations and statues.

Piquant Notes

              Piquant   notes

          Day's dull, monotonous , drab, drags  you  away,

         Night's serene, tranquil quill pulls you to sway

        in outpouring piquant  pieces  
                            of Creativity  and Tranquillity,

          you proceed  in  all agility,

          Snow  or   Rain ,shiver or tremor,

         it  all runs through  in  aquatic   vigour,

        my  day  is my  Dross,

        my  night is  my  Bliss,

         When the world sleeps,

         I keep  myself  awake,

          with my  ascetic  Muse.

My empty coffin...

I am thrilled to see my coffin

Set   sail  in watery  weather,

It is not made of iron box

Full of ice chunks for there is

 No  pounded    body  to be buried,

No   scalp to be covered,

no  ceremonial  mourning.

It is  made of bamboo sticks

Nor to be burnt, but laden with

burnt  desires,  desiderata of

bygone days, in accessible ,

it   sails from this  end

  to  a   different long  shore

it  sails amidst  rough weather

but unmindful of it,

I too follow it

Hoping to   reach it  intact.

It sails, sails.......

It comes like what...

 It  comes  like what....

It  comes like  emboldened   rat

Rattling  upon the    brass  vessel

In the corner of the kitchen

meant to store the droplets of

Water through  the leaky roof,

Rattling, rattling, rattling.

I see it in the massive heart attack

arrest  the  normal  function, a recent dysfunction

cardiac  failure, failure,

the  sheets   of water inundate

 the cities,    swamp  surroundings

by   shock waves, tidal    sweep,

the   falling of   asbestos  sheet

in the back yard  of the garden

by   the   tornado   undoing my

bamboo  shed into pieces,

the   arrogant  sceptical  

always questioning,

cross questioning, weaves

a  dithyramb  into undignified

doubts   multiplying into  doubts

oh! God, when this is coming to en end?

When this end is opening up?

My Muse Today.....

    My  Muse   today...

My ascetic, not acrobatic MUSE

Is    annoyed, sad ,

Segregates  into  a  corner,

refuses  to  be  profuse  with

my   quill   and  uncivil 

with  my blank, polite  and unspoilt

papers  looking  up,

thin  decreasing  pabulum

why  confronting  today?

Bartender  in   my  Devilish 

Spirits   barters   with 

My  Sacred  Muse,

I am   bemused , amused.

Poverty in my potpourri..

Poverty   in  my     potpourri....

My  choicest   platinum   bracelet

Riveting   on my   wrist   wrestles

With my  bony  skin,  my  protruding

Pummelling  Desire   dons   a   diamond

Ring  on   my   pointed finger, slowly   all

My   fingers  are   adorned,   Desire  and  designs

Don  other   slender , but  not    slick  fingers,

 My   ostentatious  ,heavily     showy

  ten  sovereign   Gold  Chain,  is  not

bothered  to  hide  behind the  multi layers

of   my   thick   Gold   rimmed   silk  sari,

the  bundles  of  popping out/peeping currencies

from   my  iron  safe , refuse  to  be food

for my dining   table,  variety  dish ,

My  gold  rimmed  eye    glasses  

Question  the  Poor staggering,

Maul   them  an eyesore.

The  scholar   scrambles   the  dictionary

For the  word  POVERTY.

A butterfly in the corner

                             A  butterfly  in the  corner.

I  view  it  since  a week,

mistaking  it   a    just  released  spider.

It  is   a  tiny  butterfly, stuck to the 

Corner  of  the  high  vaulted  roof,

A   new  varnish  tempting ,

tampering  the   ceiling  as   well,

 it  is  not      prying mantis  to  hold

If   a   Crore   is   inlaid   the  walls,

 From  afar, a   lizard  fast  approaches

to  gourmet    the    innocent, sleeping,

My  pointed  stick  prevents   the   holocaust.

May  be  the   butterfly  does  not

dash to  go ,  dare  the    traffic  of  the

trafficking   world, 

happy  to be  in   its    halcyon days :

there  is  a   sweet,   tweet

as  if  touch  it  not, disturb it not.

December to Dismember

        December to   Dismember  .....

Broken    glass   pieces  of  inebriated

Symptoms   sprawling   in the  zero   hour,

Crammed   on my platform, the withered

flowers  and  centipedes  surrogating

creeping   many: I am  alone  ;

It  is  not  necromancy  nor exorcism

By   a   seasoned     expert:

The  crude surgical   hands of  autumn

Laid   my  stems  bare. I am  looking  up

At  the   good Samaritan  Sky.

The    cold   frosty  wind 

entwines   me with   a  hug,

Hopefully   the  numbness of  November

and   the   chilly  wintry  bed

 will   be  gone, gone.

December bells  start  chiming,

To  Dismember  many  sad   notes.

Come  December, Come, come. 

 

A wish for the one whisked away.

A   Wish  for  the one whisked  away.

It  is  nearly   two  years   since  you  are gone.

Trailing  behind  two  thousand  memories

heaped   around  the  environment,  INERASABLE

I would not   say   haunting  around .

They  are  Memories, Memories

 questioning  Even  times.

not    pebbles  nor gravels,  nor  the

myriad   grains of   sands  at  the construction site,

nor  are  the  clipped wings  to be burnt by

many   a   hard  . Merciless   cries   in the  vicinity:

 Memories  and memories ,

I still  look  around  for  you,

Are   you  still  traversing the path

to  reach  the  starry  heaven?

Or   you   want  to  carve a  alcove

For   yourself?

 Does  your  soul  still  select  her own society? 

A limerick on salt and winter

A limerick  on salt  and winter

When  Love ’s frosty  winter  on open terrace ,a  grimace      

With   costly  paramour draining   your   purse, a growing   menace,

You  offer   her  only   pepper  water,

Her   demurred  looks ,plain  salt  water,

Also   there    swarms   of    bugging   mosquitoes  you  countless  interface.  

I hear something significantly portentous

I hear    something   significantly   portentous

“ I   hear  America  singing”.

 I hear London  calling,

Calling, calling   for cornucopia

Of  images  for  Creativity,

The   ghost in Dr. Faustus  is  being

  exorcised     by the   cool  moon tidal

waves  of  the  River  Thames,

Rippling!    Rippling!

The  wheel of  London Eye

Wheeling, wheeling  into  a

Realm   of   unexplored  serendipity.

But  I   Hear  in      India

Some   teguments  weeping,

Wailing, for  the  slow  loss

Of  Sanctity, the country of

Vedas  is   crumbled  to   KURKURE

At  tea-time table.

The  ancient  thread of cradle                                                                                

Of  ages  and civilisation

Is  deviously  crumbling to pieces:

 Life  is  only  for  limca     not           

For    litany  or  serious  discourses.

 I hear  Now  India  weeping.

  

ON MAYA gruelling..

        ON  MAYA gruelling..

I    slowly begin  to  refresh,

 read   the   quick  moving  present

for each  day is  a  nonstop  roller coaster,

in   the   blank  page   of  the  past,

I    traverse    the  path,

blanketed   NOT     by   the  jamboree

but   by  the  gruelling  Maya,

a  horrendous , selfish  environment

 a subtle  intricate  monster

admonishes me, checks me

you have  to  internalize,

Epicurean   stares   from    distance,

I seek   my  way.

When Adam delved......

         When  Adam  delved.........

When  Adam  delved, Eve  span,

Malefic  Satan  came to  sham,

Satan  spied, Eve yielded,

Evinced   Adam , both transgressed

So  mankind was born:

But  then  Satan  came  along,

Faithful  in every  era to  question

To nullify  the  purpose  of   Incarnation,

to  argue, to counteract, to tarnish:

queued  to  swell those in  quandary,

 possibly  to be dethroned to  the

eternal  realm  of devious   dormitory

for   there  bound  to be  No

Call of  Awakening   for   those   adamant. 

A moment in a solitary corner

             A  moment in a solitary corner 

      I recall   my grandmother’s  cow

MM---AAA-----AAAA----S, in her own  garden

Labour  for her,  also the consequential  labour

For my grand ma, tending, caring, cleaning,

Innocent  calf  falls  to the ground,

Tether  and crowbar witness  gleefully.

For   many  a  human, helpless,   I foresee,

Why  this  Birth? Why this  birthing?

Why   take  a  Bath or holy  dip?

As  for  those  deliberate   inhuman,

Callously  dipping in  vials of sin,

Is  it  absolving  karma   or  abrogating

Dharma , insignificant moments of 

Foraying  into the otherness of existence.

A  church  bell  peals out ,disturbing   silence,

It  is  also  part  of  Karma,

Karma   admonishes   

You  cannot   banish me, bear  with me.

X poem: The old woman's pondering

   Xmas  poem :  The old  woman’s pondering

When  the   November’s pall of gloom

Is  just  receding,   the  sheets  of  water

On the  streets   like  the  massive  orgy

  flowing, overflowing , a  force,  a    fear ,  repellent

much  the chagrin, panic   of the   hut   dwellers,

farmers, the   Golden  boughs of  December wave,

 the glimmering  Hope  of  Christmas   beckons

around us , the  glow  of   bulbs on the

Christmas Trees, the plums, and cakes:

Yonder   a  slender  woman   wears  a 

   Diamond     of   strong  determined  will  

Of  Charity ,looking  at  the  bright  stars,

Stormy  arguments under  control,

Why this mindless  hoarding   of  currency?

Pondering  how long  will  the  Soul  take

 to  reach  those stars,  are  the stars  only

the  destination? are   there   any  more 

sequestered    boundaries?  How  many

 would  have     died   of   starvation?

How   many  hankering   after  of   hungry

miles ,   a   voiceless  query? She  is not

able to  attain  a   limpid  solution:

Jesus   or  some  Incarnation   or  incantation

Santa claus  arriving  soon  ,hopefully

She  continues  her mission under

The   Christmas tree.

Nuggets of November

               Nuggets   of November

I   peep   through  the  half  visible,

 Transparent   glass   shutters,

 besmeared  by  water  drops, 

the  perverted  gloom  gathers

like   pell mell   infecting walls   and  roofs,

Now  it is  November, partly raining,

Partly  the  thunderous   clouds  spark ,

 The  usual  calm  blue   hiding  behind,

 The  crackers  in the wet  soil  benumbed,

don’t  burst,  lie   idle on the ground,

much   to the  chagrin   of the   kids,

some  crackers slowly  catching 

  burst  half,   drop   helpless,

I   read,   behind  some  embers

  of     subdued    glow and   spark,

 there is  no   spark

 but   pretentitious   ire  or  cow down,

 or    corrugated  mood,

 behind   some ,   the  mourning, the

  dead   in the    coffin   iced,

 there  is  the warm   calculus  of

coffer , the  value of  mosaic

newly  constructed,

the  box  moves,  but   man

with  the  calculator  , refuses

stuck  to  the  tiled  floor,

looking  up  at the  vault,

 how  to  reach  IT.

Here in sombre October......

                       Here  in  sombre   October 

             Bonfire  glows,  ghost  stories  run,  Halloween

              waves  the  other  side  of  the globe,

               here  in  sombre  October, when  leaves

           abandon  their tawny  shreds, many  claim

           to  recompense  their  lost   youthful  exuberance,

           picking  up  their leaves  or pastel  shades ,

            a   fresh  brew  in the log of fire,

             many  a  walking  goes on  with

           ambitions  on the   crumbled,broken    leaves,  

            a    twaddler  comes, somebody’s daughter,

            somebody’s  bother,  who knows

            A  Mother  Theresa  or  Mona  Lisa

            In the offing,  She   moves on.

            The  leaves  rustle   and    rue.

       

At the end of the final journey...

                         At  the  end   of the   final  journey......

       

   Alaska   to  Africa,  Nebraska  to  Nainital

Mapping   in  the   mind ,tracks  on

The   rout less   journey;

 A   self  willed      Wallkie   talkie

At  the  end of the apparently

Conclusive   path, nothing is conclusive,  

  you   read the  meandering

Past, so  much  has been misread

 and   misapplied , some  pages   are

even  kicked off   to the donkey

as    fodder ,  human   intelligence

works  faster,  some  break   is  inevitable,

 the     cover   of the   taffy

Peeled   off. Not  a  tasty  bite

But  a   sobering  tale ,yet

Destiny  tunes  , takes it own   course.

You   read  and   rehearse  the tale

to  the   dormant  society.

I weave a dream of...

           I weave a dream


I weave a dream ,
the colourful threads
are broken in the process,
the needle pricks me,
a  blatant reminder
pinafore of planning
looks pathetic,helpless,
for it is avaricious dream
a dream of impossibility.