Silence

The breakfast in the stable became stale,
even I the duty-conscious made the breakfast
burning my fingers in the stove,
rushed to my work spot,
stunned to see the flies
around the vessel kept half open,
he thought he was wise, for he slipped off
to sleep by a woman, a nasty bitch
who poisoned into his ears,
that his wife was infidel,
somebody made nocturnal visits
for cash and flesh,
thirty long years of his living
was marred by three years of stealthy slips
only to know that she made beds with many before
he came back to me with defeated fake smile
not knowing I know the world afore,
only to continue my silence more.

Who is this nocturnal visitor?

Who is this nocturnal visitor incognito?
Is he seen only by a few, or naked eyes?
does he slip in like a cat for kind or for cash?
or for both, or with pseudo-kindness,
like the itching dandruff, creating a bald,
Bugging all the time, draining your purse?
People with all devious thinking imagine
That the visitor is fond of my house,
yet till today I have not seen the mysterious,
nor I am inclined to catch him red –handed,
when the imagination runs devious,
when the devious thought takes
further a crude sinister turn,
when my guardian angel is vigilant,
this acrimony would only lead to acrobatics,
Undoing all nonsense and hypocrisy.
you can wake up a sleeping dog
you can not infuse sense and sanity
in a seemingly deaf and blind
man and woman who are no less than
conmen loitering the premises of the
easily gullible, causing havoc
to the good and innocent.

118 Stillness

Stillness ( 118)


It is not mere closing your eyes,
your mind wandering in search of Bliss,
socalled attention distracted by so many calls,
of phones eagerly awaited from business,


nodding of your head in rapt admiration of songs
recorded in tapes and compact discs,
nor admonition of children making a mess
amidst of noises and tumbling of vessels:


Stillness augmenting stillness
Simply allowing things to happen even in chaos,
Pampering calmness even in distress,
Stillness smiling at stillness.

(114) Who is by my bed?

who is by my bed? (114)




What is this feeble voice by my improvised bed?
whose voice is this at this untimely hour?
Do they wonder? Are they curious?
Is he a man, tall and handsome?
or dark, ugly, covered
or curled up underneath a blanket?
A cherub with “light fantastic toe”,
with a magic wand doing jugglery,
is he your legally married husband?
or nocturnal visitor incognito?
A playboy to saunter about?
He is cutely curled up caring me ever,
Not phony, a pleasant bug,
who expects me to be at his beck and call,
commanding and demanding,
He does not care if you are in the kitchen
or at the dining table, or at the bath,
makes me irksome at times,
Curious and eager to attend to him betimes,
I even drag him where ever I go,
sometimes he is ignored by me,
Does n’t he sound a conundrum?
He is my phone, my telephone,
Bridging the void from afar,
For time and distance
Between east and west
Set right by my handy set.

(112) An observation by the beach

An observation by the beach (112)
It is not the usual white-coloured, soft,
oval-shaped pebble, nor a shell,
but a thump bone of an infant,
My eyes can see the merciless
waves washing ashore,
the tsunami-hit victim, innocent
distorted, premature and caught up
In the debris of time’s disaster,
the brown color which merged
with the color of the sands
speaks out silent volumes.
If alive might have shaped
many stories life-like,
or might have ruled like a lord,
or assuming dogmatic position
might have pointed out many a flaw,
now pointless and a pittance,
picked up by a hungry crane in a swoop
Oh! the lifeless thumb,
I sit by the shore helpless,
I weep by the shore helpless,
To see the bird take –off.

(113) The thought of the school stings

The thought of the school stings, stings  113


When I was a nine year old girl,
upon my refusal to the school
my mother then sounded rude,
held me by the hand put on the first bench,
as if to cover the chicken by the basket,
ran fast home to sing lullaby to my
weeping sister in the cloth cradle,
a good pat on my cheek
by the English teacher for
the well sung nursery rhyme
is only short lived:
for the bell beckoned the terror,
the arrival of the Math teacher
with a cane multiplied my fear
only to make me forget my
Equations and mutiplications,
My eyes curious not on the board,
but on the clock for I feigned
to put the clock fast, for a stop
for the maths trauma,
the play time or P.T is
full of stress for the eagle eyed
monster would command a
kneel down for the ink
dot in my white uniform.
A surprise walk or check by the
Head master many a time
Made me tremble with a salute.
Today me a school teacher
Impatient and imbecile.
It stings, it stings----.
My conscience stings
Me badly to the root of
My heart, my bleeding veins.

clockwise (111)

   (111)        Clockwise
Everything has been going on clockwise
as long as man was innocent and obedient,
in the well planned garden of God’s creation,
replete with aromatic flowers and scanty weeds,
both the hands were in perfect diapason,
when man was caught up in the medley
of the selfish motives and defiance of His Will,
he grew cankerous and gluttonous
devouring all that came by.
when man fell a prey to the blind
spirit of questioning, a malignancy
he did not spare even the higher order,
things have to move anti-clockwise
crippling the pattern well set
I know not if easy to heal the malady
or to submit to the rut.

122 On a themeless artifact

On a themeless artifact( 122)


Why do they clamor for a theme less piece of poem?
Or fiction or writing, like “to be or not to be”?
a theme is as must as life for a body,
a cloth to cover the sense of shame,
a theme less is uncovered food exposed to flies,
it is tumbling along the staircase
to reach the tower, to capture to dizzy heights,
like we monopolize the whole universe,
a mad desire to achieve the impossible,
to abrogate the essentials of life,
to build up an empire of sands sans brick and lime.
A themeless is like a nomad drifting away
Aimless, unwilling to fit within the framework