Mu quill smacks at me

My quill smacks at me

Those white, splashy, frothy, surging waters
like battalions with iron-willed prowess,
dash against the seemingly timeless
Craggy rocks undiluted, firm and unshaken,
Rocky stones not yet corroded,
as if in a mood of defiance,
like a sage in penance.
I see the receding waters,
Now the roaring is gone
As in an aged lion, the valour is dead,

By the beach, my mood wanes,
My fingers criss-cross on the sands,
the pen which I throw in a fit of fury,
mocks at , the tiny bold bird
flaps its wings, back to me.

Praise be to the woman!

Praise be to that woman!

Praise be to that woman who bore the brutal brunt
of that man’s wrath and fury,
Praise be to that woman who was enslaved in her own roof,
that was plundered by preying wolves and confident
Intruders and tricksters who secured a base.
Praise be to that woman who fell a prey to hunger
and Starvation and menial task ,
while ease and luxury was extended
to the cheap and motivated,
woe and plague be to the woman
who wived the man who was to be her father.
Woe to the woman who husbanded the man
In stealth and fathered the man in public,
Curse be to the woman who cast aspersions
to the unseen and godly,
fortunate that she was who died premature,
for another killing was avoided.

One word is not enough or is theres any last word?

One word is not enough or is there any last word?

One word is not enough to describe
the mighty, vast ocean , the ultimate
excellence of the Creator’ crafty
design, the earth’s ruling monarchical monster,
the huge unfolable umbrella beneath which
microbes and engulfed lands and deluged cities,
in cyclical pattern roll on and roll down,
the beauty of the Blue is submerged by the
roaring, fearful ,thunderous, resurgent
looming waters gushing the shore and back
to the unseen throne,oh!the watery sublime,
Ceaseless and unaging, just as the creator,
You are the ultimate eternity,
eternity’s rummaging, Beauteous bounty.

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed ,
As the creator of all things under His perview,
Protects it from being trampled upon,
the seed driven by the wind that sweeps it
to a safer place as the chic is nestled
upon by the caring mother ,its feathers
a complete coverage for the newborn,
He who has protected the seed, waters
the seed to germinate into a plant
which bears flowers ,flowers red, rose
those deck His altar Him Who has
infused life into living upon it.

The sweeper

The sweeper
The sweeper with a thin, frame of body,
With a packet of hurriedly baked breadfast,
tucked on the left of her sari frills beneath,
a sort of shrunken belly, her faded broom
mechanically sweeps, her thinking rocks
with the thought of her six months old baby
in the cloth cradle hung to the beams
across the thatched house, she sweeps,
the drunken husband stealing her
carefully hidden coffer, the awakened
idea suddenly sweeps her mind,
she sweeps or does her broom sweep?
Who knows, inwardly she weeps for her
Predicament, her broom sweeps the dust
On the floor, she weeps, she sweeps.

How he was beguiled

How he was beguiled


It was not the saliva dripping, tail wagging dog,
the faithful guardian who would snarl and growl
upon strange visitors, that he nourished and fondof,
for him the very name dog
Sounded anathema, he did not rear a dog,
to give biscuits and crumbs and a bowl of milk
To be fed, he was kind with vultures and prowling,
Wolfish in the form of humans, pillaging upon
every pie and poking and pricking upon the inmates,
the backdoor wolves chased away the inmates,
he who has nurtured the vile was snapped away
being poisoned to death.

On thd dead grass

On the dead grass


On the recently unplugged bunch of grass,
Grass, green and still fresh smelling, retaining
Its aura, no, the grass is not dried or dead,
I could feel the kerb of the bunch,
for the gardener uprooted the stretch,
has unevened , the ground,
that ghostlike stories swell
one could weave and write lounging
Upon the topsy-turvy mound,

how often paramours would have
rested in even times to share their
ruffled up, anxiety ridden reflections,
how many inspirational writings
would have emanated from the
Constructive, creative minds of the
thinkers who think alike,
No,the people throng still,
The grass is not dead, it smells
Still Green and good.

war poem-what is to be negated

That which is to be negated

It is not the blood –oozing bodies,
in the battlefield, some of the slain
asundered parts of which are shaking
like a quiver, a struggle not for survival,
but to breathe their last,
Those are vowed to redeem their Nation’s
Honour pledged and some sold,
may be some to deepen their feud and fury,
to foreground their buried venom
In sharpened knifes and sounding bullets,
For the widowed wives and orphaned children,
to aggrieve the loss, it is the seed of malice ,
a maligned, negative approach to be negated.

Is sky thse limit?---

Is sky the limit?


Standing on the ghat of the holy Ganges,
Ferrymen agile, rowing their boats up and down,
Convention bound families perform their rites
and the see-saw rhythm of chanting of ablutions ,
for the departed souls, I viewed the river not
in spate , the Sun –God from his orb
like a multi-millionaire’s treasure,
more for charity than for self, spreads his beams,
that morn I saw the blue merging with the blue,
I wished to have been a crab or sea-weed ,
to glide into the pitch of the sky.

A tree in Bangor

A tree in Bangor
A tree in Bangor
Some rustling of the leaves and a good natured
Monkey like hop about in a tree emitting glow worm like
Sparks ensuring light for the passersby, throwing a jug of
Marmalade a deliberate drop seemingly a casual one,
For a hungry woman sheltering under the thin branched tree,
and a leather jacket too to fight the biting cold,
a rustling ,ruling to wrestle the dominant darkness,
I look up from my near apartment, nothing for my naked eye,
It skips to and fro, I infer, settles in corner,
Sees through the unseen, selects a new shapeless,
Here the AVATAR goes to make miracles.

what is moresf about Time---

What is more about Time----
I would not say the repetitive
Time on its winged wheels,
Nor the a clock with its fast moving needles,
But Time is an ancient, versatile don’t care master,
also as a Stringent and rigour in his hand as a band
To make one knee l down or if His visionary
Wisdom ordains to heel the humble and hurt,
Time does not wallop or wail for he reigns supreme,
For Time is the crystallized compendium
And a case study of His Creation.

The young buoyant urchins

The young buoyant urchins here---


The bubbling buoyant urchins
In Silsoe rich in heart and tout,
Like covey of birds on the blue
Sky clear and wavy,
from all over the globe here,
with a free hand and open mind,
more of a matured wisdom than of
corrugated ego corrupting
their growing minds, work and play
dine and chat in equal rhythm,
believe into growing their conscience,
like polished diamonds into perfection.

The Devil's doing in the darkest hour

The Devil’s doing in the darkest hour


The Devil in the deadly dark hour,
Naked in its motive,
Springs, stings a naked lie of
reality that the god sent
Shrinkable, unseen, shapeless
does the job of the man in his sheet
a stark naked lie whet and cut
polished to be a truth,
that the love in the bed and bath tub,
an embryo in the barren no longer
fertile womb, yet the devil is naked,
naked in its wicked pursuit.

The inevitable

The inevitable

As the cupped hands cannot hold
All the gathered waters long,
just as this plastered building
of ephemeral body will not dare
to stilt and chase this soul,
as you cannot put all the embers
and fires in sealed containers,
just as the possibility of measuring
the ocean is a mere dream,
the suppressed facts and swearing
multiplied lies will only boomerang
with redoubled vigor and volume.

The indoor plants

The indoor plants

The indoor plants like a filigree,
on the television set of my Silsoe house,
and the ones by the central heating
tender and fresh till yesterday,
slowly droop and wither,
I, basking in the sunlight
of my garden reason out
that the greenery popping out of the pots,
crave for the sunlight the rays
which are flashed through the window grills,
making all of us realize how much of Sun,
the universal prevalent essential
rudimentary for our sustenance.

The one special fruit

The one special fruit ---

All the peaches and plums of England
Can not vie with that of a Pomegranate,
one in his garden, he being my best friend,
that one fruit hanging,full-blown,ruddy,
ruby like, the edges of which stroked even,
it reminds me of paintings of figures on
a china ware jar, the lines criss crossing,
on one side, the seeds are popping out
in a small cut, for a parrot has pecked at it,
still deft fingers would not pluck it away,
allowing more freedom for a fresh covey,
with a tweet and twitter, special guests
for the special fruit .

The ash colored Dove to ashes.

The ash-colored Dove to ashes

It was the tender, sponge-like ash- colored
Dove inquisitive and freedom in its control
was moving about in the academic campus
as if to preach or to teach, I know not,
with a twitter in the lab and a sudden jump
on top of the table to pry about,
it was the same Dove with a wounded leg
limping in my garden yet to peck at the
newly blossomed yellow flowers,
it was the same tender Dove cornered
in a corner of my garden at Silsoe,
with wings strewn apart, and the neck
pounded to mere nothing----.
I wake up from my sleep with a sigh,
Sigh of lost love to be tapped by my Dove.
A rejuvenation beyond imprint.

My dream comes true.

MY dream comes true.

My dream has come true,
my dream inextricably woven into
The vortex of my blood,
has come miraculously
True when I visit England for
the second time just as the
blossoming of a flower in my garden,
a beautiful sunflower serenade to and fro,
just as the birth of a calf in my
grandmother’s ancient house of
pillars high vaulted, the birth pangs
of the mother cow ….maaa maaa---
still ringing into my ears,
just as the landing of the aircraft,
as a bird takes off , widespread
its wings in the opposite direction,
the enriched land of Shelly
and Shakespeare, Lamb and Wordsmith,

I drive on from Silsoe a calm countryside,
The queen moon shines in its full ambit,
The isolated road sides and tree tops
Completely besmeared with the thick green aura,
I am Overwhelmed with the quill scribbling
in my mind’s eye,infront of me the dining table
filled with products from Tescoe,
I wide open my eyes to see how much more
To explore, to achieve and my dream comes true.