A dirge for the hoodwinked

A dirge for the hoodwinked

He lived by the ditch,
believed the witch,
entangled himself in a
web of inextricable hitch,

He was lured and loved
not by the gabardine jacket,
but the coils of vile lies,
Comatose, he used to be day by day,

Hudibras she practiced,
hollering she suppressed,
it is too late to bridge the hiatus,
Only He can restore the status.

God's eyes

God’s eyes


In my mind’s arena
percolation pervades,
The past ness of the past
like a stinging bee,
buzz around, the past
does not leave me,
foraying and barging
into the happening
present, me, undaunted,
surfacing into the future,
diving into inlets,
hazardous ,foamy paths
that inroad into you,
believing God’s ever
watchful eyes would
pry around to protect.

On honest writing

On honest writing

My flat, straight, straight forward,
unbending, unyielding writing pad,
falls down as if to protest in joining
with my slender refill quill which
will not slander and quibble
in unjust manner,

what is the protest about?
You pluckers or pundits
or pundits of pluckers ,
or concoction of both,
don’t you ever dare to encroach
our salutary field !


our writing is the fresh blossomed
bunch of flowers unplucked,
in the morn when dew drops
still cringe to those fragrance.
The idea, germination,
A tabula Rasa,
A tabula Rasa.

Can you count those?

Can you count those?


Can you count those unaccountable?
Centipedes and millipedes surviving,
submitting in the bustle of humanity’s
trade, treaded steps and stampede,

I walk along the timelessness of
sands of Time, count conches,
rose and white colors pop up
in the ageless mounds of diffusion,

brownish, sulking travesty of
humanity’ thinking wizards,
devious and detrimental,
look! how many thoughtless

in their over maneuvering,
just as the gushing waves,
blow to break to shore,
Facade is falling, falling.

The crayon and the boy at the window.

The crayon and the boy at the window

When the unexpected rains splash
at the window,
like the sorcerers’ magic spell,
in the rainy afternoon, the young, lolling
doll at the opposite window,
his crayon enslaved between the
thumb and the ring,
the center drifting pointless,

His innocent intermittent claps
at the caterpillar gliding outer
into the basket of the vendor,
the sticky drum stick leaves from
whence it springs, his pure white
teeth peeping out, smiling, smiling,
innocence smiles, stretching his
Milk white imagination into

the multicolored paper in front,
staring for an imprint,
there comes the flowering of a
leaf sketched into a caterpillar.

The Mystery of Success.

The mystery of success

In the cupped palm of your delicate
hand, you hold the terrific secrecy
of success, drained water is the
struggle and disappointment at times,
many a time I let them go,
in the sieve of Faith in God,
Sincerity is your strength,
to hold it steady and straight,
undulated by moods and trappings,
with a pot on your head
you do the rope walking,
without losing your balance.
Like a white Dove, Success
Swoops on you, pecks on your body,
thrills you, excited ‘ encore’.

Those good old days

Those good old days

Those good old days
when bad is branded bad,
these days, when brandied
is preserved in parameters,

You sit and rock in your wheeling
chair, whirling so much of
speculations on the mad, brash
mass around you,

what melody can a thrush pour?
what succor a parrot can repeat?
when threnody they sing
in owl’s inflicted nest?

You close your eyes only to
open, witness the uncouth
mass, messy, believing into
impossible, implosions,

the sticky wall posters in
the supermarkets fly high,
you unrobe only to be
more opaque , visible to

the wicked transparency,.
giggling all the times.

No mirror tomorrow.

No mirror, tomorrow.

The shutters opaque and sturdy
swing to and fro, the unfastened hooks
glare on, can’t stand the deafening scare,

I can see the nonagenarian, orthodox
Perform his morning ablutions,
here, the egoistic complex conscious


man of moods, a dandy, hurls
Verbal pyrotechnics at his better half,
Calling bitter half,

Picks up broken pieces of mirror,
tomorrow no mirror to reflect
his customized angst,

no mirror to refract his
compounded gesticulations,
Aquarium tub bespeaks volumes.

Loves's luster

Love’s luster.
Love stretches its searching hands
to the weltering puppy in the garbage,
lying in a state of uncertainty,

Love extends its solarium,
to the dark recesses of hearts
tainted by agonizing moments

of uncertainty leading to despair,
fighting not a loosing battle,
Love waves a flag of victory,

Love’s yielding serene moments,
Unyielding to brutal forces,
give food for thought and soul too,

Love’s luster undiminishing
Cares not for the return,
Love is steady and not shindy.

God is dead

God is Dead.
God is dead in a land,
as dead as a deadwood,
a land bereft of balm of
Mercy to the aching heart,

God is dead in a land
where mortuary is alive
with bodies breathing stink
and sterile, human frames

collage as corpses,
many unidentified and
stare as ghosts at the keeper,
God is dead, clasping
hands with the deleted

from the list of active
humanity, numerous,
God is dead in land of whorehouse
where flesh is cankerous,
where people incarcerate

their conscience , revile
good and avatars,
God is dead in a land
Where culture is the gun
Culture, crime is prime.

Hyperactive

Hyper active

I think I am hyperactive,
I am not so,
in my slumbering and rocking
in my chair,activity
interspersed between
writing and reading,
there are others more active,

there are others around me,
smart enough to out smart
others , at least they think so,
like the full grown corn
with the seeds popping out,
the farmer is late for
the belated harvest ,

I view the tall grass growing
growing, sucking the energy
of the soil, a potential rival
for the fecundate greenery,
tomorrow dawns with the
sickle of the gardener, the
rightful owner to weed and lob.