His house goes dry

His house goes dry.
His house goes dry.
It is raining dogs and cats.
After gathering clouds,
it is pouring, downpour
in the city and villages,
a boon falls
in the umbrage of drought.
Brimming pots tilt to the
cemented floors, raindrops
drip through the gaps
of the tiled roofs.
canals a re channelized,
crops fail for deluge swallow
the fields green,
in the throbbing centre,
his house in the city
goes dry, for his heart
overflows with cult
of sadism .

Eglantine pillar

Eglantine pillar

I veer round eglantine pillar,
from cemented floor to
the criss-cross roof,
My hand s weave silken
Shawl of miracle, advent of
Avatar, my mentor in my life.
The structured pillar bespeaks
a harrowing tale of the past,
how often , my grandmother
would sit by ,ruminate her
life, struggle, sacrifice,
open pages read, also misread,
in my blossoming age,
it would have been a hug,
one may call so;
but now, no hug, no paramour,
no love, no seductive looks,
for life has to sail amidst
rough weather,
if you read in-between lines
it is because you have
jaundiced eyes.
I stand by as the pillar stands.

A moment on my pasture

I rightfully trod upon the green ,
Green smelling upfront grass ,
I recline , with my Muse
ready to enthrone my book of poems,

The bunch of sprawling green grass
bends ,it sparkles humility to me,
we, the humans don’t bend easily,

I look up , my muse craves for
immediate inspiration, interaction,
singing lark and veering aircrafts
embark upon a voyage of their own;

every dewdrop a pearl on the
slanting grass , a decor ,
the hopping butterfly dancing
around,feasting by itself

a feast for all. I smell the green.
Smell the grass, smear the mood.

Life is gambling for many

Life is a gambling for many.
She is a Penelope , ardently
stitching and undoing the knots ;
the slender threads testing her
Patience, eyes compete with
her toiling hands, a handful of
cuts and threads and distorted
knots beside her sewing machine:
for her it is survival, for many
it is a gambling , her life gambling,
she saw not their hearts, they sought
cash or kind would replace kindness,
a post modern irksome paradox,
this gambling goes on ;
there, the predator growls , snarls,
here, she drinks a cup of porridge
to suffice her flat tummy,
her next session in the sewing
machine beckons her. Her spirit
gathers and removes the cuts
and knots for a better morrow.