Poverty

Poverty
After a long ,tedious walk,
walk in self imposed exercise,
thirst , sweat profuse,
compete each other,
inexplicable, insurmountable,
I opened a street tap,
wearing a dent ,
It went dry,
for want of repair,
Poverty dons vicinity.
Poverty in the hands of
the governing,its administration,
Shaking its invisible hands,
it looms large,
unassuming it taps
the select,
Poverty taps those in streets, pavements,
Improvised tenements,
Street urchins hungering for life,
Poverty catches up as if
Pantaloons, infects patches,
Young lad working sums
under the street lamps,
it is this ugly bug, mars
his future prospects,
sing the slogan of
drive away this hankering
spirit of poverty.

A rightful reproach to God.

A rightful reproach to God

Here near and dear are wailing and weeping
for the dead are those look like
still sleeping , in the still sleeping,

After their departure, rupture, rupture,
everywhere rupture, for the vulture
in the burial ground only rapture,

follow the holocaust in tsunamis
earthquakes, -- shiver runs , scares ,
driving many into tantrums.

Burial grounds are few, electric cremations
are more, falling are powdered ashes,
divisions and partitions in household names.

Oh! God, what are you going to do
With those departed souls?
Where are you going to house these numberless?

I know not the answer, the right answer,
for you hold the keys , to the tricky quiz,
for you hold the tips for the buzz.

Karma's door

Karma’s door
Like the lightning that flashes
and goes, you devise a path
of your own , it is a gardener’s path,
segregate the bush and thimbles ,
in the routine, discord the
setbacks allowing the course of
action, not knowing it is the
preordained course of destiny,
abomiminably get trapped in
the dispute of karma,
whether karma follows you
or you fall in line with karma,
the interminable debate is like
the brambles that crop up:
your hand inadvertently
fetches a pail of water,
can you douse the burning
question? With the
emptied pail to refill
you go back,
karma parts:
you go your way, today,
I will catch up tomorrow.

Spirit glows ,rages!

Spirit glows, rages!
It is the spirit of internet addiction
Not obstreperous obsession,
unequalled impassioned affinity
that propels your poetic oeuvre.
I envisioned a different spirit
In yesteryears, in Hamlet,
“ look, there it comes!”
You shudder to see a different
Spirit in Dr. Faustus ,
In a high spirited drama
Of jugglery many spirits
Entwine around us,
believing and disbelieving
in a spirit of charisma,
there you see a drunken
street brawl, in inebriated spirit,
disintegrating the family into a
spirit of abysmal nadir.
Where is your imaginary
Spirit of handsome youngling
Cuddling you ?

Face the pitfalls of the Age.

You inadvertently stumble
upon cobblestones and gravels :
This is an age of dupes and
desperate , despicable shams,
How easily you are drawn
by the mirage?

There is a tripartite ,
nondescript victimised, the charlatan
and the onlooker at the dramatised,
you are afflicted by the
tomfoolery, foppery ,waiting
for the curtain to be drawn.

They don’t go by your living.
they, the incredulous apes
they , that are willing to be enormously
duped by the letters , forged , scribbled in
multiple fashions, they don’t go by your
cloistered living , ignorant ,

sealed , as if in a magic box:
Not ignominious, they don’t go
by your living, Your living.

Weep

Fibonacci Poetry Form
Weep
Weep, why?
Weep what for?
Weep for the ignited connivance,
Weep for the tumultuous interference of those officious,
Who are uncompromisingly obdurate ,unable to accept defeatism, painstaking in inflicting to others,

Painful pain, reigning supreme right from ancient days, unalloyed, unmitigated,
A gift of the Devil, seductive,but solatium for the SATANIC.

Autumn

Autumn
Those autumnal leaves
dried and crumpled
just as the strewn feathers
of the aviary, the hunter’s
missile aimed at, with the
Mercurial vigour,
like the age’s wrinkles
and dropping skin on this
haberdashery,
sitting on the grass,
my expectation incredibly
failed , it is like the
reigning fantasy at
the helm of my imagination:
there were no autumnal
leaves, the beams of
sun piercing my burnt
skin and cheering up
my drooping mood,
the melody of the chirping
birds by mound on the grass,
there is no autumn :
man’s values are
topsy turvey , Nature is
in cue of Man.

Goodbye (theme)

Fibonacci Poetry Form


Fibonacci Poetry Form

Goodbye
unhappy coinage
unpleasant to utter
in stations, platforms, airports,parties,
worst even in life's final ,cruel destined journey,
but if you like it or not you have to inevitably admit,yield..
if you understand this ,you are not only wise,you can lead life in peace and prosperity,you are called Sage.

Grief in it own way

Grief in its own way.

When Heather smiles,
Hawthorne chuckles, for
the pain of its bush pricking
others, it is sadistic pain
Injecting like needles on others:
I grieve over the loss,
over the abominable loss
of many, failing crops,
fetish craze for somebody’s
coins and cash and trash,
of the prophetic warning of
the impending cataclysm
a whip for the callous and greedy,
she grieves over the plenty,
prosperity, cuts across for gain,
I am bemused by my pet
cat drinking the last sips
from the porcelain cup of
my grandmother’s remnant.

Love's anguish

Love’s anguish

Love’s anguish is not in the
Immersed repetitive utterance
Of Romeo and Juliet,
romping romances do not fill
the limpid, white sheets of
papers frittering on the table,
cries of wails do not creep into
the corners of streets, stories of
clandestine meetings, gifts in
glittering wraps ,do not suffice
the unabated anguish, many a
dithyrambic songs of ‘ I love you,’
‘ I love you’ do not fill the pages
Of books, not in empty stares
and looks, not in brooks and rivulets,
Love’s anguish in eternal waiting
If found to be honest and sincere.

Today

To day

Today dawns not with the message
of a Messiah, nor with the vociferous
counsel of a seasoned wiseacre,
Today dawns not , the loudspeakers
Over the Radio, announcing the
Weather forecast, not even the
Thunderous clouds quaking over the
Dimmed sky, not with the baby
Squalling in the cloth cradle,
Today dawns With the milkman
Failing milk and cans at the doors,
A multiple disappointment for
the eager many, a custom
Cannot be a abrogated,
Today dawns with the LIVE
TELECAST OF TSUNAMI over
TV , a timely warning for many.

New Love

New Love
It is not the ancient , time honoured ,
Universal Love of God , merging with
devotional path of absolute Sacrifice,
in the perpetuated creamy layer
of ardent rituals and rigour unpolluted,
after tireless churning ,the Divine verdict
appears either in watchword or catchword,

I t is the fashionable New Love
for the negation of God or
Impregnating Godhead into
many mundane forms and
unethical visions : IT is the nomadic
New Love that is high-minded
mocks at the old or weaves
multiple layers of questions,
ending up in unanswered or
answerless quandary.

Bartering

Bartering
Your mind forays by the restless beach,
Sheets of water with seagulls serenade,
ever since the Creation, gyration goes on,
tired you are, mind seeks a solace,
Untiring waves, booming with a challenge
Of roar, still , there is a stillness silencing
the vicinity, in around , childish,

silly questions surge with rocking waves,
Can you separate salt , can you drain water
Of the deep, can anyone measure the age
Of the ocean? Tremor from the Midsea, Deep-sea
Is the only pliable answer,
Foot draws sketches on the sand,
Bartering goes on.

Pain.

Pain
Pain looms large, a macabre
figure in front of you, causing a
frightening tremor around you,
pain is no longer a pain
until you know the cause of it,
pain befriends sadism , for
together they want to tap you,
sapping your patience,
pain is continual, tapping
different doors , by quirks
elsewhere, by its whims and fancies,
no balm can cure its
obduracy, pain’s vicious mind
is cool, calculative , not
knowing the meaning of pain,
it pains , it pains, it rains.

Escape

Escape
Escape is a word which escapes our mouth
just as air escapes our nostrils , inevitable,
Children also crave to escape from
the cartload of bags and baggage and
the trauma of gruelling examination.
Today humanity struggles, unable to escape
from the hubris of flamboyance,
mounting environmental hazards
crop up, winding and wiping mankind,
there is no escape from this sad , mounting
pollution and personal incarceration
of this body ,foppery ,yet soul escapes
when time comes to its predestined
abode, since we cannot escape from
this notation of birth and death.

Dying

Dying
You see glowing embers,
setting sun in front of you,
You melt along the last flicker of the candle,
Dying, a fear, a feeling , a repression ,
You run a trigger, you see yourself obsolete,
In you runs a shiver, gnawing you,
A sense of thrown garbage,
a bundle In the corner, you disown you,
panic gripping you, the final call, you introspect,
what will be like my final journey?
I want to hug close my children,
Who will take care of them?
What will happen to the door
that will bar me from this floor?
What will happen to the entropy ,
to the cacophony?
I shake, why this sense of doom?
Let me be done with
when my eyes are closed in sleep.

In my happiness is my grief

In my happiness is my grief.

In my happiness is my upsurge grief,
for it propels into many ifs
and superfluous whys and the
lasting happiness quirks back
if I am otherwise , caught in the Web,
what would have been my predicament?
I continue to ponder, what would
happen had I been a lone tree,
had I been a marooned ship,
for the insurmountable surging
acrobatic like misdeeds weighing
heavily upon us, once, for decades
shaped in twists and debacles, and even now,
but, at least an awareness , a solution
creeps, manna like Divine Succour:
again veering round to the
recent phenomenon, a question,
puzzling, sensible grief, grief.

Memories

Memories.

Seasons may come and go
In succession of each like
the legal heirs in
long, unbroken thread of dynasty,
leaving their reprints in blossoming
buds, flowers, chirping buds,
buoyant youths in singing merry tunes,
thick in laid woody forests,
cottons, autumnal leaves ,ice flakes,
frozen rivers , deserted tents,
all in cycles, recycling pattern,
but memories do not leave us
that easily, cling to us as children
to mothers, as nations to histories ,
they tend to monopolise some
corner of our minds , hearts, asserting
in bouts and feelings :
Those memories can be cobwebs,
which you tend to brush aside
with a strong brush of determination,
but your brain clings to them as
inevitable episodes to sprout forth,
some memories can be candelabrum,
ever glowing and could be torch bearer .

If God’s Memory is not strong,
His Boons are not effectual,
Who knows what are the
Banes of His Memory?

On charity

On charity
If you are poly vocal about
every act of charity to the needy,
if you are vociferous about the
donations you made to the poor,
if you are going to calculate
every rupee offered , expecting
in return ,often and often ,
it is nothing short of mean,
if the act of charity ,stems
not from your heart but out of
compulsion , devoid of compunction,
it is no longer an act of charity,
but only publicity.

First love

First love
A mother’s first love is her imparting
A blissful kiss on the tender New BORN,
Nestling of the chicks for the birds,
Act of unbounded first love,
Cow licking the forehead of the
New born calf,
His first love for His Creations
Forgetting and forgiving,
His Children’s misdemeanour:
Love, His first love extends
in giving a long rope,
You have often reiterated that
Our First LOVE ought to be
towards singing His Glory,
Act of Immense Gratitude.

Fire
God the universal proprietor
With His Supreme Magic Wand
Visionary Sight , designed Five Elements,
This fire ! fire! Fire!
It was the congenial Fire in Prometheus
that made him steal fire from the gods,
it is the fire in every house hold that
welcomes the morning with breakfast
a bonhomie and nourishing wakeup call,
it is the fire that propels many of us
to gorgantine goals and accolades,
it is the unabated fire, the gruelling ire,
distraught with anger and wrath,
Gods have wrought nullification
On the earth, it is the Fire,
Fire, that engulfs humanity when in dire.

The Heart

The Heart.
The heart is congealed like a
huge rocky stone
on the edge of a hill,
no palpitation, no murmur,
no blood clot, yet reason,
compunction, deserting
to a desert ,dry mound,
Many a time we try to
Salvage the desiderata,
The heart functions normal,
Its dysfunctional core
Stupefies some of us,
It is the Heart of Many.

The wind

The Wind
It is the rustling wind that sweeps
in and around you, romping with romance,
Soothing like a sooth sayer,piercing your
Creative aura weaving a lullaby of
Tranquil bay , it is the same wind
bewitching the curtains as if by
necromancy, waving along the
printed figures ,
it is the same phonic wind
ruling the windpipe making
your vocal cords vibrate,
it is the same wind that emanates
musical notations through the
bamboo’s gaps and eglantine flute,
it is the gorgantine proportions of
the sweeping wind that rules
our Universe from the first day
of Eternal creation.

Fashion parades---

Fashion parades---
Silk and cotton saris , hand
and mill woven, synthetic
designer and printed all
showcased,a belle, a model,
fashion parades,

hangers throng with loose jackets,
sleeveless and long hands ,
shorts and panties ,in heaps,
T-shirts and free size numbers,
fashion parades,

in public places, in private chambers
there is a fashion parade of
signatures –all forged in varieties,
a fashion parade of sins,
Sins in multiple signatures .

Solitude

Solitude.
In the crisp and tender Dawn,
when you enjoy the bliss of solitude,
ponder at the mythical mystery of creation,
A state, where no love ,no hate ,no loss,
but absolute abnegation of the Self;
a much sought after Awakening.
You see clarity in the chirping of the birds
Seek solution for myriad unanswered queries,
treading a path , in search of an Identity,
Still you feel unidentifiable, yet an extreme step,
A goal ,no wonder why sages gone on Penance.

What poetry is to me...

What poetry is to me......

Poetry is the verdant ivy
in my blooming garden,
A mythic metaphor innate
from the umbilical cord
of creativity fused with spontaneity
lasting down to your final
journey, a visionary landscape
painted by the dexterous strokes,
poetry the embodiment of unique
messages culled from experiences,
empathy, euphoria, eglantine moods,
also the tale of unyielding,
uncompromising Destiny;
byzantine path in search of relief.
Real poetry is gyrating from within
by the wheel of Divine serenity .

She takes off now

She Takes off now.
There are so many
like the livestock
in the common shed,
meeting, pretending and hating,
munching the cud
of gossip, a non stop
calumny , ruminate the
sin of runaway,
Her runaway,
She is on the RUN WAY
The INDE RRRRR ...... NATIONALLY PUBLISHED
For writing is her passion,
ENGLEEEESH teacher, anglophile,
Takes of f now,
She is veering on the run way
Takes of f soon.