Feather Touch

         Feather  Touch

I   am in the middle of a poem,

Typing  fast,  alphabets   are in  a  quandary,

for  a   change, this  time   uniquely

different :  ideas first, delectable  

and   a  dish  of  marmalade ;

could  be  a   pickled  jar, sour  and hot,

unless  your  taste   bites  crave for  this.

 title  next,  rummage  through  the 

stubborn   storage called   Mind,

my  note book  fritters ,jubilant,

euphoric,  ebullient  quill   peeps,

peacock   feather, prismatic , 

a  book mark , a  feather touch

from  my   nocturnally   more  active   MUSE,

fecundity, efficacious,   pours on.

Awesome Revelation.

                       Awesome    Revelation.

Pages   fritter, freak  and  free play;

Days   and   months  and  years  roll on;

They    elusively  seem    only   on papers ,

mechanical   and  careless ,

yet inerasable   imprints in hearts,

intractable  thimbles, moorings,

Casablanca   and   cleavage   paving

their  delved   roots:

Outdated   sheets  on the calendar

get   demoted  to the overflowing bin.

It is a   mystery how a cerebellum

Retains    so  much,

 Storage  in  delicate   tissues.

 Five  decades  of  mischievous

glee  and   manoeuvre,

splashes  of murky  puddles,

getting   thwarted  all ,

not by  yo-yo but   by  a 

Cosmic   vision   of    ubiquitous

Spirit,  halcyon  and  impartial,

Yet, both  play  yo-yo

In   full  uncontrolled   vigour.

Faith

  

                  Faith .

Faith    sits  demure,

Unusually   impoverished,

Slowly   decreasing

  in  a  corner ,like

 a  deflated   balloon,

Insignificantly   viewed,

Now   a   whimpering, corrugated

CD, whines, shrieks ,

‘I  am assaulted  with  a

mangled   tooth    of

sceptical   questioning,

 a  bogey  of   detrimental

spirit delving  my  arena,

my   garden  of  Eden 

is  haunted,  hunted.

Now   I am  a   sloth,

No longer  a  Faith’.

Grief.

       Grief.

It is the Grief of God

that   His  Own  Creations

Outsource   His   well wrought

Cosmic   Strategy :  do you think

They  are ,  unmalleable ?

He  seems  to  query  

Reclining   in   His  Abode

From   where  he   views   from

His  Seamless  vision,  those

deviants   and  defiant

in   His own   vast  soil of

 eruptions.  Yes. Tsunami 

befriending    lava , magma     are

  to    reshape  them

in   their  karmic   knots  of  

deeds   and   dooms .

His  conch  blows.

Book to hook you..

                  Books to hook   you.....

There   they are, dispossessed

Of   their rightful masters,

 emit   a   gibberish smile,

colorful   books, spiral binding,

Some    resplendently   laminated,

Some   pages   are  abominably    torn,

Others,   Thickly   bound, voluminous,

Usurp   three fourths   of the

Mahogany    table, sterling and polished,

I am hooked  or  books  are

Booked  by my  thirst   for  knowledge,

They  crave to be restored

to  their lawful  abode,

 to their  abode of  freedom,

yearn   their  manumission.

A spirit---He is

          A spirit -  He  is  ....

 He is  with the pain and relief

 Of the agonised sickly  and recuperating ,

  Some  desperate, helpless, wheeled   

In the assistance to the  wash  basin,

He is  with  the ward  boy 

In the uniform   and cap,

Sweeping the corners

Brushing   the  cotton   and

 Blood  stained   sponges,

He is  with the  Cross   hanging

On the wall  by the  Star,

Magically  winged  is  He,

He  inspects  the   labelled

Vials  with   bitter   tablets ,

He   permeates  the  slippery

Mosaic   floor, prevents some

Falling,  connives  with  many:

He  is  also    inarguably       with

 those  breathing last.

The Baby.

                   The   Baby

Imbibing   the  cosy  warmth

Within      protective    tender walls,

God    infuses    His ordained  

Breath  into the tender balmy,

Careless  and   gyrating   inside,

Its  eyes  closed , soon to

Open  in the   shaggy ,cruel world,

Kicking   the   mother from within,

kick bats  in the near future,

sometime   or the other,

once the flower  blossomed,

mother  pours kisses unbounded,

Kisses  are  simply  Blessings,

The  spongy baby  sleeps,

  Innocence   sleeps, sleeps.

This Life a blotting paper....

                         This  life  a   blotting  paper....

            This Life, a    big  blotting  paper,

             Stares : a   booming   necessity,

             has  to be   : aside  otherwise  white

             pages retain    figures, neat  and distorted, 

             meticulous   sketches, portmanteau

             portrayal. One  blotting sheet  goes

            to  the bin,  you  deftly  get   another

              from   the slot,  stack  is  suave   

             and  smiles  assuredly,  

             as if  a   smart  rejoinder,

            ‘  me   indispensable  ally'

             

Karmic debt

       Karmic   debt.

In  my  oblong  shaped  balcony,

The  mud pot   bears fragranced  bosom,

wears  a  thick  garb of  clustered

leaves, pruned by its  wary  caretaker,

polished  courtship with the sun’s  rays,

yields  Karmic  debt –serenading flowers.

It is full of ire.

           It is  full of  ire.

 Denied    its due respect...

 It  is   full  of  ire.

I get  up   and face to see

It   Is in full   ire,

It sits   dogmatically

On my silvery, shining,

  Four burners gas oven,

It  is in the tip of the

Gas  lighter,  lurks

Amidst    the   spooky

 Colourful  match sticks,

Cosy within the box,

It is devoid of any fire,

It is full of  ire,

For it is drenched

 inadvertently in water.

A second voice

A   Second voice.

After  so many  whyness   of whys

You  plod  along, simply  swallow

the   unanswered   questions :

the   passing  brooks, the  foamy,

 healing ,  waterfalls  acclaiming

their   uniformity   and unanimity,

fast  moving  lilies  that  bade  good bye,

rustle of  leaves, ever wrestling  mankind,

you    look  up  the    blue  azure , majestic,

canopy, folding  and   unfolding  many a

dark   secrets   and   mysteries,

is  it  the  heaven  that  the 

time   honoured  have branded?

Or  the    twinkling  stars the  

Unaccounted, unreachable,

By  choice  or  by  no choice,

 Untimely departed   ones

take   refuge   in time  and   again? 

Oft  you  were  besieged  by

A compelling gruelling   pontifical   ordeal,

‘ to shuffle off  this   mortal coin’

 to be  zeroed to  a  further  void,

not  a  gruesome  yet welcome

death wish, a wistful  desire to

end   death  and  dearth  in  life,

A crane   by the close by pond

as  if   in a  penance  presages,

‘Wait  and  watch more drama’.

  

Flowers

           Flowers

Humming birds   hone   a sweet rhythm,

 serenade:   twittering  sparrows

hang   around  in the Hope  emanating Dawn,

but  no  blooming  flowers in my  garden,

but   only sinking   buds   in the  mud ,

bitten   by the cruel  frosty hands  of 

shrivelling   Winter,

the   half   lived   stems

crave  for  the  warmth,

looking  upwards, what else

they   could do? Where  else

they expect ? could it be from

mostly self centred  humanity?

Trees  know  better.