Monday, January 31, 2011

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.

Friday, January 28, 2011

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Outdated   sheets  on the calendar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.




Monday, January 24, 2011

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’.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

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.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

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.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

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.





Tuesday, January 18, 2011

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.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

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'
             

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

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.


Monday, January 10, 2011

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’.





  

Saturday, January 08, 2011

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.