Time's precious Gift and Legacy.

            Time’s   precious  Gift and  legacy.

When  you  and   I count  Time,

Yonder  many welter in the 

fleeting  time’s see-saw games,

unawares   Time  dispossess  them,

as  those  that  set  the time for

my   vanishing times, not

knowing that  ERE,

 their countdown  begins,

while  I was  gored by

 the timed tycoons , yes  they

 are unconscientiously  

tied  up to their knots of

their own  doings, their

times’ collocations,

convulsions of our Times,

litany  goes  on  nearby.

An  inner  Voice ,good augurs,

The  Times  Ahead are Propitious:

The  Timely Advent of my Mentor,

 Avatar,  sacrificial  icon,

MY Times’ Boon,

Thoughts..

            Thoughts.         

Oh! I see  many  with  a  soft  texture:

   yet    these  Machiavellian  thoughts,

Macbeth’s    colourful  attire of ambition,

For  cankering    power  and  lust  for  greed,

Lady   Macbeth’s    a    little  water,

 running   simply, as  simply

as  the  unattended accident

 victim’s  blood   flows  on the

main  road,  crowd  merely  a

watcher on,  for   law  ,  Law 

is  larger than Life, what to do?

Days  and stringent  laws  are

Like that:  Most  of us are

In  Hamletian     dilemma,

Dilemma  continues,

 for  many things  in  night

and  day  shifts:

How long, don’t know.

Some Essentials you experience

       Some     Essentials   you  experience

A t the  end of  the   Day’s  resilience

for   you  are  comfortable   with your  Muse,

though   Dusk   and  tedium  for  some

 revel with  musk   and matter, 

the  printer  in the corner  like

a  preaching  Messiah,

professes   with  the   black   materials,

you   are  alone  by yourself,

in the  grid of  contemplation,

rustling  wind   a   therapy,

mewing   cat  a  companion

in the  dead of  night,

exhaled   breath   in the void,

meaning this  flesh   one  day

or  another  inevitable

 to merge with the

 embers  or  to  get

 reduced   to    ashes,

you  type   fast,

as  fast  as the  bestial 

that   goes  on  outside. 

To my daughter unreal..

                    To  my  daughter  unreal

A  noon  siesta, delectable,

Summer   showers, the  fixed  swing

In the   big  marble  hall  always  sings,

Swings,    a    lullaby , a  coda 

to  your  musical   soft

 notations   within   yourself.  

She  whizzes  past  around  me

 like  a   butterfly, in  full  throb,

propels  me  to play blind man’s buff,

a  ribbon  band to  cover my eyes,

a  childlike  command  to  imagine

myself    a   band of  Not    seedy

observers   and   participants.

A  bang  at the door, a   knock

gyrating within  myself to see

my  play mate,  my butterfly,

I wake up to  see  a  doll

nodding  its face, to  and fro:

I wake up  to  see this

Void  around me,

 Charlatan  and   some

  still in torpor.

The  doll  in  silk 

Is  active  yet.                                                                                                         

This Mad Desire

                      This   Mad  Desire

This   desire  rubs ,

This  mad desire  runs 

like  triggered  lion on

Perfumed   oily , supple  skin,

The invincible  Desire, the  Oleander

Permeates,plays  not niggardly,

 Karma   irrefutable  stands

and  stares,  unmistakably:

I too  am  part  and parcel

Of the  painful  jamboree,

Karma  says  and    drawn 

With  the  self   abnegating  grudge.

A Gift for Valentine's Day.

        A   Gift  for  Valentine’s  Day 

Unfolded   stories   with    prognostic

twists  and turns, not    furtive ,

colourless , dreams  of  today

heaped  up  in  senseless  moorings,

underneath    my frilled     pillow ,

those   wet tears  salty, irate,

roll  on   to  remember  me  to

a  tomorrow   with   a  nugget  

of   chance , change, a  tranquil  alcove.

This Seamless Happening.

This   Seamless Happening

This   happening  is  happening ,

Seamless    from within,

Picturises    the    horrendous  outside,

I see  kids  see-saw  in the  play  area,

Some  light  happening  for them too,

go  up   and down,  a  thrill,  a  jubilation,

Many   a   somersault     here   and  there,

to    topsy  turvey   the  shaped ;

the   Lighthouse   from  afar and

 the  ship quizzical, mystery  of the waters,

vanish with  a  faint     glimmer,

queen  Moon  shines, on the  shingles too;

countless   sands   wear  a   ghost like

hopeless  to  redeem this wretched

humanity coiling in  a   falsified

arrogant ,uncompromising   notions

that  beguile  all, dehumanising  

 to the  core  , the chagrin of   it all.

Everywhere  it is happening,

Happening  beyond  our perception,

Happenings  you  and   I cannot  thwart,

Happenings you  and    I  only  can  witness,

This   happening  is  happening ,

Seamless    from within,

Romance

                       Romance

In  the  shadowed   evening’s  receding  attire,

The   gardener’s  pail   sprinkles   cool on soil

glands, the  oranged   saffron  on the western

horizon, bidding  farewell    now--   for the next morn’s

tender  advent :there  is  a touching  Romance.

The   ash  coloured  Dove  and chirping  sparrows

On the half blossomed  red   roses and

  Chrysanthemums ,sit   and serenade,

Speak  in  a  language  sacred to  the  Above,

  there is  romping  Romance,

Sudden  summer  showers  merciful with

Open –hearted   mirth  descend   below,

wet the  carefree  and dancing bunches

 and  spooky  stems  as if to  exorcise the 

fear in them , there is  a  leafy Romance.

                                                                                                               

The  writer  with   passion  and driving

enthralled   force  ,pours  forth  her emotion

on the   craving  soil,  with slender sticks

stems, transplanting  her creativity

there is  a   poetic  Romance,

If I could...

               If  I could...

If   I could  follow  the Soul,

Happy, jejune, afflicted, or

Angst  ridden, whatever name

You  term   consequent  to

 the   libation,

 Soul’s Liberation, for  me

a   stringent  ordeal,

Faithfully, meandering

 Its ordained path,

If   only  I  could  predict

In   all  authenticity

And  veracity , the  Birth

After  The  Soul’s  sojourn  here,

If  only  I could measure the Journey,

The  specific  TIME and Distance,

If  I could  instil  Breath

In the  embryo , gyrating

 in the womb of  its   mother,                                         

I  would  be   an  extraordinary

NOT  an ordinary, Super Being,

But, then ,here  God  puts  a   definite

Check,   a   sure check post,

If  I  could  challenge   that  I 

Would   surpass this   sacred 

Impossible   jurisdiction,

My boundary  is sure to invite

Devil’s    Adjudication.

My First Day at School.

My  First  Day at School.

An   assemblage  at the  Prayer  Hall,

Blue  and white uniformed,

 in the  vagrant  and jubilant  morn,

Sure  to be  soiled  by the   busy   noon,

My  seniors  breathed in

  taunting  fear, discouraging  words;

For   some   tension, for most  

Homework  was  not  done,

A  must, corporal punishment,

Sure to  endure  a   nasty hasty

Kneel down, some  even swoon  down,

Hot  sun   and the  big  lecture

by the senior most matron

on the  dos  and donts;

I recollect boys  falling like

Hot pellets  or  coconuts,

Wooden  framed  slates  and

Slender  chalk pieces,

Most  innocent  elementary

Kids  use  their  saliva as

their  solution  to wipe

wrong  calculation,

bags  and  bags  and cartload

of  books   and  hurriedly rushed

syllabus  amidst  stand-up

on the bench, after  three  hours

of  bending and meticulous

writing, failures  for many;

 inexplicable  night mares;

tortures  by the  pricking

parents ,perpetuated

until the next  academic year.

In this vast amphitheatre

In   this   vast  amphitheatre......

In this vast  amphitheatre, the world,

encompassing  all, equally pretending,

it does not get old, ageless,

Icon    of    gyrating  paths,

grappling   all    that comes its way,  

you   and I    and  all ,  roll on

each  in the rhythm of our

doings  and   deeds,

oh! Karma, unsparingly  impartial,

 you  are the  wicked  also  vinegar ,

I am the  helpless  speck

Staring  at  the  charcoal  embers,

I cannot  dowse it peremptorily,

Ye, cinders  burn  and burn ,

whetted   by the  gushing   winds,

endlessly  burning  as man’s passion,

angst   ridden , mistakenly  crossed,

crossing  each other, you  are  the  fire,

you  are  the    universal  ire,

Here,  I am  submerged by the

Gauntlet of    your   verdict

already  set  as  the  stars  sun and  moon,

Ye,  cinders     burn  and  burn  ,

Till  the  pebbled   shores

Exceed   their    boundless jurisdiction.

Mother’s Itinerary.

                      Mother’s   Itinerary.

                As the glass  jar dutifully    contains

               My hot tea  to keep awake in the

                Still night tick ticked  by the  alarm,

                 Winks  at my  sagging   posture,

                I am   now in a   Disney  world,

                I am in  a   faraway   hugged by

                Sleep world, not embittered , not

               Sullied   by the deliberate   castigating  

               Of this  slam world, the world  also

               Seems to  sleep now.

                 Some feather  touch, serene ,sanguine,

                She draws  a, woolly   blanket,

                Prays my life  and living  be not

                Steered  by woolly  ways,

                 She  trains me  for  a  rock bed of

                 Untainted   civilisation :

               Yet  alarming  is  her wake up call

               with   a     brewing  cup of hot coffee.       

                Her   itinerary  is   time bound ,  timeless

                 Her  itinerary   is   flawless.