In the busy throb of ..

     In  the  busy  throb of  .....

In  the  busy  throb of  vociferous

Humanity’s    hubbub, a  claptrap,

Or  a  congregation  of  wilful  ,searching,

Scrutinizing,   assertively   defensive   or

Obnoxiously   offensive  groupism ,   or

Garrulity,you  bypass  the  cute  cat  or

The terribly  innocent    bleating 

Ram ,select   a  secure   corner to

Ruminate  the Universe ,governing

Laws of the  Magnum opus of  God,

The   architect:   you  also  peer  into

blinding  realities  just  as the blinds

that  are  drawn  during  curfew;

here  there is  no  curfew;

you  drink  the   juice of   consolation

but  for  THE  UNSEEN,

you  would  have  been  SEEN in

bits  and   pieces.

It is catching.....

           It  is  catching...

You   are    seated   in  the

Centre  of   the    bash  convulsions

Of  the   knocking  ,turbulent  Times,

 NOT  the   invigorating

  Bermudas  islands,  cruises,

You  were  in the  core  of  the

Rut  not knowing the sinister   roots,

You   have  sufficiently  lived 

Through the  irate  chamber of  

Iglood  ,isolated  ignorance,

Now,    You  live through the  rut ,

View   silently  the  mad  desire  like

 the  bubonic   plague   Catches  ,

countless  are the  wilful  victims ,

wait  and  watch  how long  the

ironic    fire , dire,  spreads,

it  catches, catches ,like  a

bubonic plague.

Through the troubled Times....

Through  the  troubled  Times....

Through  the   Troubled   and  Troubling Times,

not  yet  completely  through,   most  of  us

  surf through, at times even trapped by

the  slimy   pond  of intricate  ,clumsy   quagmire,

what  quaint  essential   full   moon ,or

   amber  in the  westward sun or the

 fringes of   the brook  could  pass

on  us    for   a  relief , or  cessation of 

our  teething   or  thrust  upon  convulsions  :

devoid of  compunctions , these  corrugated

 tin   sheets   mangle  and   manipulate ,

foils, they  are,  ever  agitated,

 or  even  foxed  or  bamboozle    tricks ,

These  already   Perforated  upswings

Or   openings    still  hang on,

Surfing, undaunted ,  goes  on  until

You   reach  a  perspective  shore.

Shadow of what?

Shadow  of    what?

Summer  like  a  militant    soldier  sets in,

Counteract   the  drooping  winter’s

Grim, falling  visage,   the hot

Pellets  of  heat  waves  barge in,

Somewhere   the  dog’s  bark  ,

Barking  of  man’s  seemingly  

 effulgent, arrogance,  it is  a

a  sepulchral  voicing of   seedy

happenings, unchecked,

my  key board    cravingly

looks   on for certitude

of   typing  and tapping,

somewhat  like  a  shadow

of  crow   peeps in ,

hop skips on the letters,

may  be  the  Soul  of  a

good hearted , long  ago

forgotten, reminds me the

cruelty  of the world ,

“ awake  always, else

You   are in for clean burial.”

  

Imagine how a girl in teenage would be...

Imagine   how    a    girl   in   teenage    would be....

              Just  a  parody  in first person.

My  semi –transparent  gown

Projecting   my  oily, perfumed  skin,

I  would   up  from  my bed

At  nine  in the morn, drooping

Eyelids   still   longing for  sleep

In the Dunlop  ordering for  a

Dunlop  cheese cake  and a  hot

Brewing  cup of  coffee  from

My housekeeper, my  lingerie

Helpless in the corner , in the

Basket  craves a   wash,

A  French bath  or  not   what

Does it mater   for the  ever

Perfumed  skin,

Percolation   of  a  juice  from

A  transparent  china  glass  through

My deft  nail polished  fingers,

Delicate not to spill it on  my

Just   donned ,glowing,                                                                                                             

Shiny,    Velvet   tea shirt,

Adjust  my  bobbed  hair

Which  bristle out  like

Pop ups  or  prying  looks

 What  happens in the next door,

I am out  in my  car

With   Agatha  Christie ,

Say   a  hurried  good bye

to  my   house  keeper,

for  my  parents  in heaven

Long ,long ago.

    

How Spring comes....

             How  Spring   comes...

She  brushes  the  thimbles of   chilly

Autumnal     turmoil,

Wafts  the  fragrance of  rose  and

Earth’s  lovely  child  of  Grass

Nodding,  beckoning lark’s

Warm  notes to  touch  the  ground

for   a  while,  to make   the  sweet

melody  reachable to  man’s unkind

ears,  for   he  droops  to pick up

coins  of  pebbles , searches  shillings

and   pounds  amidst wasteful     

wet  sands of   decay,

Spring’s  blooming  flowers

Assay,  ‘’look up!

Look  at us, we  are  the

Timely therapy, we are

God’s   plenty’’,

Spring   is  the  candelabrum

to  dispel  the   dingy

mushroom  growth of  

negative   ambition,

She  is  the   pure  white   Dame, 

She is the   sprightly

Dame   Luck. Come   quick.

A speck of Spectrum

                       A  speck   of     Spectrum

I hear karma  wailing   in  some

Inner   rings  of outer walls,

The  ding dong   of  some local

Temples,  the   solemn chapels,

The  bird chirping on the roofs

Of   village   mounds  or the

Calling  bird’s   lifelike   notations,

For  there is  a  mark of  irreligious

Note  or    quirk  of  fate creeping,

You   turn   the   mosquito net

Outside  in, the   bucket of water

discoloured  , disfiguring the 

White  tiled   floors, you  are

Dismayed, that is the colour

Of the Heart of  Man ,

Possessed  by  the Devil.

All the same

     All  the  same  now

A  life, grass,   brick and   mortar,

Bunch of  weeds under the stone,

Crumbled    to   the core,   crushed

Beyond  the identity, all  the   same

  feelings   are  feline , to  topple us ,

our  feelings  gone, they  are

 only  realings as  long  as they 

are   our   sufferings,  start  counting

innings,  you  are  outscored,

This    Life, this    filmy   gossamer,

A  gauzy   cup  of    lure,

Devouring    many .

She peeps in

  She    peeps   in

 Osiris   smiles in my  sprightly    garden,

The   rose  buds  are proud ,reciprocal,

Recipients   of  warmth   and  honour.

I sit  with  Ginsberg’s   HOWL , a page

to  fan   me , not to  howl me,

  Slowly  the  heat   subsides,

Dog star  recedes  with a 

Look  of   expressed defeat.

It is  now past    six.

As   I drew  the delicate  blind,

the  artistically  woven  printed

frills  of  the   yellow   curtain  fritter,

 waves   a   salient    good bye   

 to the   gubernatorial  Sun:

Queen  Moon  enters,  quiet,

assisted   by  lucid  ,tranquil  charm, 

To   spy  my  writing   desk.

The  glow  of  mouse

Lurks into  nothing.

A stone throw

                              A   stone throw

A   tiny stone  toss   and    throw

At    a   throb    nest  of    crows,

chicks    cosy   and   nestle  within,

 sudden  flutter  and  disturbed ,

cacophony of  harmony  :

a  planned, meticulous  array

of    words    hurled  at  many,

stagnant    for  years   roomy

inerasable , like  sediments   

and    clay not   a   matter  of   guffaw,

even   times  take  their  own   sweet  

time  to   redeem   this     macabre   awe .

     

Of that thing that is called Death.

  Of  that  thing  that is called Death..

Oh, of that   Death, which is the end of Life,

Of  what you call the  extinction   of body  not of  Soul,

The  time honoured  belief  exists,

for   the Soul  transmigrates

to a  different   entity  or  preordained  zone,

oh!   of   death , the cessation  of  life  breath, 

for some  the end of sufferings and   torture,

some  willingly  crave, some    brave,

how  you  knock  on the door, how  you

depart,    imperceptible  , you  are 

calm    as   sedate    or   as  disturbing,

and   sweepingly   dangerous  as   volcano,

you     are   in a   solution,   you  are  in  vial,

your   ancestry is   bugging  mystery  and

your    smile  of  victory  is  inhuman  cruelty.

" Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive".

“ Bliss  was   it    in that  dawn to be alive”

“Bliss  was  it   in that dawn to be alive”

But   Now     to be  alive is to  be   trapped in the

Quagmire  of  peevish  slush  and   slump

Of   vampire of  Desire  eating   the  most,

 also    Prurient  who  in turn    aim the

 Wicked   arrows of   Greed  and  garnished

Garb  of    pomp  and  show  on the

helpless    passerby,

Here  Life is  deadwood, deadwood,

Overweighed yet  with  onerous   issues,              

Half eaten  by  cankering  worms,

Floating ,drifting   aimlessly,

you   also  helpless,  set  aside    rotten piece,

You  are  just  a    Swan  calm and cool

Brooding  in the waters ,allowing

the    watercourse   in its  own way;                                                                                  

“ Bliss  was  it in that dawn to be alive”,

But  to  be  alive   now  is to  crave 

for  a   peaceful  corner, serene  and spotless,

There   are   many  to     Sap

  the   string  of   action     their    beneficial   turn,

 You want to draw  the  curtain

 In the middle   of  the   theatrical  show ,    

  oh! “ Bliss  was  it in that dawn to be alive”.