Yes! it is endless

                                                       Yet, it is endless....                            

                                                      

                                            It is   summer’s end,

                                            Slow  breeze  as  hesitant

                                             as  the  unwilling,

                                           Whimpering of   this life,

                                            Morning   fresh  showers

                                           as  throbbing  as

                                          the   wake up  call,

                                           in my  chilled  room

                                           and   my  cosy  corner;

                                          the   fallen    leaves 

                                          as if dissociated  from

                                         their  no cognisant   stems

                                         search  a  haven on the  land;

                                         how  many  walk upon 

                                         merciless  on those

                                         deserted ,lonely, vagabonds,

                                        another   whiff of  autumnal

                                       force, the  heaps  are

                                        driven desperate  to a  corner.

                                     

A room of one's own

 A room of  one’s own

 Something   stares    back on me

as if  a    bamboozled,wandering ,

looking  at what?           

 The  murky   smell of dust,

Like  irreconcilable

Sediments, unswept layers

Of   deep-rooted , pain inflicting  

Cogitations thronging   those  many,

The  smell of  tea , otherwise aroma,

Puffs of smoke emanated  two days  ago

Scary  flies  today  mercilessly swarm,

The  broken pieces of ‘’Fa’’                          

Edge  the   shiny ,polished  table,

exotic   fragrance is dissipated,

pile of  uncollected ,multi  magazines

crave my  touch and glance  quick,

jasmine, breathless ,dethroned

from   their  stem,

my    being    away   for  two days,

it is not room of  my own.

                

Her diary

 Her    diary.

Holding  a  diary  not  as slim

as  her,   walks,    entwined  with   her

bulk ,  tumbles  upon  a  stone,

moorings , usually  strengthening,

what ?   the Devil’s  deep seated  tent:

flamboyant   , wanton,

  questionings: they  are

the  deadwood   in front  of  her,

at the end of  the  day

  they   are  the  strangles ,

tightening ropes ,

sceptical  about  the  Universe ,                

her  diary  scribbled with 

perplexities , she  un mutes  her

hitherto silenced  voice, how 

long  to be  a  thrall  to this

gruelling  monster  within?

Scoffs   the   ruling  passion

Of  notes  in a  pond  nearby. 

de language of kids (txtspk poetry)

    De  language of  kids.

De  language of kids is   play ,

Pranks,    assemble , 2   ensemble,                                        

a   release  of  their  word play

wth  imagination.         

De  language of  Gd’s   is  also

Divine ,ply ,                    

  apply    patience  

 release    wth   penetration.