Surfacing on the Internet. 5-7-5 poem

Surf word on the web Singularly velvety Poetry on flow.

This good American Dream

This   good  American  Dream      

This    good nourishing American Dream

Of   copious  blooming like  Spring’s            

Freshness   singing  lullaby.

You  go  to  the rivulet  gurgling 

With  sound  as your  tiny  brass

Pot  gets filled, you  allow the

Tiny   innocent stream of   fish

With  glowing  fins  go  back

To  their   fluid  abode,          

Your  dream  visits  you    often:

There is this   mad  detractive   hurry,

rueful  run   into  the   moving  bus,

cling  to  the  rusted pillar

crumble   to  pieces,                     

Itch  on the skin , for 

Some .  scratches  are  too  many.

  

Tracking fast.

Tracking  fast

 I  look  through  the window,        

Green trees,  move  along,

Look  as if  they  run  away

From   mound   of  fire

Which  is   spreading   fast,

Proud  of   its  powers

 gifted  with  copious , 

Enriching ,destroying ,  life.

Cows on  the graze,

Cattle  bent  on the dried  grass

Popping   up in the fields;

The  train  speeds   past

rumbling    fast on the 

Curvature of tracks,

holding     many passengers

with trackless records of

memories, anecdotes , their

angst  dominating them,

I   too  carry  my  heavy  heart,

affected  by  the  see saw 

rumbles    honing   against

my poetic  voice  within.

I    open up  my  precious  page

In   the   bulky voluminous   note

Book  of  recordation  where  I  

 Scribble,  pour  my  heart’s content,

For  some  times   in  the  train,

Voiceless ,   the  bulky

Note book  served   as my pillow,  

Whispering   silent    notations

Into  my  half-conscious  ears;

I  revel  on my  improvisation:

Life  is    for   improvisation   at  times,

Train   speeds   past  doing   its  duty.                          

In the garden

In  the  garden.

While    the wintry  beds are

agog  to  bid  farewell ,  when

the  season   is  taking  the

last   breath, the  frosty leaves

creepy  on the  wet  land,

some crumble, some  roll on

in   clusters  like coils

to  the  corner of  the wall,

beyond which there is no

move for  that is the line

of   boundary , gentle  rays

of  Sun like  the  supple

limbs  of   New born ,

you  are  the loner ,

no,  not  yet    birds  to  chirp ,

you look  up to  the skies,

slowly  clearing  as if  to

answer  the  muddied ,

infecting , inflecting  cosmic

visions, still  the wet

smell of the soil  is invigorating,

wet  is  a  must,

that  wet  craves

in   man’s  heart,

you  are  the  loner.

I can only laugh at their folly.

     I can  only  Laugh  at  their    folly

I   can  only  laugh  at  their   treacherous

Villainy   of  folly  blinded  by  vile  avarice

going  to  land them  in quagmire

Of   retribution ; can  I call it

Incarceration of Souls, their souls

Cuffed  by  masquerading  fears

Of  uncertainty, Devil’s upper hand

Unseating   those; they   go into  Hiding.

Sun  creeps in   as if  bursting

 of clouds ,generously warming up:

quick   bouts of  Revelation.              

I'll be fine

           I’ll be fine

The  wintry  buds  in my  garden

Bid   goodbye  to  the  chilly  morn

and  slow  farewell to

  the  repressive  season;

this  cold  keeps  a  thug

attitude  on  my shoulder, 

papers  on the  table

fritter   and partake of

the  surrounding  chillness,

my  quill  is  yet steady

in   its  recordation,

a  bohemian   tempo,

 Summer’s   big  bonanza

the  golden  rays  peep in,

warm  up  my room                   

I’ll be fine  soon.

                                                           

The triumphant trio

     The   triumphant     trio            

One  is  chiselling  with  acute   vision

Malleable   plank  is   shaped  into  His will

Infusing  breath   with karma.

The  Second  is   ever  wielding

His  unique  umbrella ,shields  the

Wards  of His  meticulous  care.                                   

The   Third   is   relentless, His   axe is

Shining   and unswerving;

He  is   The  Timer.

What goes out, what comes in.

    What goes out, what comes in

   This hospital,   This  cot  ungrudgingly 

    accustomed   to many  like   me,

    the osteoporosis  inhabiting    many,

     the  wailing, overloaded   basket

     in   the   corner  awaits  the arrival 

     of  the  cleaner, clad   in  uniform

     bored  and  battered, doctor’s  chart

     determines  no   early   discharge,  a   week

     more  for   this  weak  bones’ asylum,  

     what  goes  out  is  the  use d  hypodermic ,

      cotton  soaked in    blood cots,

      what comes  in  is     the  Hope,

       smile  in  the  face  of  doctor.