Can anything redeem those Innocence?

Connecticut Elementary School Shooting - Dec 2012 Poems

   A prayer,  a sad, painful   memory,

    a  candle  or  lamp  relives  your  life,

   also    those   departed noble  souls,

    silenced  into   suffering.

    The    bright   wick  of  lamp  glows,

   Fear  is  shed, pale   darkness

   recedes  like  a  defeated, dying  soldier.

  the illumined  glow  shines  

   as  if  with  a  warming  smile.

   But  this  to  stay  only

   a   short while .

 When  the  Dawn  of  Christmas  is  too  close,

 Those  innocent lives  are  also closed 

  To  be  opened  in   a  New  Haven,

 By  a  violent   trigger of   vile  bullet,

What  was    shed  was   Innocence,

What  was   cut short  was   tomorrow’s

Future  with  high  feats  and laurels:

What  blinds  those cruel with  calumny?

What binds those with wicked  treachery?

The  thread of Universal Peace

  and Harmony Is  jeopardized,

Can   anything  redeem  those

Innocence   and  lives precious? 

In God's Hands..

  In  God’s  Hands...

In  God’s  Hands,

His   Special   Green ,

The   Golden  parrot 

Of   future reading

  picks   tarot  cards,

My  karma  plays,

Gets  tuned   with 

Early , pristine  visage,

Your  karma  stays,

All  our   karma  relays:

In the amphitheater of 

This   arena, a   mirage,

All    get  shaped,

go timely sharpened

as  the  dexterous

potter’s  clay  moulded,

at  times  you  get

deluded  : But  His  third  Eye,

the strong  sustaining

wand,  pervasive  sturdy,

whirls    round  on the

cute  beak of  the Parrot.

It   plays  in God’s Hands.

Be true to your salt.

Be  true   to  your  salt.

On   New  Year   Eve

I  made  some  sweet  pudding,

Offered  to  God,

Placed  on  a sacred  plate,

It  looked  as if   THE Sacred  picture

Of  Avatar  spoke  by  intuition,

‘’Be  true  to each  and

 every  grain You   eat.’’

I took  some  grains 

And   sowed in my kitchen

Garden  tiny   cute   pots,

The  pots    looked   as

If  admonishing,

Be  loyal  to  the  farmer

Who   tills  the  land,

The   farmer beckoned me

The  land  :   ‘’  but  for  the 

Arable  land, His profuse,

I   wont  be here 

to  plough  and    cultivate’’.

I sowed   some  fertile

Seeds  to  germinate,

Seeds  advised  me

‘’ we   cannot even  breathe,

    We  look  to the skies 

   For  water  and  sunlight’’.

I looked  up  to  Heavens

The  sun, stars, moon

and  the  firmament  

chuckled: look  up 

we  are  all  created

by  HIM. THE   UNSEEN

Be  true  to  Him.

December wails or wheels?

December   wails   or wheels?

When   the   year  with    ups  and downs,

Wayward   sentiments    and   peregrinations,

Wandering   souls, coming to   a close,

The   final   month  December,  cool  with  its

 parting    crescendo of  jubilations  and  windfalls.

The   wool  to   cover  you   cool ,

The  close   jacket   speaks  of

Its  loyalty, or  servitude, of  how

Many  years  of   its allegiance.

The  hanger  blissfully     smiles.

You   unearth  the  pot  of  memories,

The   century  old  house your

Ancestors   lived    died, the  coffee mugs

Arranged  in order  on the   wooden  shelf,

The   warm  home  brewed  coffee  

Served  in the   big  mug in the  December  morn,

In  the  garden the   doves   in the  merry  swing,

Make  us  crave  for  the  same  comfort,

December  wheels   out the  departing   year.

Drooping    Leaves   and     Dew drops   shed  tears.

 

This is the city and my work at this space.

   This    is   the   city and my  work  at  this  space.

This   is   the  city   in the  December  Morn,

Where  the   creeping    dark  still  haunts   dawn,

Birds   cosy,   self-willed, in  their   nests,

Hot  water , old  fashioned  boiler ,still 

In   ancient   roofs, copper   shines,

Granma’s  sentiment and  ancestral  lineage

Works, still   occupies  a  space,

Cattle   and  cow   graze ,  slow ,

  Proceed  to    Steady  pace,

Some   still  in   bed,  yawn ,

With  s  sturdy  blanket   to

Cover   their face, craving   more  time .

This  is   the  city  in the   December   Morn,

 I  move  on   the  personal  computers,

Records  the  slow   whispering  dawn

and   the   crows   and   song birds 

start   their   free play   in the 

falling   clusters   cleaving   popping  

feathers   and  bones.

This   is   the  city  in  the  December  Morn,

Temple   priests    agile  with  Vedic  hymns,

And  the  church  bells  chime   in

Repeated    tunes    and   chores.

Ardent    devotees  in queue

to   collect   offerings   in 

sweet    puddings   and   food  packets.

This  is  the   city  in the  December  Morn,

Where   vessels  jingle  in  busy

House hold  , the  housemaids,

Housewives   rivet   their  bangles  

and  hands  to  edge  their  toils,

This  is  the   city  in  December  Morn.

I look at the full grown tree.

I look   at  the  full  grown  tree.

I  look   at the  verdant, lush green 

Dripping   to the  bottom of  the   stem

Or  the  deep roots, it  is  like  the

Nonagenarian   full   bent.

She   ambles  slow  and  steady.

The    embossing   full  green 

Speaks  of   ancient   galore,

Perpetuating   oneness  from

The  creator   and  the  entity,

Your  Soul’s  ongoing   journey,

Here  and  there, some    untold

Connection, connectivity,

From   distance   the   uniform

Soft, silken   green , glowing,

Mass   consoling   man

‘’ look   at   me   I am  evergreen, smile.’’