There is a Black Pal

There  is a  Black  pal         

There is a  Black  pal, my

 Visitor regular, cool   and calm.

In my balcony, its  abode of

 Grain or  rain, it  visits my

Perambulations   profoundly   strain,   

If  Black  were to be  a curse,

Woe  to the Creator’s  paradigm  of

 Release  and    hearse.

If colour were  to be

A conscious matter of  grouse,

Hollering  would annoyingly increase.

Deliverance is too far,

Even now, for   it is intricate,

 it is manmade

  aggrandisement .

Your Advent.

     Your  Advent

Your  are  A  Blazing Star,

Troubadour like,

Identifying thugs, also,

 them, saddling strong,

You are  icon  of assured    protection .

For   those  in the  tricky maze

Of  vile  troubles, believe

In  some   bric a brac.

You   came like an ordinary,

In an extraordinary  situation,

Forms   and   visions, astounding.

A  dire  situation  of  intricate   maze

I was immersed in a total

devastating, savage ,

abysmal  gloom of  darkness.

living  amidst   the  din and  clatter,

your form silenced their cacophony,

Silencing process  goes on.

In the   Time’s web,

Many formless  continue ,

Yet to be  silenced.

Rebirth for a NEW SAGA

     Rebirth  for a  NEW  SAGA.       

      It is a precious rebirth 

     For   A new  Saga,

     Mere  Thanksgiving  is just

     an  ordinary  label, or

     disbelieved ritual for some,

     your Advent,  for  the moments

      of  extraordinary  weaving, unravelling.

     I  was  a loner with those moments

    Of  sedition of others,   now your Advent.

     Encumbered lumber is ours.

     Know not how you ply

    with these flamboyant ,fanatics,

     you  take me  insurgent

     To  The Alone, to the  fly zone,  

  

   Angels  took  pity  on this   Soul

   Sent   southerly  winds,

  Salient  showers  of  bounteous Mercy.

  The  wind  blew well  on time,

Rich harvest was  augured

ere, seditious weeds are  undone.

Thanksgiving  goes beyond the ambit .

'Charred photo'

           ‘ Charred photo’  

After the last tap

 The  key board, demure.

The   blinds  are drawn.

I am half sunk

 Pillows embrace.

A sudden quaver/trigger,

My body tossed up and down,

Some unknown feel or fear

runs down me. Check out if

rats  rattle  amidst the vessels,

retire again to the recent emit,

 fear lurking  matted  bolster.

 It   enervates  my  pulse.

The   charred   photo by the

Subtle  Fire, time  ago, looms  large,

beckons /  to   reason out.

 my face, encounters splashes of water,

Now, no more sleep, sit back, think.

What is this slither/fear?

         What is this slither/ fear?

       A fear gripped me,

      Chill  as  frightful  as

      The  haunt  of a  coffin,

       a  sudden loss of vital  Memory,

     I drew my blanket   cap- a-pie,

     Felt as if  it is  the  slither

     Of   a cockroach, it moves

     On  my toes ,some  gentle

    jiffy tick alerts me,

     it is  the   slowly dismantled

    watch  from its  strap loose.

    

There is newness in every stale thing.

            There  is  newness in  every stale thing.

‘’The old order changeth  yielding place to new’’.

  There is newness in every stale thing

  as  there is  a  fresh lease of new life ,

  from the old, embittered ,past lives,

  old garments  slotted  for  wholehearted

  charity, enhance the  new looks of the

   impoverished, starved, now protected,

 protected are  the  old   garments  too

for  they  came in dire poverty ,abject

 necessity.  School  and  slate  are 

a luxury for those ,country urchins

in   soiled  kaki knickers, kite playing.

Fixing  cow dung  cakes on the walls

Is  their  daily wage earning  plenty.

They question not  why  they

Are  born, look  for  some

Hope  and  revival in

 Merry Bells,  Santa Claus

and  New  Year.

Holy Dip,Dip

    In  the  sheets of water,

  many  gloriously   calmed

  and merged now

in the white sheets,

tossing up and down

like deadwood,

the  gurgling  water

 as if an affiliate

Member welcomes its

Supreme partner, Sun,

both on the same

Horizontal  line.

In  the sheets  of water,

Realize/A life giving boon,

Potential /orgy of

Origin  less source.

Whirls, whirling

Me  to ageless   icon.

In the surfing, I became

Breathless, near the shore

on   the land castaway 

seashells  abound.

A Take On Free Fall

 A  Take on Free Fall.

It  is  not  Biblical  Fall

Of  Seduction  after  a

Plump, forbidden   fruit,

Nor is it a  headlong  fall

Of  skyjacker’s tricks of vile.

Spooky  embers  of clutters,

Of  smoke  and burnt woods

Spiralling  from the  ground

hover   the blue  sky: A cloudy cap.

Smell of choke  and charcoal

I suddenly get up from

My  sleep, my nightmare.

Ground, mosaic  more soothing.

Love In The Clippings.

       Love in the clippings

A   whiff of  seditious wind

Clipped the tender, wings of Love.

Autumn’s   crude   chill already

Stayed ,residue, in my heart, for some time,

 ‘Rue not’ ! My, yet to be softened

  dictates pacify.

                                                                                         

 Kiwi! Kiwi! Kiwi! Sparrow, young chick

Concomitant   visitor in my  balcony;

A   whiff of seditious  wind

Clipped  the  tender wings of   

 This  Lonely, this lugubrious,

Swoops   on my shoulders,

   Peck of look, affection,

 ‘’ learn to love thyself,’’

   I   tend  my  flexible   cuticles,   

   Fingertips, taps, on the key board.

      Unlock the key board,

     ‘Work is thy Love,’ is the key .

  

     Keep it unlocked, for ever.

     Kiwi! Tap!   Tap!  on the board.

S.Radhamani.

    

  

Man's Mastery, again it is God's Gift.

               Man’s Mastery, Again   it Is God’s Gift.

   Painter’s ebullient  brush  strikes.

   When aridity  knocks , drought with pride set in

   The  fallen  flowers    crave for  the lost seats,

   their  stems, The  Sun  now lurks beneath its orb,

    A kind  of  Chill  chuckles   at  man’s  inhibition.

    The lovelorn lies in the last stage, in the cottage,

    His  lady bird  appears ,soothes ,consoles

    Infusing  a fuel of  animated   Love,

   The  cottage is  no longer, seeming   Dotage .

   He  revels,  flies  with

    the wings of plumage.

  

The Canal In My Village.

The  canal in my  village

The  gurgling water flows.

The  North is  The Direction.

 Tradition  speaks .The folks speak.

In them is ingrained  the

established   belief, North

is luck, North is fertility Myth.

 The river  carries  no  emotions

As of  now. But  when it is in

full   spate, fury  bursts.

The  farmers ,ritual believing,

Cook  sweet  pudding to offer,

to   propitiate   Sun God,

it  flows to feed many hungry,

Erases  the face of  Drought.

Your Heart.

          Your heart

Heart   is a miniature theatre,

Coagulations,just as you

Compress,  emotions.

Blood circulations, arteries,

Veins, palpitations,

Unchecked fume   emit

of  words, wordy deals.

As  gyrating within,

You are  director, operator,

Spectator, watching    from outside,

Applause for ebullient squeaks

waiting  for the  final curtain

to be  drawn, cathartic  agent

perhaps is in the offing.

Lullaby For The Forlorn

  Lullaby  for  the forlorn

As  the  cute  tabby   cat  stole

Out of the lobby, surreptiously,

The other inmates  fast asleep,

Its moving  paws  silenced   and

feared  by  the  loud  snore of some.

Outside  the  dogs  bark,

Close  to midnight, sequel

The  innocent  wail   of  the month old

baby, abandoned  by the  heartless.

Night glared   by the Moonlight

for the delay in tending  the  forlorn

looks  askance  at  the child.

I peep through  the window,

The  temple  priest 

Closing  the gates of

the temple, willingly

opened the rugged ,  locked door

of the Future of the  Innocent,

sings  a  soothing   lullaby.

Calmness Endures

                   Calmness Endures.

          The   puff of  steam

          hurriedly go ,stay and settle

         on the green coloured   

         hard ,thick,  window  panes,

        till  I go deft to wipe them off.

         Also  a  kettle with soot

        chuckles  as if terribly  

        weaned   off  an evil.  

        It is  the hot  puff of  steams

       Piercing  my nostrils   clogged

       by   cold  and subsequent  sneeze.  

       The pictures afar, on the wall

        don’t  blow, or fritter,

        stay  double calm.

      

Seasonal Shifts In Your mind

In the  winter of  your life,

wrinkles  criss-cross , the skin

loose, like  haberdasher’s

 garments  hanging.

Altered  by swift  currents and

Cross-currents,   fetish with

The free, uninterrupted  flow

Of writing, you  are in  for

a  deliberate   pause.

You   brood of  those

Summer  days, how

best summer could have

been  spent, summer  showers

have delighted you, the  sacred

pots in your garden,

little  realize  that dark,

Dull, Emissary , one day

will knock at your door,

Collage  with  your  aging

and  desire  for  unaging   process.

Helen! Don't Come Near Us.

Helen! Don’t come  near us.

Helen!  Don’t  think we will be

dancing  with you. Decked by the

frills  of  wavy, white,

 gauzy garment, your pride,

 prerogative.  We are content,

safe ,drinking  the minerals ,from

where  we are.  Not at all eager,

share your  full energized   orgy.

A core of  us ,crave to lead

Our lives, ordained  by The Supreme.

Our boundary  line is land.

Dare  not  trespass .

( Helen is the name of the Cyclone,formed in India)

A humble take on '' I am nobody! Who are you?''

A  humble  take on   ‘’ I am  nobody! Who are you?

 I am nobody!   who  are you?

I am  insignificant  speck,

A void, rudderless ship,

not knowing what for my birth,

My existence, a straw,

thawed   by  twists, shifts,  turns

of  plotted   villainy  and

vituperation. Quirky

circumstances  changed

life’s turn and   it sustains

on  a shaky  keel.

You  are a   Sage, Seer

with  extraordinary

 visionary  Powers,

an exorcist  to   drive away

 the   mad passions

gripping  the vile

and   seditious ,

though a  slow  process.

A Take on winter Storm's Mad Organ Playing.

Those  vile, crazy  in the

grip of  battle guns,  exchange

their  prowess.

The city is in the grip of

Fear  and vendetta  striking:

Sombre November splashes

its rains  and vultures

in  blood bath,

Hellish  darkness spiralling,

For  Moon  hides  her  Face

Beneath the interface

Where  thundering winter’s

mad  organs  roving,

dying  soldiers'  lips mutter

these last words to their

women in  anguish,

 ‘’Be bold, take care

Of our children, for

We come for a cause ‘’.

                                                              

Melting Grass

       Melting  Grass.

We  are   a   good, not at all

 seditious  bunch  of  grass.

Silly, stuff, cordoned off,

getting  unduly drenched,

in the flooding waters,

overpowering rains that

mercilessly  sweep us all,

immersed, we get decayed.

Yet, in golden summer days,

We are segregated ,divided

to   accommodate  fresh,

 green leaves ,in between,

 how mercenary they are!

She goes off

          She  goes off

By the cool, passing rivulet,

A  corner to cordon off my anguish.      

I get on the   promenade, pain  lingering .

The path  brews  acceptance.

Innocently, the plant shimmering

With violet flowers, waves,

inadvertently, I plucked one violet:

 thoughts  submerged, threw it off.

Tomorrow’s   straight, resplendent

beams  miss. Bees  are for  dismay.

Placid  violet, not turning, merges

with  the  mainstream. I look on.  

Truama Of The Dying

The   Seasonal  cycle  takes its turn,

Summer‘s   terracotta   recedes,

bids  adieu  to  the  Gardener,

This bitter Winter, Why should  I

Call it bitter, it follows its norms,

The ornamental, Curtain’s   twist and roll,

in the gaps, my peep outside:

some jolly, more  to   jettison the  angst

of fear, survival and  torment,

they live for  the  ‘today’ , the moment.

Not far away, the uncaring, careless,

 the wrestling ,warring humanity,

the  twang of   surgical  instruments

don’t  disturb me  anymore.

The  ward  boys  move about  mechanically,

I  stretched out my legs, relax,

On this cot which bore many

moving  in out often.  

Sit   up, look at the wall,

The clock ticks, tick! Tick!

It  is  the Timer.

Nothing can stop these.

 Nothing  can stop these.

Hark!  These  Nightingales  are

Sweet. Lull your ruthless anger.

But they look as if  they care not.

Warlike pellets of words,

like  gunshots in the air,

mutual exchange of vendetta,

all   for  land  and gold,

the same  is the gruesome

even in home front,

fallen an impassioned slave

to infectious ,malicious  urge.

Impatient  soldiers in khaki   uniforms,

Even  security guards are subdued

by  this acrimonious , garrulous  spot,

what picture of Madonna ?

what    Monalisa   smile could

mend these  adamant?

Warfront  or home the

Same is the scene.

My Grandmother Now Chuckles

My   grand mother  now chuckles.

She  is on the last  cubicle,

Laid on the floral bed,

for  many  came to pay

respects   to her,

she swallowed much silent and sober,

curled    like a nine year old child,

nonagenarian  shrunken to

this   state:  age’s cruel play. 

Once  the pillar of the house.

Treated  with  pepper, chanting ,

 those  that came for Scorpion bite,

herself  a  flourishing  Tulsi plant.

I recollect, her deft, seasoned hands,

how she would cook green, leafy

and   serve the inmates patiently,

she  would sit on the  concrete mound

outside  and wait for me,

A great soul, now gone,

to a better zone.

Our Prerogative

                   

Your  p lough, your meaning of life,

 on your  customized  shoulders,

Watch rabbit out of the burrow,

 Till your apportion   land,

curd, rice and  pickle in  duress of  strain,

fear   if  rain  fails us all,

Carnival to the Sky and Sun,

 Porridge and rice overflowing

On the  broad   leaved etiquette .

A Walk Into Wilderness.

    A walk into wilderness.

A hoary moment  of isolation  and despair

takes  you  for  a walk in the wilderness,

saggy, almost falling leaves,

driven out of their  privileged homes,

one can powder  them then and there,

rugged   stems, the airless ,emptiness,

powered  by seasonal  shifts, uncanny   

elements of visitations, I could  see,

some burnt pieces of wood, ashes,

ritualistic, supernatural ,or factual

must have mutilated them.

Could it be some curse working

Upon  them, know not. Birds

 demure  entry, not wanting

to  those ,once  they frequented

the  opulent,   succulent off springs.

I pray, some  sage must come

down  to  perform a carnival

to transform  the neglect.

Surplus kneels before Survival

She  is  not   a mocking  bird.

Believes in  diligence and independence,

Pecks  on the solitary,marauded ,  broken bone.

Survival is her immediate  necessary instinct,

Winter’s cold rings   still hanging out,

flies  to the other pre-emptied   pinion,

The dried  fallen  neem leaves,

Of  what   use are they now?

The   sturdy bone  moves not

Sticking  on the dried hinges.

Mapping On Egg.

I imagine a plastic egg

On my table mahogany,

dip my brush in gentle blue,

Embellish strokes of painting,

Sketch  Heathrow in its global

Majesty and international air  traffic ,

Saunter about   Thames   and Trafalgar square

Circumnavigate   in grids of    avidity and diligence,

The   egg tossed up down

In a see-saw landing pose

By the speeding fan,

My mapping is done.

A dead wood I was

         I  was a dead wood  

drifting  along, the spooky  path

of  maze  and intrigues,

the   scary foam  of waves  surge

 a whirl  of  surreal  in  me,  

tossing   me up and down,

the mariner’s compass,

holds   a dumb  charade

at the moment  of  travesty,

Your  advent   is the

Enlightenment of  Beacon.

Halo  glows  ever.

Oh! My God! It Is Nowhere To Go

       It is not God’s Land, any more,

       much is submerged, ancient is  gone,

       Good old days are buried alive.

      I swim on the seemingly

       safe currents tossing  above,

      Oryx, restrains   its move,

      Crazy bull with fierce looks

      attacks not  but  recede,  

      Market fairs look  defeated,

      Ozymandias,no longer subdues

      Our  passion  and  prided  anger,

     Yet, human Temerity  tames  tangible.

       Lay your head on your

       hands  and  brood over

        how  to  recompense the loss.

       

This sly cat you unearthed.

             This    sly  cat  you  unearthed.

             I am saddened  to  know  this:

             so long  , This  was  eluding  my  notice,

              Also    it  was devouringly  alert

               to  thwart me,   I  am   not  even   bemused –

              for  it is    sodden  with  such  fake

             encounters , counting  upon  trades,

             This  Boon   beckoned  this 

              Is   a  dangerous  paw.

               Thawed  by  no  supple  force,  

               this  was hankering  around ,         

                You  have to    Go  round

                 for   a  quick   Magic wand

                 to  drive , This creepy, possibly .

                                             

Water, Water, everywhere.

Water, water, every where

Right   from the   Saline    water tube

to   the blood  veins    of  the   suffering  

In  the busy   hospital  ward,

The   surgeon  after  the  incision

Or  extraction, draws  near  the

Watered  tub  or  tap,

 it   drips, though,

The   saliva from  the mouth  

Align  the  tastes buds , dips,

Drib  ,dribble  ,drive    through.

Tears  swell  the  eyes,

Sudden from  the hidden  corners,

 All  depend upon  the  emotions.

Some    spontaneous, some

encash  the    enticing  situations,

Emotions   are   shed  in   watery  hymns

Oceanic  roar,   River’s  rhapsody

Waves  rigmarole, taps   going  dry

All    fluid’s  tricks.

An Old Man Walks His Way.

An   Old  Man  walks  His  Way.

A well trained  telecom  person,

The   octogenarian ,  used to this

Market   path, home  to  town  shop,

 Walking stick  his   unfailing  companion,

Pinion , under  whose  tutelage

He  avoids   many  unwholesome  traps,

His  usual  way, his  much familiar

accustomed  Road, he knows

as if   to locate in a  geographical  map

as well  as in his  mind,

each  and  every  stentorian  voice,

mothers  chiding  their  wards,  he identifies..

HE  curses  the   loud speaker  

Piercing  his    already   deaf  ears.

One  hand to  serve  as a  sun shade,

to  have  a  clear view,

The  roadside  flower  sellers 

Know  this  veteran ,by the  tap,

A  regular  kiss  on the road,

Long  shadow  in the return   path,

He  falls in  love with,

Blesses his spring  of

Life on this  Earth.

   

Unread pages

      Unread pages.

The prominent  ink mark  and the

Book   mark  have  their  equal  say now,

Furthering   your   agile   mood,

 What  for?  Imprinting   your   reflex .

There are so  many fallen petals of Rose,

Still  their  fragrance permeating,

Like   Life  still  hangs on , but   they are

merging  with  The dried  leaves, 

Autumn’s  victorious  banner   holding on.

True, they  are like  so many  unread

In  Literature, untreated, more,

  not exposed to life.

One  life  is  not  enough.

Now   your  silencing  voice

Ensembles  with  the   ambers of 

Sun  going  down the other side.

What I hate and like in Britain.

Cold,  cold  and puffs of  cold  

 and smoke   which  I deter,

let  them  go  as tizzy    lather.

But , Britain’s language  and Literature

My ambition, my  Love , degree    and  Life’s   nurture,

The  white   Doves   and  chirping   birds,

Potential  , innumerable   take   off 

and   landing  planes,  make  you

wonder  how  small  we are

before  Nature’s Flight.

The  coffee  aroma , takes

You   far off  the  boundary

For   writing   verse.

England’s pride   is its 

Treasure  of poetry

Which  I cherish 

Unto  my  last  Breath.

My Favourite Crow

My Favourite   Crow.

 PETISH  In   endearing  looks,

It  comes  in the appointed  hour 

Of    each  day, sits  in its own 

Selected corner,   right  side of

The  curved  balcony. I wait  for

the  affectionate  swoop  and   its

Cawing,    cawing. Pecking   the 

Small  rice  balls, looking  askance

Checking every now  and then,

 If   I am there. As  a   child 

How  often, I used   to  play

With  the fallen  feathers,

In my  grown  up  stage,  they

were  my  book marks,

now   I pray  the  feathers 

should  not   drop. Delighted

Crow  goes  back  to  its   abode

On the  green tree, clustered

With orange boughs. Tomorrow

Comes  for  both .

Autumn Takes A Hand In Our Lives.

            Autumn  takes  a  hand in our  lives.

              

     That  was  a  special   Tree, unusually

    A   special   year, Summer  still  hanging  on,

    Sidelining  AUTUMN, tree

   wears   the  dual  look  of   amber 

   and   pristine   green .

What if  cedar or pine?

 Under the mist,  sunshine,   yellow:   longing   years

have gone by. Eve   waited  for years

Yearning  for  Adam, her  soul mate.

Who hath not seen    her  under The  Special TREE?

What  if  cedar or pine?

Daily brewing  a  ritual  she sees ,

Eagerly waiting  for  her  special , Adam.  

Slowly  Autumn  not steals , but

Steady   occupies  her predominance,

At last Adam  came there,

With  a   Modern Book  of   Psalms,

Preaches  Eve, don’t  trespass

The  philosophy of  Life,

Let  us    RUE  not  the  BYGONE  years.

Allowing  the  forbidden  fruit

To   rot  in the stem

and  fall  to  the  ground

of  pale  stricken  leaves ,

Autumn   gleams   a Victories   smile.

This Autumnal sway On The Plant.

This   Autumnal  Sway On The Plant.

The  tawny,  sturdy  stalks  of  the   plant

already     Started      crying   a   sylvan   dirge .

The  slow  weaning   eco  cells

Send  out    an  urgent    note of  SOS

to  its  surroundings.

Blowing  winds  are not

Harbingers   of  Peace  or  Growth.

The  purple  flowers  ,fragranced   sweet,

are   unhappy to  leave  their  homes.

The  thinned   leaves  almost

powdered ,ready to  undergo

Crucifixion    on the  ground.

The  accustomed ,seasoned birds

Still   come  and  go  on this  lone tree.

After  all   they  are different

 from  human beings. 

Peace in A Cave.

Peace   in   A  Cave   

Knit   and   crochet  the  cute 

Handkerchief , the  embroidered  

edges , decor  and  shine,

 the  thread of   PEACE, The Message

runs   across, pass  it  on,

it  finds  its  place  in  a

 crushed  corner: thread is  cut.

Peace  is  in   coffers.

Doves   are  daggers  now,

Trampled    by  the  mad  rush ,

You  search  for  the  cream  of 

Human  love  and  care. Only to

  See  Sheepish  or  woolly   smile,

Enough  is  enough,

Trudging    along, climb  up

The  echoing   cave of  the

Mountain  top, close  eyes,

Find  the  radiance of

Peace   from   within.