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 .