A Take on “ A deal in every aisle, every hour ,every day...”

 A  Good deal in every aisle, every hour, every day,

 Shoppers  plan to stack up things for the month.             

The  prestigious, Supermarket   is busy  and the

Accustomed   visit  the  cuisine  and  garment ,

Grand  and good  Offers, Gifts free

to deal with  the best  selection.

My Muse, my  Calliope,is   agile as ever,

To weave a poem out of this  shop.

Incredibly eager shoppers  queue for billing.

There are no abandoned sandwich but

Prominently  strewn, crumbled bills, printout   

Of  ID proofs, The sun was slowly behind the orb:

I am pushing my trolley out.

There is  throb, every hour, every day.

             Between The Blades Of Grass..

         Between the Blades Of Grass,

         You fly like  a horse,

        Trample  upon them, those   whispers,            

        They  heed   Not   your  hot  tempers,                  

        They  bend   and  rise  above,                                                         

        Grisly  world  of  multiple  move.                           

        This  world of  tricky   cove                                             

        You have to abrogate  to   ahead move.                       

       

        A  Take On Guardian’s “  Like the watchful eye of the Law”.

   Every human should know his/ her/ own quarters,

  Limitations; universally, everlastingly, set by primordial

 Governing principle of His  Scheme.

It is just as every   artifact  has  its own boundaries.

Beyond  the  glitter and twinkle of the

Stars  and this galaxy, this unfoldable  carpet,

There is a watchful eye of the Law,

Catches you by the neck  on Time.

It brings out  the growing  sinister, insidious,

Silent   doings  of   harmful  Nature.

We  all must know to carry  our own weight

Through  the  proper channel  of our

Illumined quarters, to sing  along   the

Song of  The Glory Of God.

 The Watchful Eye Of  The  Law

Spins  its reins slow  but  sure.

The Glass Bowl

       The   glass bowl 

I  want  to  gather   and  stuff   all

My aches  into  this   glass  bowl

Of supine nature, for it  only reflects,

Can it  alleviate? I  need  to  Brush

  aside  these  pests;

The  basket ball from afar

Tumbles  this  cute  holder of 

My aches. It is not broken.

It is keen on reflecting.

His Advent

        

                      His  Advent

After  all  the  small  harmless  pleasures

Of  Coke  and  Chess  and  T.V.mega  serial,

I, both tired of  body  and  Soul’s anguish,

Took  my quill   and  writing  pad.

With   full unspoiled   care and  affection,

Thou in  saffron  robe, warmth of concern.

To listen  to  my  angst, to  alleviate, came. 

Proven  the  Voices  prophetic  above.

He  sent  The  ardent   Ambassador.

Glowing  with  wisdom, prediction

Of  assured  protection,  Thou give

Scriptural  injuction.Miracle  it was, it is.

All  the  Good,  Needy get  solaced  now.

Residing  in my  heart, ever  vigilant,

“furnish  and deck my soul”.Thou  mayest

Give  a  better  abode of  celestial   stay there.

2)   Home My Home

      

It is My Home, my privileged   Home,

Within  four  walls  of  innate  room,

Innate, you move about  free of  concern,

Chanting  mantras  sincere  and   taciturn ,                               

At the end of   the day, what  is most   heeded,                            

 His Solace, His Supreme  Grace, is needed.        

 My home, it is not brick and mortar,

A  safe   mode of  garter   ever  and  ever.  

                                                                                  

     Cat

Come! My dear  soft. Spongy like cat.

Again fresh from my memory 

Of those  golden days  of  my grandma;

your Most affectionate ,endearing feeder,

Fender.  Your soft  paw, silent,

Visited us, silent  as a   good  sufferer, those days.

I   have seen you playing with the

 Cute   plastic, small ball.

How  often you would  sit close by that

Grand old good lady, waiting for  the

Rice balls   offered affectionately to you,

How often your “metal- and marble –mix eyes”

Would  view the surroundings  with  a wary,

Cautionary look. Liked your mewing,

You can be cruel too like a heartless  lady;

Would  run  away with  a  chic of  a  sparrow

Catch by the  helpless hanging neck,

Or the rattling  rat, victimised by

The sudden swoop of your paws.

When you gave birth to newborn

How would you growl?

You are  a   mix  of  dangerous

  Sweetness Fascinating us.

The Black Parrot

      The  black parrot.

The Black parrot  in my garden,

 Chattering  pours  messages  to broaden

My visions of  world, also  this grisly  load,

To view   and    forthwith  unload,

To  launch   and  prelaunch  a safe

Environmental  bamboo  brocade.

I tend its  wounded  wings

Make  it  fly  with assured  looks,

With its  small  tiny, curious  head,

It   views the world   of amorphous  mead,

 for that is how the  people   construe,

in  full  spirit   further  to  rule,

Yet, The  Seer envisioned  it in   good   stride,

With  a shape and  seem less  Mode of ride.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

      Can I say,I  have never seen You?

Can   I say? Would I dare say?

But   I am always feeling your benign Grace,

In the wintry forest of  my heart

Where  storms  of  apprehensions  rule

Due to blatant ignorance  and connivance,

Your  predominately good Grace and Solace

Pervasive  day in  and day out.

I always see You with my Third Eye,

Hear  your messages of  vibrant notations

Through the pulsating  throbs of Divine whispers.

In my head  you  run  from me in a  reel of  gyration.

Winter  lakes pine for night, I feel the chill.

No one  comes. True  no one comes,

In hard   Times, no one comes,

No one  came, all  stubborn spectators,

Me passive  struggling, believing, wriggling.

What if  Canada or America or England?

Does heart change? You rule the roost.

Cruel  horns grip  me with  attack,

Yet, your calm, soothing, tone appease

All who take refuge in You.

My rugged  bones  stare at me,

Your  Merciful lakes are God’s plenty.

No one   comes, no one  came,

But You Came. Unforgettable.

You  stay in other  ERAS to come.

A Cardboard Box

         A   Cardboard  Box.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

The   big  white card board box ,

It is  white house  in this  lawn,

Pathway ,where  a  park  too  stays.           

The white house  has tiny rooms

With  amplifiers  are  set

To listen to the radio music.     

Side  by side   there   are  

Some  more  cute  white buildings,

The    child   improvises.

In  the predominant white house

Many dolls, big eyes,

small  eyes  exchange looks .

bicycles ,cars   and  trams  too ply

in this prestigious town plan.

From  afar,  some culinary smell 

Taps  the  inmates.

                                                                                        

Two Blades of Grass

Two  Blades  of  Grass

Bunch of   Grass,

Sharp  and upfront,

Shiny and shimmer,

Unfolds  your poetic vision,

You  draw  a  sketch

On  the  notebook.

How  tender  they  are!

Dare not  trample upon.

The child  who follows me

Cushions on them, views

Two  blades of  grass,

A  quick  scrubber  for  her slate.

They are elated by her

Feathertouch.

                                                           

        

Peasants

                  Peasants – Not  a  satire  but  a  good  label                      

At  home peasants  eat porridge in the morn,

 With till on  their  neck, and sickle in the hand

 Go  to  the  fields, the  poor lady or daughter

 Brings curd rice with pickle for the lunch.

 The  peasants  are not  peanuts.

Sweat on their  forehead   brings tillage   

 A name of   vintage .This  class, this

 Inevitable  backbone ,this heartbeat

 Is  the pride  of  nation. They  sow  the seeds,

 They own the country, reap the  harvest,

Look up to the  Heavens, monsoon and rain

Should not fail  the crops.

 Then, Reap  the bonanza,they own the country.

       

Take on " Come back to my sad heart".

         Take on   “Come  back to my sad heart”

Ye! Lovely, divine   chattering  birds

Regular   visitor  to my  ancestral garden,

Ye parrots!come  back  to my sad heart,

Sing  along  with  me  to  the tune of my harping

Violin, melody  and practice long  forgotten,

Yet ,the memory   heals  the Soul’s Malady.

Melody revisited, revived, in hums   and

Painful tunes, pain  of  unsurfacing   angst.          

Ye Birds! Little  for  the Sun we cared,

And  little  for  fame  and Name.

Your pouring  a requiem for   the

Grand lady, grandma   of the house,               

Bring the end of all times, you continue.                       

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

Take on The end of birth's enterprise-Dylan Thomas.

     Guardian’s take on  The end of birth’s enterprise  -Dylan Thomas

  The end of  all  time,

The end of  birth’s enterprise,

I earnestly pray that it should be

The  ultimate  and final end of

All testing, vicarious,  bad times.

This  end  should lead to the glory

And birth of all good times and deeds.

                         

The end of birth’s enterprise  also,

As  it is with   its eddying  current

Like  a  River  meandering,

 zig zag,  directionless, its

 destination too .Like  the humans,

the  River also feels  that   its

flowing, living  is  Birth’s   small crime.

 I shun  not Sun,   and   I little

Cared  for identity  and  quick  fame.

I wish  to   tend  in my  garden

The  salutary plant of   jasmine,

 I  lay down and closed my eyes,

 Seeking  for  a new lease

 Of  life for  the Soul.

                        

                                              

    Poem 2- My Life  Cries  out For Water.                                              

It is not Eliot’s hot water at ten,

What does  it matter if it is at eight or nine?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Nor  is it  the coldest  ring of ripple

In Majestic  Ganges’ wintry bed.                                                                     

Water flows  copious, you shiver  

Looking  at the Sun hidden, slowly coming out

Piercing  the dominant roots of cloudy caps;

While  taps  deliberately go dry and wry,

Elsewhere, man  rations water.

My life cries out for water, water,

To  dispel, break  the  solidified  nature,                                                                    

Of  Man’s  swelling  pride and hard as stone.                 

As  the adage goes, there is water even in stone,

When Stone is man’s heart.            

My life cries out  for  water, salient and

 Silent   Reaching out  many in dire need. .                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                 

My Life Cries out For Water.

                      My life  cries out  for Water.

    Read  newspapers, reports, TV updates,

    Gathered    a lot  about  these

    Megalomaniac, kleptomaniac   and pyromaniac;

    Yearning  for  the  purgatorial  rivers ,waters

    To  cleanse  all  maniacs in this world.

    My life, This  River of Life, cries  out for

    abrogation, disambiguation, nullification  of

    this  stagnation. Cries  for  water, water  and water;

    to quench  the  thirst,   the abash  the  sinful  cries

   of  Karma’s   unyielding  travelogue.  Let it doused

   by  the  water’s doubling   Fury. Water, water!