Not A Moron but A SIREN.

    Not  A   Moron but  A  SIREN.

 Not on the  Win  of war, but a wail

 on the   senseless killings,

 of painful   shouts and  wounded   screams .

 Not  a luminous   Glory,

 nor  a  Thumbing  Victory,

Nor a successful  pact of  treaty,

Endless volley of thunderstorm

Cannon on their Left,

Cannon on their Right,

A   common  ring of  Banality,

Undaunted  were those ignited

Into the hellish schemes of war,

Into the jaws of Death,

Not  cared to be in

 the throes of Death.

For, Certitude, someone had blundered,

Them, right thinking  hindered.

Honour lies in gunshot,

Honour lies not retreat,

How  to ingrain sanity

In them is out of clarity.

It is eerie/scary.

        It is eerie/scary.

Ropes  are no longer ropes,

 Spiralling  Algae  like,   

This thread of Yuga Dharma

Kali Yuga Dharma, its  features,

Its  knots, in  a  method of  fawn

tightening  my  neck, loose

 rope  hankering  around me.

Stare  at one  thing, think of

many  a bugging  moil.                 

Your  seasoned chair,

With  a look of  clairvoyance

Muses  at  the  happenings.

Kali  yuga  stands  for Dark Age, or times in which topsy turvy 
happenings take place. More so ,in the mindset of the  people,
with Agnsotic faith.

A Take or remake on Milton's On His Blindness.

A Take or remake on Milton’s On His Blindness.

( But not in the form of a sonnet.

When   I consider how my life is spent

In  full ignorance / connivance,          

In this dark world and wide  of

 Negation  and  sins  and  agnostic faith,

 And that one talent ( of creativity)

Lodged with me useless, slow

Though  my Soul  more inclined

To  serve my   Mentor,/ Maker,

I  fondly, unthinkingly  ask.

Does  God  deprive me of

His Gifts, if I don’t  acknowledge

His   Bounteous Grace. But  to

Prevent  this  hasty question,

Inward alertness, agility,

Replies,  ‘’ God   will not bemuse you,

nor forsake you.  There are innumerable

Struggling like you voiceless   and patient.

They  also serve who only chant, stand, wait.’’

                                                                   

If You See Me Lost In Wilderness.

If you see me lost in Wilderness.

If you  see me lost in wilderness,

Stumble upon, stubbles, thimbles,

Blood oozing on my cuticles,

The prick is less piercing, for

The  neglected greenery  voice

In   husky nod, ‘care to redeem

Us from extinct vile.’ The deer

and   antelope  dare  not

run  fast  on the marooned

bunches of dried leaves,

for starvation  half killed  them.

 Once upon a  time cool pond,

Now craves for the sky benevolent,

Flowers   don’t   have a carnival

For the  stem cells   were dead   long.

Birds migrate to a different   band.

I don’t go back to urban colony,

But  move to nurture,

 ancient rural,Agricultural   tillage

Otherness of the foetus.

Otherness of  the foetus.

Full  many a   six month  I was in  your womb,

My  hand folded, straight I sat, aplomb,

Cosy, the  blissful world would welcome me

With  affection and assured  protection:

 My parts were  tenderly, grown,

like a  blossoming Rose,

Skin was no skin, but a sponge.

Ere, woman ,how could you

wish hastily,  to rip me apart?

Is it penury or bland Sophistication

 that  Induced you for the

Crude negation? The  hard

Metallic  plonk put me

In  a tray, to be thrown

In  a    trash.  I  was  swept

aside by the sweeper.

Time passed on.

As shaping, reshaping

Is  His  document ,

God  took pity on my

Predicament, breathed

Life, I am breathing

In  some benign, matured,

Mother’s  cosy ,kind womb.

Walls of protection

Throb with Breath. Breath.

.

Be by yourself,your writing.

Be by  yourself, your  writing.

It is   biting cold, abominably cold,

Chill   creeps into your shrunken

Skin, hanging flesh. It creeps,

For the flesh is loose ,the wrinkles

Give  way helplessly.You fall on your

Flat bed, mind  sails  for   writing,

Though   the  body  is  already

For another  realm   of sleep,

You pull   off  the rug,

Fir  leaves   yonder still  show       

  affinity  to the tree, in winter .

 Tree’s   inherent Nature

to  hold  them steadfast.

Cold  in the silent  space

Booms  large, akin  to  the

ambulance siren. There is

another  cold  tapping in

the  coffin ,the  ICU darkened

by  white sheets. My quirky

pen  outwits  the cold,

and goes  on.              

               

Want Not The Glasses

           Want  Not  The  Glasses.

What   violets or myrtles,

with scented  rose  and colours

Purple  and  make us  purblind!

Oh! Bast, Goddess  of  Protection,

 Daughter of  sun God, Your  attention.

 Never  know  the Heart

Where  Roses linger not.

What  tackled vine

and  brewed  beer

can  give,  when purse

is  null,  Bun  is  Biscuit.

Rue  not  to transport  to

A world of  Sacred  peace 

and   Serenity Divine.

You sail steady.

      You   sail steady.

I wear the tegument

Of crustaceous  stint,

Shell   strong and steady,

Sailing   the  Blue 

Roughing  the  rough:

Dolphins and whales            

Skim  around ,customised.

The Blue, roars, rolls,

A cathartic ,incumbent

On your  ordeal.

Ever on your Karma.

Nonsense droppings.

Nonsense droppings

  A  jumper  I wore,

 for  I was going to   London.

Many mocked at my

London  Calling,

Still I heeded to that  Calling.

I double checked all my

Rooms and locked,

For  an established rumour

Ran,  Gold was gushing

Out of every Godrej

and   ornaments were

popping out of  cupboards.  

My eyes  count but

Synthetic   saris and silk woven

hanging  on the dresser.

I was going to  London,

For London was calling,

Calling and  ask not

How, how, now.

I came to the balcony

to close the doors,

Again double check

Lest any thief should

Plunder away all my gold.

How  strange! Some droppings

On my jerkin, from the crow

above, bad  omen?

No, no, it is a  good augury,

Droppings only on my

Jumper, not  my plan.