A City of Gold.

         A city of Gold.

 If   be  a  crock of porridge,

A melamine  of   crispy  snacks,

For  good   Ingestion

croquet or sandwiches,

Whether Jamaica  or America,

Caribbean seaside  village

Or  Indian  tillage,

Run not after  ill gotten

Gold   and  fill your coffers.

Let us  taste    the  drink the victuals

 Of contentment ,void of perjury

but not  absinthe,

To the passing of gods.

This is  the  city of Gold,

A  pleasure of  Marigold.

How Patient Gods Are!

5) How  patient Gods  are!

The   Avatar sits   on  a  seamlessly

Perfect   and poised Chair,

to  have  a  fair  view of  humanity.

But  the unfair   and  crude

Topple , at least  contented 

To have  thwarted God’s plans.

Avatar    pulls  the thread of  patience

As  far  as  He can, Every pull emits

New   Revelations much to

Their   chagrin and dismay.

Rolling In Unrest.

  Rolling  in  Unrest.                                                           

We, the grand Persian carpets,

are  used for welcome  feasts.

Today, they unroll, a day of  unrest,

Like many days, many moments,

We  are  seasoned  and accustomed ,

When they come to  roll,

 For us   It is  a  mood of  zest.

In The Sleepless Night..

      In the  sleepless night..

Barbeque outside, convenient improvisation,

Rescued many, toasts   for the   privileged,

Bread   crumbs for the lowly ,underpinned.

Wind  mildly  fans  the  fire, brewing  goes on.   

Rumbling  continues , for the jaywalkers,

Theatre revellers, relief outside.

 Eyelids refuse   your rightful  quota of sleep.

Mustering  curiosity , You view  through the

Window, the wavy curtains, looking askance,

The moon shines, moving dark

Patches remain, bemused  I am.

Moon   shines as if replying ,

‘The dent   is in  you, the  mankind,

From  ages, from   the  Days   of

 Creation, from  Shristi, he is erring,

You  always  view  with  a

Soiled  telescope. Else   The  Fall

Would  have  been  averted.’

Slow, the  sleep  embraces me.

Troubadour

        Troubadour

We   are  a troubadour like

donned   by   the  Muse,

tapping  our  beloved  tents,

sharing  favourite  food,

we  avidly practise

and perform   in the nights,

exchanging our  poems

their  thirst  for knowledge,           

Timbre  vibrates  in us.

We move on to another village.

A Birthday Gift.

)             A  Birthday  Gift.                   

A    Lovely full  blown Rose   on your buttonhole,

Fragrance   permeating   the whole surrounding,

Smiles  are  nothing  before   the  flowers,

Flowers   are soothing  and  sacred  and sincere for  ever.

I   put  this  on your  ash  coloured   suit,,

But   your look  of  Demure ,makes  me  deter.      

I took you to the  dining ,Mahogany beckons

With  a  glimmer and  warmth of

Dishes in  china ware  and   Melarmine.        

Eggless   cake  with   a   cup  of  coke

Would   in   certitude please you,

Me   thought and    joined  you  in  cheers.

Polished  sink   and  the  towel

The   white flowing  water,

The   foamy  soap  to  wipe

Your  hands  and   the   reflecting 

Mirror  as  if  says:   look! Something

Is  wanting , he  looks  dissatisfied.                              

A soft, laminated book  pops out

Of  my  NOT VANITY  but multipurpose bag,                     

This  is what I want!

This   is  what  my passion.

A  Book  of Poems,

A   Gift  of  All  Times!        

A humble take on Solar Microscope from - The Guardian.

      Yeats’ "The only thing certain about us is that we are too  many

 Yes. We are too many, many  with different genres,

avocations, ambitions,  animadversions, critical theories,

more  poets with  distinctions, publications,

with  a  motto,  ‘’publish or perish’’.

We   have our own problems, polarised views,

Poets!  The  warring  world of Land is ours

Where  Imagination  and aesthetic  beauty

Propel us, guide us, infuse enthusiasm in us.

The  land  we live in , is  a   land of

Acute   aridity,   Drought  and  denigration ,

also  overflowing  mass of  floods.

All  according  to seasonal  shifts.

We ,the poets ,attribute these

To Nature’s  Fury  and  ensemble

In our  writings and  poetic  codes.

We, the poets, quote lines of   repute

‘’water and water ,everywhere, not a

Drop ....’’ and so on.

 We propitiate  the   Rain  God

For  more   and more water.

We , the poets, congregate, aggregate,

Discuss   and dissect.

There are poetry haters and

Dissenters of   writers  and groups.

Strange paradox, we and they.

Her Unlimited Move.

                Her Unlimited  Move. 

     She  bounteously   blows

    on the transcient,uncared for,

    Slender bunch Of

    Grass  and  steep ;

    Touches   the  quay

    In a   gentler mood,                

    dives  beneath  a  stone,

    attempts  a  nobler

    whiff  of  violet flower,                   

   my car  stops,  cannot       

   steer  for the windscreen

   blurred   and  besmeared,

   for it is  a  massive  toll.

  Beneath  the  vast umbrella,

  She comes  and goes,

 Sweeps  and recedes,

Whoever  can   check her?

We  all can only bear  her.

 

  

  

   

A Take on Black Beans, in the afternoon( Guardian)

A  Take on  Black Beans, in the afternoon( Guardian)

In the  Afternoon,

I sit before  my computers,

Tap  and type on the key board,

Delete  and control.

In the afternoon,  I  type  poems,

Copy and paste ,at times  ‘’ cut’’ too.

In the afternoon, I prepare

Coffee decoction, the aroma

Tempting me, again  take a break

In the afternoon,

Take  a hot  sip and taste,

Store  again  black beans

In the container for the morrow.

Switch off  the oven,

Go back, contemplate  again,

Will  this  coffee  remake

Your life’s  turns  and events?

Afternoon  also turns  its face,

Sun   goes down its  orb

To  make its  appearance

In the next day.

'Love' theme for Valentine's Day.

  LOVE 

I dip the ebullient  brush of
Expression,

my expression

In  the  water colour
 of  painting

in  a  diaphanous

bowl, 

Carried brush, stroke it

On the wall with  the

Decor of Love, 

Wall  stares   back .

Accepts it, resonates

With my perception 

‘love thyself, love humanity’.

A Take On Engram.

    A  Take  on  Engram

A  hurried  Bath

In my tiny bath room,

No showers, no sprinkles    

for  the  handle is rusted

because of  non –usage.

BY my  side, Dove

Gives  nice   aroma,

 It is  Dove, bubbles of  Dove,

No   humming   of  Love, love.

Even  two decades  ago

The same is  the scenario,

For  no time, but of reading,

Preparing for class room,

and   writing,  editing.

Now the  same , for  my time is

Spaced between kitchen, sink

and  my  adored   Guardian

for Dear  Carol  would  send

the signal of  deadline,

‘’comments  are  now   closed

For this   site.’’

I must hasten to comment

Else  my conscience would  

 prick with a feeling of guilt. 

In The Temple of Human Body..

       In the Temple of Human Body...

In The  Temple  of  Human  Body,

The   Heart  is  the  Fulcrum,

Soul  sacred   Sanctorum,

Seated invisible, noble,

Ready to migrate  and

Transmigrate ,upon

The   Call   and  Will.

Don’t  deconstruct   the 

Residing  Deity, who

Presides over day- today

activity.   Practise   the

Silence, Mantra for

Most of The  Times,

Betimes, Divine  Succour

Will reach  your  Doors.

The Land's Telescopic vision

   1)    The Land’s   telescopic vision.                                                            

In its  verdant greenery, it 

Craves   not  for  more  rains,     

In  its ubiquitous   Mother-Earthly

View, it protects, feeds, the  fodder,

Cropper, breeder  and   fender.

It cares not  if you  are grateful,

But should   you be bountifully

Duty  conscious, a dictum  it

Gives, no   vintage  without   tillage.

In its   sardonic  execution of  destruction,

It   justifies  all parameters of reaction

Fury, and  finished, a  sort of Evolution.

It  echoes,  ‘’ oh! Man, be humbled,

Else ,sooner you will be  crumbled’’.

This Creepy Cold,,,

         This   creepy cold.

Six long hours of  wait and sit,

In the   now and   then crowded

Platform, cold   as   shreds of

Creepiness  that   might capture you.

You  watch  the red liveried  coolies

Who  load on their heads, to  unload

their  burden of family sustenance.                         

Why not trolleys instead of coolies?

If we can’t erase the word ‘coolie’

In the dictionary of our life,

there is no end of strife.

What is the use of our Independence?

our  free education?

Their   looks don’t bend down

On the narrow steps, their eyes

Positioned  straight. What cold

Bugs  them? Rubs the   hardened,

Seasoned   skin  that lifts those

Luggage/baggage?

By my side, another child,

Herself   a   small  child of  hardly

Seven, holding another ,hanging bony,

 itches,Criss cross each other.

I  am  saddened ,when will India

Improve? On to the train,

‘mind the gap’ ,yet another  nightmare,

I  go on  in the tilt.

Soul's Agony.

     Soul’s  Agony.                                         

  I am coagulated  beyond  limit,

  break  the  barricade.

I   wear the accelerated  Wings,

The   flapping  and   craving

towards  a  silent  zone,

free   form toil  and  moil

of  reptiles   and  rigmaroles,

witnessing  puerile   motions  with 

little  constructive notions:

From  above  I  see,ply,

 many  crunch  the  feed

fodder,greenery, next day,

with  a  sickle to  uproot.

Earth  can  only  shake  and  tremble.