A Bird from The East.

      A  Bird  from   The East.

It is  a  lovely chanting, chirping

From  east, parrot  green and red,

Twittering, from  roost  to roost,

Rules   top  and  twists, twigs,

Swings  back ,pecks and  pours,

In   rhythm   sacred  ,sweet,

Not  phony  but  in balsam soothing,

 gathering  Clans too.

Loves its Maker, mentor,

Lives   in  abode of

Peaceful   surroundings.

Its  beak  I  draw,

Wonder  how He   that

 hath made it ,thawed it

with   melody  and repetitive awe.

In  bright  dawn, it

Yearns   freedom  not,

But only  a secluded corner

To  rue the  rude  and  ride.

My propensity

                       My propensity

My   Anglophile   silken, cool,

Soft   feather cap, I don, willingly,

 Some   seemingly, bemused

 queried   me   why so?

 I don’t disown  my Indian  twirling

Grandfather   Umbrella ,

 astutely  remembering me,

My interminable  roots of

Tradition and   tether.

Grand ma’s  herbal  juice

for  jaundice  in the diaphanous

Vial  apportioned  on the shelf

treats   her  visitors. 

They  are mine too.

My Garden.

                 My   Garden.

In my not peremptory  home  garden,

Which  is  not    Garden of  Eden,

Neither is it a  den of  thistles,

No piled up   garbages, yet garnished

With  well pruned, protected  plants

Of    Jasmines,  Roses, Chrysanthemum

and  hither and thither  heather too.

Serpentine ,decorative  frills  to

Take you  plenty   around.

No nymphs no fawns:

Could  be  rosebuds  are   fawns,

The cute, kitten  are nymphs ,

You sit in a  corner of  a mound,

Type  and  tweet ,twitter with

The  birds  soaring   blue  benign.

 No killings, no  yearning,

My  home  garden ,glowing

With   serene,serendipity ever.

Womanhood.

Brave  the  boorish world,

But not  belittle  your  Soul,

Shed  the  onerous load,

weighing  you  for decades,

Twigs   and  logs  of  wood

Alone   do  not   infuse  fire.

 Let  Glory of  The  Seer ,

Faith  not  undulated,   reign

in the  Benign  hearth.

 Your  vintage point

is   your   commitment .

Oh! Woman,  crush the

 cantankerous, by your

  sagacity not by your  audacity.

Hoist  the victorious banner

Of  smile and  serenity ,

Plant on the pedestal

Of  Diligence and  Dignity.

Look for me.

---    Look  for me 

    Look  for  me, in the  summer’s   sweat  and   blotch,

    Wipe   and  type, scroll  and  drag,

     I   fly  swifter  than    the  ambulance, no  hitch    

      For  a  call of  SOS came  Not     from a  brag.

     She  was   a  school  friend  of  mine,

     Now, alone,  met with  a  mishap,

     Time   and   friendship  wove  a thread  of  twine

   Infusing  a  lesson of loyalty,  work  and worship,

    I rescued   her in dire necessity,

   She reciprocated  in  hurried     exuberance

   also  committed   In  assured vivacity,

   Look   for  me, any  help,   any time, peace.

    

Take on '' Trembling into the restless flame of day.

Take on  ‘’ Trembling into the restless flame of  day’’.

Trembling   into  the  restless flame of day,

Brood of    swan  and   crane  on the Bay,

Placid  and  cool  for  timed  chances  in  their  way,

Look  up  soaring  eagles, and  birds,

I   too  crave  to flit  like vanishing  wings,

But   diaphanous  anxieties  and  worries

Seem to  clip  my wings  and  moorings.

Somewhere , some  soothsaying s,

icon  or aeon of  sacred  magnificence

echo, comfort   my  restless flame of  day.

The   day  recedes  into   Dusk,

ambered    sun  transcends   to  another    kiosk

only  to   climb up , spread   its rays .      

It  is  no more  trembling  restless  flame of day,

But  a  transcended  globe of  Fay

                                                                     

Think and Thank

      Think  and  thank.

Your clamour, their glamour

Of vociferous, voice  and noise,

 Some  haste, some  waste,

Will go  to  the   ground, in the mound,

Bake   and  cake  will  not 

always   suffice  your  hungered  ache.

When  Gods  open  their   third  eye,

Your   vision of  intuition   as well

They  must   close  their   flamboyant

Tricks   and  vile   calumny too.

The Morns are Propitious.

The    Morns   are propitious.

They  call the timing as BRAHMA MUHURTHAM,

Some  read/misread/misinterpret,

Books  and   celestial Messages,

Some  read/re read/  analyse and interpret,

Some  write, delete  and  destroy,

All in  calm  and serene atmosphere,

More  to  execute in  excusive  privacy,

Ere ,Brahma writes off in  full earnest

The  lifeline  of  preordained destiny.                      

''One Rough Business this writing Life''.

‘’One rough  business  this writing life.’’

Sail the Rough weather,

Roughing it   always,             

This   writing  away  day  and   night,

Of  my angst  and  disappointment,

This  typing  always  noon or moon,            

On the polished   web of global access,

Computing   or  cascading,          

This withering   life  is  painful,

Yet  is not a rough business,

This is pleasant   and   eglantine

Of  writing  life, of  strife, sacred.

This business of writing  life.