Wood  stories.                                                                    

  Wonder  If it is a  super polished   oblong,                

Mahogany  table or sturdy chair,

The Grand sire  reciting  The Mahabharata

Wheeling on it, every  now  and then looking

At the inmates  with  a  peremptory look ;

Or grandfather clock, tick ticking          

Every beat of  our  move, hope

And  happening around us;

Every piece,  a silent, kindling

Watcher  or  bearer, for  a  wood

 wall portrait  engraved specific

of  a maternal uncle, homeopathy

practitioner. How often the  playful

children   would  hide and seek

beneath the broad table, a spectrum

of  unbounded mirth  and glee.

The  wooden  articles   breathe,

Yet bemoan not their predicament

Nor  curse their  once   felling  sword,

For  but for the cruel fate  of

Those   hands, these would not

Be embellished here.                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                                                           

       Her  First Love.

Before  the fear  for the class room is gone,

The first  day of entry into the school begins,

Her  lure  for  the new uniforms  and  slate

Multiplies: for  in those days, slates ,pencils

And blades, the box were  the necessity

Of  a perfect class syndrome. The  blade,

The  sharpener in the geometry box, she  abhors,

For  Maths  was tough  to comprehend.

The  blade  that  shines, sharpens the pencil,

Draws  the  sketches, she folds meticulously

In the  slated  wrapper.  Now comes  her love

For the Rhymes and  English class.

“Baa  Baa  black sheep, have you any wool?”

Comes in  rich lore to  her  mouth’s brim.

The  blade lurks into nothing, the rhyme

Redoubles  with  vigour and trimmer.

      Tradition bound  post modern woman

 When penury draws the boundary line,

What is mascara, or  the  eyeliner?

The  flicker  of  the  candle

Tapers  into  nothing  and total  dim.

She  sees  the  golden  ribbons    and

Jazzing   bands  on the  pictures,

hanging  on the  walls  besmeared

with  cobwebs, still   a  Victorian

romantic  sentiment  preserved.

A pair of shoulders  not  strong  and  

Sturdy: yet  willed  into  hard  labour

By determination   and necessity.

No  perfume on her  skin, but

Long petticoat   to hide  her 

Snowy, delicate   Feet    and  skin.

A star  and  stud  on her  ears

Shining  with  the   glow  chin.

Lemon  rice  and   buttermilk 

In  a bowl  are her luxury.

Her  lovely mind   and

amiable  Nature, her asset.     

I come in Time and for Certitude.

           I come, in  time  and for  certitude.

     In times of  duress  and ignorance,

     You  are by  yourself in the garden,

     The  buds asleep in their

     cosy chambers .  Doubling  season pats on them.

      In  Wintry bed  the  seed crackling

    You see only in imagination ,yet

    The biting  cold sparing  none.

    Yet, come  as I  from  old,

    Or  era of  Golden  prosperity,

    Tapping  the  pyramids or talking 

    With the  sleeping  souls, resting;

    Perhaps  for  next  birth and  birthing.

    I  see the wood  and waste,

    Beast  and bestial,

   The  river  glideth,duty  bound,

   bank sings  along  the brooding

  crane   and  cawing   bird.    

  Unfailing,  I come from out

  The heart of  summer’s Joy.