Love's strong strings attire ( guardian)

No more tears, no more sigh,

to this blessed garden of aroma

I come with a  smile springing

in my eyes, helium of  flow

consoling me, my love, my safe barn

opening up new vistas;

Looking above spider’s web,

Perpetuation of its progeny and love

Hope in the coils surviving far ahead;

It is more than a  paradise, A Bliss

And  beautitude.

Let some winter’s cool garb

cover me, let not any frost         

 corrode me into  empty cascade

 of  shyness  and  nothingness.

Let love grow into multitudes

and fountains of faith  nourish

till I retire to   a  firm foothold

of  solidity of ditty’s  moods.

There comes a  Diana, her chaste

Looks dipped in cup of Truth

Guiding me firm and soft.  

Catch of the day ( Guardian)

Catch of the day (  Guardian)

No car, no van, outside the therapist,

In the sense, I have not come by  car;

but distinct far away, there are many

in queue,  a web of real and unreal show

for   those who interpret that way.

Life  is complex, but what I am holding

is much more complex, don’t know how

to define and show; transparency is there,

along with slippery line. I ponder,

life cannot be sieved like a fish or whale,

or   imitated like  cockerel with hope of

morrow in the Dawn; Just as the concept of

Life  itself is ambiguous or mysterious,

This slippery thing is solidity by itself,

 no mean object of creation; also a part

of the Universe, now it is slipping  away.

ply into the void.

  ply into the void

Gone are those Golden chariot ed days,

When seasons failed not, when Sky

merged with The Blue and pots did not

often come to the streets aligned

 with morbid  drought piercing hot.

Giant lorries laden with cans,

 brittle  plastic bottles tied up

to a  knot circling  boxes;

Speed past the jammed crowd,

VIPs  throbbing with   angst of thirst;

Thirst for seats in colleges, clerical

Posts in offices, secure seats in podium,

A card game before them, dipping life

Into  a  chance of luck, catch and throw.

Automated signal is the same for  all.

Summer’s  heat with a  nudge,

driving people  crazy with a force

of opening refrigerator, duel lordship;

ruling monster and luxurious slave

 in every household  with cubes of ice.

Still  a  Victorious pot in corner

Jeer at the machines, when power fails!

  

                                        

That was , IS , the age ( Different approach)

After   Guardian,)  Suppose  

That was , IS ,  the age  ( Different approach)

MY DOLL, MY PLAY TIME,MY LIFE;

Dressing it, carrying it in my arms

Wherever I go, combing its hair,

Feeding it with a  spoon, that is,

That was my life breath, my commitment

Infusing my life into it. Suppose, doll,

Molly I call it, should break her dead,

I would rush to the doctor for the first aid.

I am dressed neat and trite, suppose

 sun recedes and sudden cloudy showers,

my  cute doll getting drenched,  I feel not panicky,

pull out my umbrella and protect both of us,

rush to the nearby shady tee or park

to stay a while, consoling my Molly

and wait till clouds clears.

 I am in serious, thinking mood, suppose,

My mind  propels me for higher pursuits ,

I tend to put my doll for sleep,

Ask my granny to pray for  a while,

 Both for me  and my cute Molly

Until I return from my errands

Thanking heaven for all bliss.

 I sit  and Pray and Pray

The world continues to prick

and prick and prick, I am pretty sure

it is the way of the  world, I go by the

dictum, do what your dictates tell you,

leaving the rest to the Will of The Almighty.        

Heaven is the ultimate watcher.

AFTER Near Helikon by Trumbull Stickney ( Guardian) A query of introspection

AFTER    Near Helikon by Trumbull Stickney  ( Guardian)

  A query of introspection

Whither is the mood?  Whither my favorite

Mountain song and  ranges, where memory

hangs still a canopy unalloyed and steadfast;

At the end of cool summer’s day, when  at times

Pockets go dry  and wry, Muse at your beck and call

Sits by the shore and sings along a lonely way,

 Hymns and odes  sky and  wheeling surf

Roll ever  the sands and moon shines. My troubled

Life  hums again on the mosaic of the past

Where opulence and glory pouring in.

Like many thoughtless and more on spending spree,

me too; failed to catch the Riches by forelock;

still ringing the parrots and peacocks dance

on the tall woody branches; dilapidated house,

where ghosts supposedly haunt still, the lone girl

shuts the window opposite the grilled house.