Free-for-all

Free-for –all

The half closed metro water allows water
Free-for all on time,
I am awake suddenly from a dream,
Dream free-for all, does it measure
Rich or poor lower or middle?
My five year old, smart and sweet,
Free-for-all imaginary daughter,
Profusely sweating comes in,
Throwing her skipping rod
In a carefree manner, goes to the
Balcony in a free- for- all air to
Refresh her,

I invite her for a home exhibition,
The big caption in the newspaper
advertisement catches my attention,
a free-for-all, A to Z individual stalls,
I wonder what is free? Entry fee or the
Commodity to be picked free –for-all,
Or the venue free-for –all?


In the free-for-all hall, a thunderous
Announcement over the mike,
Five year old girl is missing in the crowd;
Is the suffering free- for- all?
Or the sharing free-for-all?

Hunger

Hunger

It is the hunger for literary pursuit and knowledge of
Scripts that make me write for hours together,
unmindful of culinary smell from my kitchen
Pervading my reading room,

It was the same hunger which made me addicted
to my writing desk, when one evening got a phone
call that my close kin was involved in an accident,
that rushed me to the spot.

Real hunger was substituted by instant anger,
Anger for the rash tipsy drivers,
But can you argue with those hardcore
Hungry villains who buy law into their hands,

Now on the way back home, I was really hungry,
for I skipped lunch and dinner,
I was equally angry to see a van overtaking
auto, really hungry for lucre,

my searching eyes chanced upon the
nocturnal birds hungry for flesh,
roaming and preying upon the flesh,
Powdered and perfumed to be fumed.

Dont ask

Don’t ask

When her three year old son plays
In the water when it rains,
Paper boat is the child’s excitement,
the caring mother chides not to
go near the water,
“ why mummy?”
don’t ask questions, the mother replies,
you will get ill.


when he is in ten,
when she takes him to a party,
she cautions him not to go
near the ice-cream side,
he pleads mummy, mummy, he pleads,
“Why? Mummy?”
Don’t ask questions, she pats him
With a firm admonition,
You will not be able to sit for
the half-early examination
if you have cough and sneeze.

When he is fifteen, the curious
asks the mother, who is that
aunt? is she dad’s girl friend,
who gets a a lift back home?
She nods her face, yes she
Is your dad’s office friend,
Don’t ask silly questions
any more, she replies.


When he is twenty, the mother asks
the son, my child, who is the girl
who chats with you for hours
together my I know?

Don’t ask me questions, mom,
I am grown up and can take
Care of myself and my future.

Directions

Directions

What more and better directions you have
than the Directions from Above to the
right if you have copious faith in Him,
in this land of meddling and muddled,
posing to be genius, landing themselves,
in pointless directions,

from my garden I see a covey of birds,
going in one direction, wisdom, man should
draw from that Direction, to lead a life of
sanity coupled with sanctity, but pity,
a sudden volley of shots from a sadist,
distorts the group in different directions,

I close my eyes, serenity strikes as the
flowering of aroma embedded Rose,
two many poetic metaphors, crop up,
as the sacred waterfalls and riverbeds,
sages have done penance to give by,
one proper Direction to the world,

The long poem gives the Message,
The Law of Virtue is the Direction of God!

'Always' speaks

‘Always’ speaks


I don’t know why more often than not,
People abuse me,
I am always in their tongue,
most of the people take me for granted,
I wish I were gifted with the power of speech,
to negate their falsehood,
it is always a matter of peanut matter
for some to abrogate the meaning,
I am always open-minded,
Yet some doors are always shut,
My perception is not ‘ Apposite’ to them,
It is always a matter of pride for me,
It is also a matter of pride for some
Use and abuse me ‘Always’ always.

Victim of old geneation suffers

Victim of old generation suffers.

What is that curled up bundle in that corner,
in that dark corner, darkness enlarging into
human shape, telling humanity,
it has imbibed the limpid darkness ,
from narrowed ruling orb of
man’s heart,
the afflicted spirit of a woman, no wrinkles
on her bright visage, in her yester years,
yet wan with untold misery ,
the shadow of injustice haunting
the house, her pent up feelings echo:
concubine cool as a cucumber,
vile suspicision,concocted lies
strangled her life, a fair flower
was smothered into a dusty heap,
the shadow haunts the house.

Inside my wallet

Inside my wallet

The peacock green colored wallet,
which I got for fifteen pounds in U.K,
hangs on my left palm , folded to my chest,
my right hand carries a bag of vegetables,
vanity hangs on,

two handkerchiefs slightly torn in the corner,
yet perfumed, peep out, mocking
my vanity, overlap my five rupee notes,
only two, my vanity hangs on,

inside my wallet, a small postcard,
which I forgot to post on time,
reminds my negligence, everytime,
the wallet is opened and closed.

My hair clips and a folded coil
of ribbon lies in a corner,
waiting to spin round the zip,
vanity hangs on, vanity hang on.

wicked's justification

Wicked’s justification.

Wicked stood on my T.V with a rod of scepter,
giving a big lecture, to justify its stand,
wicked, wicked, they brand us wicked,
are you all good to call us wicked?

the cute transparent liquor bottle,
the pride and possession of my previous
tenant angrily bursts,
why they do they buy and
and drink us, getting a kick of us?
we are called wicked, yet,

the nude show and the sexy movies
Triumphantly chuckle,
We are liked more than the
Domestic themes, which do
You call wicked?

Wicked winks at the ugly doll,
Why do they stare at the dross?
Why your wicked eyes are
on the forbidden objects?

wicked, wicked, wicked.

Dead bones' plight

Dead bones’ plight

They asked me to pay homage to the dead,
I stood by the stone epitaph to add one,
while my hands bent to pickup the paper,
envisaged the dead bones’ dilemma,
“when we were alive we were powdered,
Perfumed, periwigged, on the flesh,
when we fell we were cared upon,
lest you should flounder to walk,
we were, dressed up, meticulously
Massaged, some of us were powdered,
Now, you are walking upon us,
Beware of our plight, our
Shadow might fallow upon you.”

Pay day

Pay day

Ten years ago, my pay day was a hay day,
when I could afford my children a shopping,
a promised treat for the bygone birth day
of my kid, a pizza hunt, a jolly day,

today my pay day is no longer paid day,
today my pay day is a painful day,
rickshaw man who seats the kids
in three to four steps in his two
Seater luxury to school,
Pleads for advance which cannot be gainsaid,
For his bread and pittance is our pleasure.

The luxury of car and home is ngated
when the loan reminder is sent with interest,
the telephone bills are up abominably,
Children hour-long discuss the questions
wonderfully,

the telephones and the mobiles are busy,
children say that we are fussy,

by twentieth I go to the bank not for
deposit, nor for withdrawal,
to pledge my jewel for a smooth sail..

In my purse

Inside my purse


Don’t expect to see perfume
or moisture cream which my
five year old niece imitates
just as the media person
to apply on her soft skin,

Inside my purse the zip
of which is always striking,
bus tickets of six months old,
half torn, the other half folded,
many papers of local addresses,

my identity card almost soiled
by the ink, the purpose of my
black and white photo
is defeated, jingling coins
for five rupees, almost hidden

Underneath the layers,
A mint pocket half popped out,
Sticky and smelling,
my purse needs a wash,
my purse needs a wash.

inevitable

Inevitable

As the sun and the Moon and twinkling stars
are inevitable on the vast blue canopy,
as breathing is inevitable for man’s
day today functioning, a ceaseless activity,
else the tent of flesh and bones is a
collapsible shade,
equally inevitable is his lack of faith
in Him the Stage Manager,
for Man staggeringly loses his own self
in the inevitable miasma of life.

as birth and death are inevitable part,
Preordained human existence,
as creation and destruction,
God’s planned rotation, as seasonal shift,
changing man’s attitude and ambition,
as the suckling babe growing into growth
when teeth cutting are inevitable,
suffering and acceptance are
inevitable pages of human life.

Ahead of his time

Given an option whether he would choose
Computing or English Literature,
his preference was for the former,
he wanted to be much ahead of his times,
since he aspired to be in tune with the
technology of his times,
abrogating Maruti Zen as outdated,
driving the Sumo, he construed,
he was much ahead of his times,
accruing wealth in the bank,
finding the loopholes of how to
save his tax, he was ahead of his times,
when his new paint smelling wardrobe
was replete with latest garments, he knew,
he was ahead of his times,
he wanted to be in the first row,
in the cinema theater,
he was much ahead of his time,
trekking on the mountain, on top,
Viewing the humanity below,
he felt he was much ahead of his time.
When he discovered many theories
in the lab he was much ahead of time,
when his seven year old son asked him
why he did not have faith in God,
no answer, for he was far, far, far
ahead of his time.

Time stood still

Time stood still

When nations fought at the peril of human lives,
guns shot, gunpowder spread,
Time stood still,
like a most obedient servant before his master,
with folded hands, with a ready to serve face,
Time stood still, allowing things to happen,

When epic battles are won and lost,
When ethics are violated,
Sages appeared and appealed to
deaf ears, the code of conduct,
Time stood still, allowing things to happen,

When the fight between sin and celestial continues,
Man in his audacity argues and amplifies,
Not what he has seen but what he wants to be,
Time stands still, as a passive looker on,
Time stands erect, making a mockery of man’s folly.

Friendship is cute

Friendship is cute

Friend ship is cute and caring,
as long as it doesn’t bypass the
Scriptural boundaries ordained
by ageless sages of wisdom,

Friendship doesn’t belie faith,
mutual trust built upon not
Yesteryears but longstanding
fort of understanding, cemented
by honesty and sense of sacrifice,

Friendship always blooms
like the hyacinth and bluebells,
of Spring and Bluebell’s rhythm,
Friendship cannot be animalistic,
else, sinks like a rudderless ship
in mid sea of gale storm.

It has many names!

It has many names, faces.
can I say “look, there it comes!”
how it comes, how it enters to take many shapes,
it is a conundrum, but it cannot be idle,
with its lopsided imagination, it achieves
what it wants, with its seemingly good
looks it hits the mark, it does not sleep
till it is won, it walks in sleep,
like corrugated iron, folding
its way into corrosion till it
swallows the victim, scholars
have christened it many a name,
spleen, illwill, jealousy, envy,
hydra like, preying upon itself.

It's been along time

It’s been along time

It’s been a long time since I
sat upon the Mahogany chair,
exclusive property of my grand father,
as majestic and as royal as any
Monarch who wielded the scepter
Strict and undeviated,
It’s been a long time nearly three
decades since his passing into
eternity, the ancient house of pillars
forcibly closed for there was none
to maintain the country type,
the heavy bunch of keys which
I got by ship from my uncle,
It’s been along time since the
undusted piece of wood breaks
into a peal of laughter, with
every wipe, every shining,
my memory recollects the same chair,
by the side of which my faithful
grandmother used to sit and peal
the drumstick leaves for lunch,
it’s been since a long time that
I tasted her culinary expertise,
for she left this soil within a
month of her master,
it’s been a long time since
generosity is gone, tradition is gone.

Behind the times

Behind the times

I was far, far behind the times,
while the busy humanity, barring a few,
was much ahead of the times,
I was far behind the times,
Solely minding my work,
cooking cleaning and washing
reading and writing, brushing
many cobwebs that intrude walls,
unaware I was frog in the well,
the ones who care for others’ problems
were much ahead of their times,
aiming the poisoned slings and arrows
to dizzy heights, not sparing even
the gods and God sent,
I was far behind the times,
ever to write my cogitations,
those were far ahead of their times
to read in between the lines,
I was far, far behind the times.

Busy streets

Busy streets


I trudge along the busy streets,
let go the busy people busy,
hawkers, vendors, peddlers,
haberdashers jostle in the
motley crowd, making the
road busy, streets more busy,
I trudge along the busy streets,
draw food for my thought,
benumbed by the sight of the
slighted beggars, pavement
dwellers, labourers on the
scaffold, green vendors who
go dry, dry as their leaves,
ambitious men berserk,
driving fast, faster than the
rules permit, make me
Stupefied, where they go,
I trudge along the busy streets.

Fresh air

Like Cleopatra’s moods the fresh air,
glides in when I sweat profuse,
When I am cool and comfortable,
touches me and passes off
as the magic wand of a
mystical wizard,
yet, we have no mood to
abhor or abrogate you,
oh! Fresh air, you rule the universe,
how you come and go we know not,
I pity your predicament,
You are despoilt of your purity
by the garbage and human waste,
the stink of which merges you,
as the evil can pollute the good,
else how could we lose Paradise?
You are alone you are good and clean,
in my home garden how you breeze
me with the aroma of jasmine and rose,
in public you are easily corrupt,
oh! My dear don’t venture out of
precincts of your privacy.

Far away

Far away, far far away,
there was a lone woman
staying in a cottage
wailing for her child
today nearer she came,
nearer to me the frequent
visitor to the temple,
which oftener she too
would visit, more to complain,
that God was blind that
her daughter who was sold
could not be traced
in that small hamlet,
I said, far far away,
The covey of birds,
On tree tops tend to
their chicks, she was
Smaller than them,
God was not blind to her,
She was blind,
for she sold her own blood,
far, far away the cow licks
the calf and kicks the man
who milks the cow,
she must be far , far away,
from humanity’s purview,
being bereft of motherly care.

(172) A day by the beach of Dorset

        ( 172)     A day by the Beach of Dorset.

When humanity hooks me by its bait,
the sad memories of my being hood winked,
lingering as dive as a fish, me unstable,
I retreat to the surfing beaches of Dorset,
sip those just released vapors, smokes
dancing up, cream teas of Devon, sustain me,
yonder in the coarse waters of the surfing sea,
a fisherman in free play, with his fishing net,
It is not for bread and bed alone his struggle,
it is for bread and butter, a life of better,
His breathing is hooked to a tackle,
A bread of cheddar cheese,
folded in his paper roll,
what joy can you not derive?
in the cocooned casement of ship and sea,
I sail towards South west,
Sing along, sing along the see breeze,
I sail toward the southwest.

(173) Turning the pages of the past

1 73)   Turning the pages of the past----
Sitting, in the busy as a businessman railway thronged
station in London, waiting for the next connection,
I was turning the pages of my past, my dark past
where half the book was filled with ignorance
where the rest was bleak with innocence,
I looked back, I was pushed to a corner like
a cobweb which was a waste and trash,
or a spider which spins and spins to be nullified
by a broom, and my helplessness was a cloth hanger,
where many a dirty and clumsy and worn-out
was hung and more to witness the haberdasher,
while many held me to be guilty,
Gods ultimately took pity on me,
and sent the AMBASSADOR ,the divine angel
to me by my side, strong and to sail safe,
whom the seasoned, guilty mischievous
would not spare as sinning was in their blood,
as struggle was in mine, a sudden revelation
struck me ,if there were to be no sinning
how else the angels would descend,
the train came like a good Samaritan
to carry me to my destination.

A day in my life.

A day in my life.

That was a day in my life,
that was the day in my life,
when, my Mentor, Avatar came into life,
when my living was full of strife.

for a few were cantankerous,
jealousy and passion made vociferous,
everything in them was amiss,
to me His advent came as perennial Bliss,

That was the day in my life,
when Avatar Himself into my life,
spread His Benign blessings of leaf,
A golden leaf of protection for my life.

Day Dreaming

Day Dreaming.

When he was perspiring and sweat drenching,
his cotton shirt to squeeze and wring strong,
exhaling the heat of the tiled house,
feeling the comfort of the Air-conditioned,
himself pacified, he was only dreaming, not deceiving,

Bread and rotten tomato sufficed his hunger,
gulps of street tap water coming in murk
and mud quenched his thirst,
imaginary sip of coke and apple juice,
himself pacified, he was only dreaming, not deceiving,

cotton multi-colored patches, a shirt to be proud about,
it found its place on the hanger well in tout,
simple towels and torn pieces to cover his chest,
Self-admiring in the robes of silk and velvet,
himself pacified, he was only dreaming, not deceiving.

My grandfather clock

The Grand father clock

That was a grandfather clock,
framed of sturdy Mahogany,
the ancestral pride of five lineages,
with the golden colored pendulum,
ringing the stentorian chime,
Ding-dong, as majestic as the
Bell of Justice in Indian Court,
When the inmates were away,
how often the ding-dong
broke the eerie silence
of the ancient pillared house,
That was the Grandfather Clock,
a terror of alarm for the exam sitter,
for the local train commuter,
for my grandfather to feed the cow
a timely siren and stimulant to
scan the paper from top to the bottom.
That was the grandfather clock,
Shone like a prince by the broken
Cleavage a lengthy line on the wall,
by which lime and mud were falling,
That is the grandfather clock on which
Sits the wedding photo of
My son and daughter-in-law,
en emblem of eternity and bliss.

London was calling.

London was calling, calling.

You were bogged by the cold, ice-cold,
mounting coldness surrounding you,
when you did not know whether
your suffering was due to cold
or allergy, London was caring,
London was calling, calling,
When my Muse was seemingly
lethargic, needed a warm pep up,
London was calling, calling,
London’s Big Ben was chiming,
To remind me the Timelessness
of creativity, Big Ben was calling,
River Thames was calling, calling,
To reassure the ever flowing
thoughts in my poetic vein,
River Thames was calling, calling,
London Eye was calling,
The wheel of London Eye
was calling, calling,
The wheel to emphasize
The cyclic pattern of Life,
London is, is calling,
London is calling now, now!

How much of Spring springs on me!

How much of spring springs on me!

When March marches like a coy mistress,
bemuse what happens to these dry leaves
almost pounded, like disowned relatives,
when penury is writ large on their face,
April advances in silken robes, all smiles,
I enjoy the soft and velvet foam of Dove
Cream soap in my bath tub of London flat,
lingering aroma still on my wet skin,
a lavender sari to keep up the tempo,
while my soothing memory dates back
to Heathrow’s terminal three where a
a hot sip of Cappuccino with wavy
smokes elusive escape to nowhere,
a covey of doves on the elevated
car parking, enjoying the take off
and landing planes, perhaps,
I partake of the thrush and orange
necked white bird in their semi-chorus,
with the cuckoos, in their melody,
I bid farewell to those notes of lugubrious,
injustice and clever deception,
Away! Away ! You dark, dismal
wintry days! Unmooring me.

A look up at the sky

A look up, at the sky.
My good Samaritan neighbor gives me a lift,
the smooth wheels of his Sumo drive,
yet hit upon the mushroom like spread
jasmine that has encroached on the road,
I know not whose fault it is, the gardener
who took pity on it not to prune,
or the mechanical wheels that crush upon
half withered, smiling flowers,
who cares for these voiceless?
Through the same window panes,
I look up at the minaret, a bird
as if releasing into freedom from
its cove of self inflicted stay,
surfing the vast blue, merry, merry,
I have heard a bird hitting a plane,
who can hit the bird unless a
merciless bullet aimed at something else?
My paining neck slows downward,
Who cares these voiceless?

A rare gift to me

A rare gift to me



One day she beckoned me with
a warm smile and a peacock like radiance,
it was a soothing and assured message,
It was a pot of goodwill and respect to
my ingrained feelings, gifted to me,
England’s rare gift to me,
I nurtured with a soil of mutual
affection and bond,
my dictates watered the well sown seed of
Creative aura with imagination,
I treasure the gift in a velvet cove of
sincerity and diligence,
untainted by lazy resilience.

It is coming hard into this hard world

It is coming hard into this hard life

Tender and spongy as a velvet towel
layers of skin still pealing and pealing,
the soft feather like hand with its
Growing nail inadvertently moving
hither and thither , Scratching its face,
a filmy line of blood stain , narrowly
missed the eyes below, it has come
a hard way, into this hard world,
The creator’s just perfected,
Completed entity, the baby into
The mother’s arm, sharing warmth,
To counteract the cold of this earth,
It is coming hard into this hard life.

The colour of the blood --many

The colour of the blood is many!

When I am struck by a motor bike and lay
unconscious, the stretcher in the hospital
Wheeling me in the ward where I can not
feel or see anything, bottles of blood are
needed for emergency, schools and colleges,
are more, the donors are more,
yet the blood group is rare,
Now the colour of blood is Mercy!

When the bloody wars are fought,
Miserably lost and miraculously won,
When the bullets pierce the body,
The soldiers fall flat, the blood
Congealed, the battlefield,
decayed with rotten corpse,
the colour of the blood is sacrifice.

When the plane is hijacked,
When they hold all their lives in fear,
Somebody fights and shot at,
In the fear ridden aircraft,
the colour of the blood is bravery!

When we are related by blood,
People call us blood cousins,
blood brothers and blood sisters,
the colour of the blood is affinity
or affection or affectation too.

Blood and roses

Blood and roses

Blood is oozing, thick red blood is oozing,
as if wanting to be let out of its blue veins,
my blood stained thumb with a white band aid
doesn’t succumb to its wounded pride,
Still stands erect, the culprit is the penknife,
While cutting the lady’s finger, yes!
the lady’s finger, red blood on my white nail,
I run to the garden to pluck my favourite red roses,
Red roses with the hidden thorns,
I stumble upon an uncared
for plastic rubble, the soft skin
Underneath my foot reddens,
Red blood is oozing, oozing,
I look up the red roses,
Those that smile with a message,
‘ beware of the thorns in us, the roses.’

clean your house in ten minutes?

Clean your house in ten minutes?

It is not cleaning my house in ten minutes,
Much of clearing the pile of ten meters,
more of dust and bin and baskets and bamboo,
Cleaning and cleaning, carefully clearing,
Every nook and corner, the fallen cobwebs
On the shiny wooden floors,
My mop wipes the running sweat too,
It is not cleaning my house in ten minutes,
More of cleansing my body as well,
for the more I perspire, I aspire,
it is not cleaning my house in ten minutes.

What is on your mind today?

What is on your mind today?

There is nothing on my mind to-day,
for my mind wants to be a blank sheet,
to recline in a unique corner of my home,
where no media, no radio, no mobile,
distracts me, but to look up the vault
where a lizard is catching up an insect,
in a sudden move of devour,
yet both cling on the wall for a survival.

I continue to maze into the past,
So many knots and riddles, some
are solved, more need be for
proper guidance,
my single blank page multiplies,
There is a sudden trigger of a
lightning through my window,
just as a revelation from above,
which most of us care only to defy,
nothing can escape HEAVEN’S ambience.

I look around to what

I look around to what?

I look around my amphitheatre, what for,
it is lonely, barren,weirdlike,
autumnal leaves shed and shrouded
by the murk of the soil, what do I want?
hugged by the double frost-laden coat,
my shivering feet move on, occasionally
entrapped by the slush, winter is pioneered
by the thunder and lightning, even my linnet is
missing, I crave for the tender sun, warmth
as tender as fragile as a newborn, summer’s
morn by the kitchen is salutary,
but Spring’s budding blossoms ,
With song birds around, an impetus
for a fresh write-up.

For survival

For survival
That was a green locust by my pillow,
it wanted to escape the ice cold,
nugget on a small green leaved
food stuff in a micro oven dish,
I blew it up afar by my bedcover,

I saw it with my naked eyes
rest on a thick branch of
jasmine, white buds
about to be blossomed,
my quill visualises ten poems
on the ice lets, glassy,
I drew back blanket on my
face, quick interface with
the feel of a poem ,
a sudden hit on my forehead,
that is the frost hit locust
that was driven by the wind,
back through my door ajar.

Secret chamber of my heart

Secret Chamber of my heart

That is a secret chamber of my heart,
as sacred as the creator’s master plan,
that is a sacred chamber of my heart,
inundated thought s flow diving up and down,
not , not, in a purblind move
of permutation and computation ,
along with the blood flow, cogitations,
hurt feelings ,inexplicable too,
tabled in a preset tabernacle,
yet colourful as the fish dandling with their
cute fins foraying up and down the water,
symbols and solutions as sacred
as the rivers the mighty Himalayas.
That is a secret chamber of my heart.

The paper boat by the rivulet

The paper boat by the rivulet
Yesterday my lady wrote something on me,
I heard her whisper poetry, poetry,
between her bath and lunch,
Plugged me in between her book,
lest I should be elusive from her,
writing and striking, reading and revising,
by noon uploaded into the computer,
in the evening by the maid,
pushed from basket to bin,
crumbled and crushed to be
downloaded as a waste.

The wind footballs me to you,
In a high pitch of goodwill,
My dear water, I am by you,
We move along, we sing along,
We move along, we sing along.

"what those dead bones and skulls have to say?"

What those dead bones and skulls have to say?

“Is it for this illegal trade for money,
did we lay our flesh, to be hawked upon,
hungry vultures swarmed around to
peck upon our bleeding sores?
“is it for the perpetuation of this
Colour consciousness and bigotry,
that we became one with the colour
of the sand of this land?
“is it for the word love bereft of love
that we were gored to this land?”
Gone are those days when you
were afraid of us, bones and skeletons,
We lost our sleep, our peace in our
Land of peace, our graveyard,
“every time we hear gunfires,shells,
there is a tremor of fear in our bare bones,
those scary bombs and missile
make a dent on our already rough frame,
don’t send anymore corrupt to us,
for we are at peace and perfect here.”

What a fire!

What a fire!
It is the fire of hellish, negative energy
Stimulated by envy that kindles them, the
defiant group uncompromisingly fanatical,
their hearts completely trafficked by wickedness,
It is the fire of positive endurance,
Optimism and forgiveness that sustains
the chosen suffering lot,
It is the vibrant energy propelled
by the fire of determination unspoilt
by laziness and ennui that brings
for them the success and laurels,
It is the fire of the angered gods
that cause deluge and devastation.

what is she searching for?

What is she searching for?

She is a lone climber on the craggy mountain atop,
A septuagenarian, whose wrinkles on her white face,
Unfolded her age, aging and struggling,
betrayed her strife with life, strewn with her
ambition and hard work, not to be dubious,
to b e deceived by the sham,frivoulous,
yet, her fast pace upward the hill,
she was once a mountain like, erect,
who was inching upwards, self conscious,
what happened to the improvised, thatched
cottage? Where is the stone epitaph for the
dog, her lifelong companion and protector?
Where is the shady Sycamore?
Her breathless steps answer her,
What more is there for her to search for?

Times are changing

Times are changing

Times are changing, Times are changing,
we are in the grip of changing Times,
yet, Time does not change,
Time is the same, Time is the same,
Time sets the timer for all of us,
in the wake of seasonal changes,
in the wake of climatic change,
flora and fauna change,
man changes, mind changes,
Time is the same, Time is the same,
The sun and the moon don’t change,
But you and I do change,
Time is the same, Time is the same.

A New Earth

A New Earth


What we see and what we live
is new earth bereft mostly of
conventions, cacophony leads,
growth of cactus and fungi
replace sandalwood and camphor,
I see before me a truck by OBrian,
Carrying brick and mortar and mud,
What was once a beautiful abode of
living, now a dilapidated murky stuff,
what we see and what we live is
a diabolic vile of abomination
and doom, mostly self inflicted,
just like dashing against a concrete wall
and complain about excessive bleeding,
what we see and what we live is an
Unfenced garden of shrubbery and stigma,
What we long to see and what we long
To live is a New Earth of Splendour and Peace.

Oh,England!you are the cradle

Oh, England! You are the cradle



Oh, England!you are the cradle
who nurtured my ambition,
you are the rich, fertile soil
that saw my growth from afar,
you are the Daffodil white,
made my heart, more and more
serene, you are the dream,
perennial in my heart,
you are the mighty Pegasus,
on which the poets aspiring
like me fly and high,
yours is the language supreme,
ruling far and wide.

on sleep

On sleep

I am a most welcome crony,
I tap the door of both the lazy
and lackadaisical
I surreptiously creep into the
tired body of the diligent,
like a fairy pervade into a babe
protect the sick and ailing,
wanted by many, hated by none,
I am a most welcome crony.

It is a foggy day

It is a foggy day


I fold my duvet, to see through my thick
window panes, a double routine
every day, cannot see for the thick fog
has besmeared the window panes,
I cannot but wonder that just
as man’s reason been clouded
by egoistic arrogance,
to appease my angered dismay,
the usual black bird with tiny, sharp
orange beak comes only to glide back
to its iron mound fencing the garden,
my garden at Silsoe flat,
there are many to join the clan,
small, cute, orange necked but
brown colour in body,
one or two in a pride of
monopoly over the tall trees,
the lanky trees, skyward for the showers,
they too have been purloined
of their growth by the seasonal
swift, unleaved , barren
yet not bereft of hope, swinging
as if waving upwards,
I too swing on my wheel chair,
A break with a coffee and crumpets,
desiderata, my duvet craves
manifold folds and folds.

Between the bed and duvet--

Between the bed and duvet


Between the bed and duvet,
there is no flesh, no kiss, no romance,
No hugging, no whispers,

between the bed and duvet,
violent passion runs,
Passion for writing and ruminating,

between the bed and duvet,
there is a diary and a quill,
to record and to narrate,

between the bed and duvet,
the songbird’s music and the
silent dawn like the flowering,

between the bed and duvet,
dawn flowing like a cascaded
sheet, something twined with chirping,

between the bed and duvet,
there is no sleep for me,
fresh moorings tap anew.

How do I find time to create each day

How do I find time to create each day?

I catch fast running Time
by its forelock,
feign to stop it for a while,
dip my quill of emotion
and experience in the
multi coloured oil paints
of fertile imagination,
each minute a new creation,
each hour with a new passion
for articulation, each articulation
is a matured flowering of expansion,
nearing to perfection,
Each day is an expression of
Feminine, fetish ebullience,
Nearing to perfection.

What will you be wearing?

What will you be wearing?

What you will be wearing?
I will not wear the mask of honesty,
to cover up my dark, sinister spec of
hypocrisy, if at all there is any,
What will you be wearing?
I will not wear jeans or tight pants
for I am too old to fit into these,
to show off myself, nor my qualms
nurture me to don these before
my grown –ups, to be doffed,
What will you be wearing?
I will not wear the costume of
Transparency, shining and silken,
for I believe in the transparency
of my thoughts and feelings,
In this wear and tear of life,
I believe to have a smooth sail
without any snag or strife.

Transparency

Transparency

As I recline on my chair of mahogany,
Ponder a while, why there is a decline
of the songbirds in my garden of Silsoe,
there is a swift choir of chirping of two
three birds, a sudden awakening, as if
a miracle to occur, a mystery to clear,
I rise to worship the universal Sun-God,
Chirping of Song Thrush, Linnets and
Bullfinches in melody of rare musical
Notes, inviting me too for that rhapsody,
The Sun as if a big shining diamond, cut,
Polished, the sparkling beams of which
Straight and impartial, as straight as
The sceptre of adamantine judge,
Focus on my face, peep into my mindset,
What a transparency? What a lovely,
Soul-searching transformation in me!

Man and his moribund nature

Man and his moribund nature


Oh!man,are you still not aware that
Your self is pawned and pledged,
and even bought by those hardcore
businesslike, life for them is fulcrum flesh,
who crave for convivial merriment
and lucre, not wanting to know, that
their existence is only a punctured
balloon slowly reducing to nothingness,
they sit on the broken twig, slender,
slandering on the passersby below,
the twig is slowly crushing down,
they are not monkeys to skip from
branch to branch, agile and awake,
I can see they are falling, falling
Under the felled branch, to be
bruised and incapacitated,
Oh!man, at least now you wake up.

The shadow is ephemeral

The shadow is ephemeral


Like a good Samaritan wielding prowess
in one hand and talisman in the other,
the chariot of Sun God descends slowly,
Sparkling white beams straight and impartial,
The pail of water in my hand glitter and gurgle
into the flowers purple and violet, and double white,
just as the gathering clouds shadow past me,
I long for the warmth, why the sudden shiver?
By the meadow yonder, a cowboy and a shepherd
make up with their dumb pets that graze leaves
dried lettuce, a vague wandering,
those urchins gulp tamarind rice amidst hiccoughs,
the sunbeams revive, give a message of assured love,
glare on me, only the sun is real and universal,
the shadow is ephemeral .

Home, my home, my sweet home

Home, my home, sweet home



Home, my home, sweet home,
home is where I dream and delve
sweep and mop, cook and clean,
so I cannot roam, shall not roam,
the mansion where I relive my
Multiple desires, drink the honey
of Jubilation ,drown the villain of
abomination and doom

Home, my home, sweet home,
Within the precincts of which
I roam, roam, chant a song and
Within roam from room to room;

Home, my home, sweet home,
From my pooja room to prayer hall
to balcony of rose pots,
the petals of which deck my deities,
the aroma of sandal and camphor,
the fruits in the bowl,
the jasmine and betels
in trays of copper and bamboo plates,

Home, my home, sweet home,
from kitchen to culinary,
the mirror in the cleaned
Silver vessels, I see my alarm on
the refrigerator, reflected
in the mirror, not a mirage, a mirror,


Home, my home, sweet home
Within the precincts of which
I roam, roam, and roam.

what if my poem is rejected?

What if my poem is rejected…


What if my poem is rejected?
my avid quill does not stop
enthralling my pages of endless
quest of truth and justice
what if my poem is rejected?
does my heart cease to function?
Does red blood swell to
reddening mark on your face?
like a staggering deer to the
abode of safety from the den of
growling lions, I move on,

what if my poem is rejected?
my undaunted spirit never
connives to forsake the abode,
neither does it intrude upon my
thin yet strong structure, aging body,
what if my poem is rejected?
I am not dejected at all,

My peering eyes look through
the bright, glassy window of Silsoe flat,
do the pair of swinging black birds
on the barren twigs of the tall tree,
refuse to sit and dance and view the
mini pond or the jingling leaves of
Greenery not on the far off mountain,


What if my poem is rejected?
My quill shall never reject me at all.

When December's chill predominates--

When December's Chill----


When December’s chill predominates the fresh morn,
January’s Sun-God leading the harvest festival,
gingered stubs, jaggery and sugarcane and wood apple,
fill the almost torn bamboo baskets tilted to the floor,
vociferous shop women gather the buyers, who bargain,
both the buyer and the vendor hoping for a new beginning,
one counts the coffers, counts and counts, careful enough
not to be discounted by the tipsy husband,
a car drove past the struggling man with the long
sugar cane on his shoulder, punch and push,
why do they not stop and care the uncared many?
Yesterday’s scar has furthered into uncanny canning,
a young urchin bullied for purloining eggs in his torn
trousers that betrayed his petty act, a peanut matter.

I think of those days in England walking on the clean roads,
the tip of my nose reddened, the soft skin in-between the
toes itching, for the cold and foggy weather ring around,
I too look around for a cafeteria, to wet my parched throat,
smoky vapours of cappuccino, an impetus for writing,
mind wandering on cows and running dogs, spaced
between autos and automobiles, scaring school children,
already burdened with notebooks more of imposition
than of exercise, that is India, for India cannot be
without these, interminable laws and hooks.
I think of those days in England when my quill
reigned like a queen in glowing embers,
I think of these days when my internet is timed out,
I am in intangible, insubstantial rut,
December’s chill predominates the fresh morn.

The gingerbread house

It was a ginger bread house,


It was a gingerbread house I designed,
before laziness could denounce my ensign,
I constructed in earnest,
for the festive occasion of Christ’s Nativity,

It was the avid gingerbread house with
Candy and plums spread around,
spooky and sweet, definitely not nondescript,
for the festive occasion of Christ’s Nativity,

It was the gingerbread house we all relished,
with a vow to demolish all bickering around,
I prayed many a more ginger bread house,
Should ward off all our grouse.

Bitter tablets

Bitter tablets

1)
The soul’s accelerated avid momentum
to merge with the ALONE attains fruition
only with steadfastness and sincerity.

2)
When the soul’s unquenchable thirst
To reach the alone is avidly unabated,
God’s mercy is amply augmented.


3) Ambition like a seasoned conman
Strikes REASON threadbare and hardcore
Devouring amateur and aged alike.

4) I sit at God’s Altar
not to clamor for any mundane favor
but to seek Divine succor.


5) When principles and personalities clash,
to make your life a humdrum trash,
Divine succor comes as a splash!


6) A beggar’s appearance needs no subscription,
while a palanquin beggars all description,
why this disparity in Creation?

7) Brazen shields and glossy swords,
gore the earth into bloodbath,
Ending up to endless configurations and wrath.


8) When you are steeped in abysmal worry,
your face into your hands bury,
here comes to resuscitate Ashbery.

Welcome ye New Year!

Welcome ye New Year!

Come, ye golden lady of riches,
I name you New Year unique,
Opulent with all riches, magnificent,
You are the ivy, evergreen,
Keeping the right foot on the threshold,
The illumined lamp cupped in your hands,
Come ye! Golden lady of riches,


There, in the vast arena
of jubilant gathering
The bugles shots high,
The proud bursting crackers
Itinerant towards the sky,
Rebel and mock at the silent gloom,
The itching hag of Darkness,
That rivet in the corner, pretending
to be unsullied, shaping itself
into the penurious, depressed,
honk into the devious,
ye the devilish, go to go,

Come ye! Golden lady of riches,
With all resplendence and prosperity.

Chrstmas Tree

Christmas Tree

Here in Tesco I saw a Christmas tree,
Entwined with bulbs of twinkling glee,
I took a vow no more there shall be,
Hunger, misery and vile penury around me.

When plums and cakes pour in bowls of plenty,
Christmas carols and songs in dainty,
Can we allow the dingy monster of dirty?
to usurp the greenery, a sordid pity,

In the merry England of snow and snow,
There shall be a big no, and only no,
No to wants and needs, you know,
Only God’s plenty, yes! We know.

A note on Death

A note on Death

Oh! Death, don’t be dandy like,

You and me are caught between ding-dong,

The bells are still ringing,

Your darting arrows are disgruntled,

You are fidgety, frivolous,

In your bituminous and dyspeptic mood,

You eject blasphemy of life,

I wish you to be dodo.

It is not as you think easy

It is not just as you think easy,

as pretty cool as to taste an ice cream

Or fruit salad, the cut fruits bit bit,

sip coke by a straw, and throw away

the folded and crushed straw in a bin

or leave the cute cups on the table unwashed,

I pick up a thin crushed paper,

To wipe my hands,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think, and thank Heavens;

as existence has birth and death,

followed by the traumatic path of its journey,

living and dying ordained by Him who has chosen

It to be, if it be two legged or one eyed,

giant or dwarf, pauper or affluent,

It is not as you think easy,

I think, think and thank Heaven;

the rustling thin paper wails,

the kite from the ground by a

slender thread by a pulling hand,

before we became crumpled papers,

all sides tagged , whispers

we were live on trees,

We hang on to the empty balloons,

Whimper any time,

It is not as easy as you think,

I think think and thank Heaven.

,

Those,blead dark days---

Those bleak, dark, days--

Those dark days were dangerous,
like eruptions of molten lava,
as bad as to be in the rut of those raging panthers,
more dangerous to be in the midst of those
charlatans, silent spectators, watching me submit,
a caged bird like me, cannot but pour songs of
Innocence, shifting my abode of stay, much to the
chagrin of my spirit already in mortification,
Propelled by an inner voice, that ushers
me to forge ahead.

His voice

Inner voice



Why must I hold a phone with words?
When phones are active, in my heart’s
Secret chamber set by Him in Birth itself,
While you are all loquacious, clamorous,
to defy and to counter argue,
His Domain of Silence dominates,
His voice is the universal voice,
To counteract and quell the
Caterwauling, mounte banks,
His is , and would be symphony,
Conquering cacophony.

This biting cold here--

This biting cold here..

I draw my thick blanket, from my
Shivering feet to cover my parched face ,
I wriggle, shrink, beneath the cover,
Outside it is snowy and cold as a cod
My understanding little kid gives me
Cocooned pillow, me to coddle with,
Slowly I close my eyes, to visit my
land of shores, the dried palm leaves,
the tall coconut trees, in which beehives
Weave their dormitories, the sandy beaches
By which I weave a web of creativity,
Sleep creeps in as surreptitious
as a cat’s paw.

Gift of christmas.

Gift of Christmas

As Christmas is not far off,
Let us shake hands of warmth, exchanging chocolates,
Don the new vow of goodwill and mutual sympathy,
For what more comfort do you derive than
In shaking and sharing bounteous hands
Of extended wealth and mirth to the poor
And needy, He that was crucified sought
Pardon for the cruel, at least shall we not
Follow his path of forgiveness, for what more
Treasure you can treasure than the heart
Unsullied of spleen and vendetta.

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows---

When the dead grass and the thirsty cows,
the blunt meadows, the fields popped-up
with weeds, the growth of which is unaccountable,
the hungry farmer with the sickle, to unweed
the parched lands for there is no grain,
the livestock thin framed grazing on the
frail leaves got stuck up by the stake of
stones, not on the leaves or grass for
everything is parched, even the birds
and parrots dare not come, for there
is nothing to peck and beam about,
there is no bard to pour any song,
like anybody else I look up the sky,
the clouds, the beauty of the winged birds,
Journeying across, in mirthful glee,
Mocking at the land, I could hear an aircraft
zoom in the air, the innocent, convention bound,
Propitiate the rain gods, the chanting
is divine and uniform, sooner, steadier,
what are those gathering, dark clouds,
to brighten the land, to wet the dry?
my desk, my pad and quill go fertile.

It is the rains dropping

It is the rains dropping

It is the miles and miles of rains dropping,
Heaven’s Cheers dropping, dropping partial,
Sometimes here and there, It is all
the soil’s doing good and otherwise,
the learned scholars avidly opine,
may be the whims and fancies of the
Clouds, rains falling on the roof and rut,
rains dropping on the beggar and niggardly,
rains dropping on the timber and ok,
why,even on the felled wood thick, lying on
the ground beneath which the dead bird lies,
the bones jetting out, could be it is
given the watery burial, rains drop
even the anchored ship and add to the shore,
Yonder the flat , the boy floats a paper boat,
Though I want to I cannot, since a shiver
runs through me for I am feverish.

A painful pondering--

A painful pondering
It is not a trivial one day’s matter,
It is not a short term’s manoeuvre
it is not a year’s painful trauma
it is a solid five decades of parasites’
rapacious plundering into a vale,
It is a piteous wonder why should God
send such hounds into the smooth flowing
haven of placid helpless, creatures, one such was
Pushed fifty years ago to grow with the
Overflowing venom awfully inherited
From the womb where it came from,
Every minute’s progress was from the
Lust personified Mother
itself a putrefied commodity,
every penny by the itch of flesh, scratching,
every day’s food it swallowed by cunning, craft,
dubious knock of the house, every lie, every
Blasphemy, strong in its strangulation.
A victim of its own venom to be.

His Tennis court Experience

, His tennis court experience

It was in the Tennis court where he lost
and where a Revelation struck him,
where the meaning of Life was instilled,
he was cocksure of his previous experience,
confident of terrific, ripping success,
a sudden muscle pull , he knew he was losing,
Indigestible as hard as to find a mosquito
In plate of curd rice, he wriggled and wrestled
dashed his tennis racket against the wall,
emotion and empathy and undeniable
defeatism pushed him into a flat position,
resilience and despair drove him into a dream,
what did the cross that appear message him?
The cross signified the criss-cross of life’s
Meandering, mysterious miasma,
The warp and weft of the looming
as slender and as flexible
and as brittle as the dew drops of our life.

Another funeral averted

Another funeral averted.

Praise be to my Mentor, Kudos to my guru,
had it not been to my Guru’s timely,
benign intervention ,sequel to the almighty’s
boon to me, there would have been yet another
ghastly funeral, a Machiavellian plot,
those days when the beguiled, short-tempered
was no more, when his obsequies were being held,
when I was pushed to the noisy kitchen,
with my silence and ignorant of the
Surreptiously boiling, envenomed situation,
The truly guilty yet like a proud peacock,
Covering her sin was sauntering about,
Conniving ly convincing the gathered ones,
The poisoned arrow was turned against me,
My Mentor was strong by me
Praise be to Him who stands by me and my close-nit.

The Time is yet to come for them

The Time is yet to come for them—
The Time is for them yet to come
to run away, those plotting parasites,
for their perfumed bodies cannot do away
with their surreptitious nocturnal navigations,
these blithe night birds are known for their
Public daylight dances too.
They feel their flesh is itching,
day by day to abed more and more
men and in bath rooms and bathtubs ,
they dwell and delight their most
Expandable luxuries. Rippling! Killing!
Are their experiences but it is painful
for us for they see through their
sexy eyes , we the innocent ones.
The time is yet to come for them to run away,
for their coffers are to be filled.
No time limit, no clock would chime,
for they would rather pawn the clock
as they do their dignity,
the Time is yet to come for the
run away jingling bells.

what is this business of running away

What is this business of running away?

What is this business of running away from?
And why? Those in whose blood the runaway
Passion is ingrained, those seasoned sinners
in whom the rumour of others running away
is settled as a sediment in a river bed,
or a poisonous gas far beneath the well
in which we die of asphyxiation:
can we think of at the moment,
running away to the far off English countryside
to breathe into the forest aviation,
to wish to have a sickle to cut the
stem of the tree overflowing with sweet
water to quench our thirst,
or to sit by the lake to view these
birds with coloured beaks to
peck at peaches and plums,
to run away to a nearby cave
in which an antique idol
sits as if in a penance, shall we
run back to our homes to have a
Shower to run away to the tubes,
to run to the realms of classics,
to bask into the fields of poetry
and modern fiction.Yes!we are
far away from this mundane world.

Mu quill smacks at me

My quill smacks at me

Those white, splashy, frothy, surging waters
like battalions with iron-willed prowess,
dash against the seemingly timeless
Craggy rocks undiluted, firm and unshaken,
Rocky stones not yet corroded,
as if in a mood of defiance,
like a sage in penance.
I see the receding waters,
Now the roaring is gone
As in an aged lion, the valour is dead,

By the beach, my mood wanes,
My fingers criss-cross on the sands,
the pen which I throw in a fit of fury,
mocks at , the tiny bold bird
flaps its wings, back to me.

Praise be to the woman!

Praise be to that woman!

Praise be to that woman who bore the brutal brunt
of that man’s wrath and fury,
Praise be to that woman who was enslaved in her own roof,
that was plundered by preying wolves and confident
Intruders and tricksters who secured a base.
Praise be to that woman who fell a prey to hunger
and Starvation and menial task ,
while ease and luxury was extended
to the cheap and motivated,
woe and plague be to the woman
who wived the man who was to be her father.
Woe to the woman who husbanded the man
In stealth and fathered the man in public,
Curse be to the woman who cast aspersions
to the unseen and godly,
fortunate that she was who died premature,
for another killing was avoided.

One word is not enough or is theres any last word?

One word is not enough or is there any last word?

One word is not enough to describe
the mighty, vast ocean , the ultimate
excellence of the Creator’ crafty
design, the earth’s ruling monarchical monster,
the huge unfolable umbrella beneath which
microbes and engulfed lands and deluged cities,
in cyclical pattern roll on and roll down,
the beauty of the Blue is submerged by the
roaring, fearful ,thunderous, resurgent
looming waters gushing the shore and back
to the unseen throne,oh!the watery sublime,
Ceaseless and unaging, just as the creator,
You are the ultimate eternity,
eternity’s rummaging, Beauteous bounty.

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed

He who has created the seed ,
As the creator of all things under His perview,
Protects it from being trampled upon,
the seed driven by the wind that sweeps it
to a safer place as the chic is nestled
upon by the caring mother ,its feathers
a complete coverage for the newborn,
He who has protected the seed, waters
the seed to germinate into a plant
which bears flowers ,flowers red, rose
those deck His altar Him Who has
infused life into living upon it.

The sweeper

The sweeper
The sweeper with a thin, frame of body,
With a packet of hurriedly baked breadfast,
tucked on the left of her sari frills beneath,
a sort of shrunken belly, her faded broom
mechanically sweeps, her thinking rocks
with the thought of her six months old baby
in the cloth cradle hung to the beams
across the thatched house, she sweeps,
the drunken husband stealing her
carefully hidden coffer, the awakened
idea suddenly sweeps her mind,
she sweeps or does her broom sweep?
Who knows, inwardly she weeps for her
Predicament, her broom sweeps the dust
On the floor, she weeps, she sweeps.

How he was beguiled

How he was beguiled


It was not the saliva dripping, tail wagging dog,
the faithful guardian who would snarl and growl
upon strange visitors, that he nourished and fondof,
for him the very name dog
Sounded anathema, he did not rear a dog,
to give biscuits and crumbs and a bowl of milk
To be fed, he was kind with vultures and prowling,
Wolfish in the form of humans, pillaging upon
every pie and poking and pricking upon the inmates,
the backdoor wolves chased away the inmates,
he who has nurtured the vile was snapped away
being poisoned to death.

On thd dead grass

On the dead grass


On the recently unplugged bunch of grass,
Grass, green and still fresh smelling, retaining
Its aura, no, the grass is not dried or dead,
I could feel the kerb of the bunch,
for the gardener uprooted the stretch,
has unevened , the ground,
that ghostlike stories swell
one could weave and write lounging
Upon the topsy-turvy mound,

how often paramours would have
rested in even times to share their
ruffled up, anxiety ridden reflections,
how many inspirational writings
would have emanated from the
Constructive, creative minds of the
thinkers who think alike,
No,the people throng still,
The grass is not dead, it smells
Still Green and good.

war poem-what is to be negated

That which is to be negated

It is not the blood –oozing bodies,
in the battlefield, some of the slain
asundered parts of which are shaking
like a quiver, a struggle not for survival,
but to breathe their last,
Those are vowed to redeem their Nation’s
Honour pledged and some sold,
may be some to deepen their feud and fury,
to foreground their buried venom
In sharpened knifes and sounding bullets,
For the widowed wives and orphaned children,
to aggrieve the loss, it is the seed of malice ,
a maligned, negative approach to be negated.

Is sky thse limit?---

Is sky the limit?


Standing on the ghat of the holy Ganges,
Ferrymen agile, rowing their boats up and down,
Convention bound families perform their rites
and the see-saw rhythm of chanting of ablutions ,
for the departed souls, I viewed the river not
in spate , the Sun –God from his orb
like a multi-millionaire’s treasure,
more for charity than for self, spreads his beams,
that morn I saw the blue merging with the blue,
I wished to have been a crab or sea-weed ,
to glide into the pitch of the sky.

A tree in Bangor

A tree in Bangor
A tree in Bangor
Some rustling of the leaves and a good natured
Monkey like hop about in a tree emitting glow worm like
Sparks ensuring light for the passersby, throwing a jug of
Marmalade a deliberate drop seemingly a casual one,
For a hungry woman sheltering under the thin branched tree,
and a leather jacket too to fight the biting cold,
a rustling ,ruling to wrestle the dominant darkness,
I look up from my near apartment, nothing for my naked eye,
It skips to and fro, I infer, settles in corner,
Sees through the unseen, selects a new shapeless,
Here the AVATAR goes to make miracles.

what is moresf about Time---

What is more about Time----
I would not say the repetitive
Time on its winged wheels,
Nor the a clock with its fast moving needles,
But Time is an ancient, versatile don’t care master,
also as a Stringent and rigour in his hand as a band
To make one knee l down or if His visionary
Wisdom ordains to heel the humble and hurt,
Time does not wallop or wail for he reigns supreme,
For Time is the crystallized compendium
And a case study of His Creation.

The young buoyant urchins

The young buoyant urchins here---


The bubbling buoyant urchins
In Silsoe rich in heart and tout,
Like covey of birds on the blue
Sky clear and wavy,
from all over the globe here,
with a free hand and open mind,
more of a matured wisdom than of
corrugated ego corrupting
their growing minds, work and play
dine and chat in equal rhythm,
believe into growing their conscience,
like polished diamonds into perfection.

The Devil's doing in the darkest hour

The Devil’s doing in the darkest hour


The Devil in the deadly dark hour,
Naked in its motive,
Springs, stings a naked lie of
reality that the god sent
Shrinkable, unseen, shapeless
does the job of the man in his sheet
a stark naked lie whet and cut
polished to be a truth,
that the love in the bed and bath tub,
an embryo in the barren no longer
fertile womb, yet the devil is naked,
naked in its wicked pursuit.

The inevitable

The inevitable

As the cupped hands cannot hold
All the gathered waters long,
just as this plastered building
of ephemeral body will not dare
to stilt and chase this soul,
as you cannot put all the embers
and fires in sealed containers,
just as the possibility of measuring
the ocean is a mere dream,
the suppressed facts and swearing
multiplied lies will only boomerang
with redoubled vigor and volume.

The indoor plants

The indoor plants

The indoor plants like a filigree,
on the television set of my Silsoe house,
and the ones by the central heating
tender and fresh till yesterday,
slowly droop and wither,
I, basking in the sunlight
of my garden reason out
that the greenery popping out of the pots,
crave for the sunlight the rays
which are flashed through the window grills,
making all of us realize how much of Sun,
the universal prevalent essential
rudimentary for our sustenance.

The one special fruit

The one special fruit ---

All the peaches and plums of England
Can not vie with that of a Pomegranate,
one in his garden, he being my best friend,
that one fruit hanging,full-blown,ruddy,
ruby like, the edges of which stroked even,
it reminds me of paintings of figures on
a china ware jar, the lines criss crossing,
on one side, the seeds are popping out
in a small cut, for a parrot has pecked at it,
still deft fingers would not pluck it away,
allowing more freedom for a fresh covey,
with a tweet and twitter, special guests
for the special fruit .

The ash colored Dove to ashes.

The ash-colored Dove to ashes

It was the tender, sponge-like ash- colored
Dove inquisitive and freedom in its control
was moving about in the academic campus
as if to preach or to teach, I know not,
with a twitter in the lab and a sudden jump
on top of the table to pry about,
it was the same Dove with a wounded leg
limping in my garden yet to peck at the
newly blossomed yellow flowers,
it was the same tender Dove cornered
in a corner of my garden at Silsoe,
with wings strewn apart, and the neck
pounded to mere nothing----.
I wake up from my sleep with a sigh,
Sigh of lost love to be tapped by my Dove.
A rejuvenation beyond imprint.

My dream comes true.

MY dream comes true.

My dream has come true,
my dream inextricably woven into
The vortex of my blood,
has come miraculously
True when I visit England for
the second time just as the
blossoming of a flower in my garden,
a beautiful sunflower serenade to and fro,
just as the birth of a calf in my
grandmother’s ancient house of
pillars high vaulted, the birth pangs
of the mother cow ….maaa maaa---
still ringing into my ears,
just as the landing of the aircraft,
as a bird takes off , widespread
its wings in the opposite direction,
the enriched land of Shelly
and Shakespeare, Lamb and Wordsmith,

I drive on from Silsoe a calm countryside,
The queen moon shines in its full ambit,
The isolated road sides and tree tops
Completely besmeared with the thick green aura,
I am Overwhelmed with the quill scribbling
in my mind’s eye,infront of me the dining table
filled with products from Tescoe,
I wide open my eyes to see how much more
To explore, to achieve and my dream comes true.