This goodhearted monkey

This good-hearted Monkey…..

This good-hearted monkey, good Samaritan
impeccably vows to follow me from my
Cradle to the grave, I do not train it,
It caringly trains me and pommel with words
those who hit him, unsparing,

decent and divine,
one not of those scratching and searching
lice in dirt and unwashed hair,
leads me wary to my grape yard,
drops those purple into my

mouths, sane and serene way of
quenching your thirst,
if I am awake, it corners into a nap,
when I am asleep, short tap on my
key-board and computer,

it preaches, it teaches,
without any hitch or scratch,
I am the monkey, I would be
the donkey, puppy and dog,
load and wash and watch,

am the Holy water, hellish fire,
dusty air, musty mist,
float and fly, smile and chuckle,
I am the Avatar,
those with wicked and naked
Eye cannot see me.

Ice cream

Ice cream

Vanilla ice cream instantly decided
A must as a dessert on the carte du jour,
Children finalize in the elevator,
As a mark of jubilation over
the engagement of my eldest,

the youngest winks at me,
no excuse mom,
in the Shindy restaurant,
roof garden with shiny marbles,
family gathering, my sweet

grand daughter babbles in
baby language, in gestures strange,
I look into the white puff of whiff,
Transparent creamy stuff in the
White bowl of glitter,

A narcissus springs again,
Pain!pain! pain!
It is the bewildered cry of
Tooth extraction, root canal
treated, gums shrivel,

one little pinch goes to the lip,
the cup passes to the rest.
my second son nods to accept, alleviate.

She lies

She lies, lies, lies.

She basks her perfumed, powdered face
On his plump chest, golden and white
Counting the silver fur, flesh rubbing flesh,

Countless are her cocooned days,
of bold nights she spends
in his loins, myriad ,

devouring his clean chin ,
her eyelashes paint romantic tales,
in water colors, convincing lies

so many dawns and dusks ,slip by,
as she slips into many a skin,
Today I see her lie in another couch.

It sounds clownish

It sounds clownish

What I hear is the clamor of vociferous
acoustics, season’s bug , the hurriedly
vying megalomaniac’s dream enacted
on the streets, I jump into the pavement,

behind me wailing or whispers not from
sophomores but beginners of the
university campus, yet romping down,
“ no friends, no life, no taste,”

a mad , imbecile craving, I feel,
what good to have many a friends
who stand not in times of dire need,
misguiding and misshaping ,

you are a canoe, rudderless, sinking
better to be alone, to seek a friend
in your self, than faith in fiends,
I bend to pick up a perfumed kerchief,


the red colored double Decker bus,
halts to branch us off to different
stages, the piece of cloth reaches
the owner, she waves and smiles ‘good-by’.

The Terror of Grief.

The Terror of Grief.

The Terror of Grief is like
a frenzied, stray dog, anger
howling in the looks,

The terror of grief is chasing you,
you run, driven by the extremes
gasping for breadth,

you run to get caught, gored
by the massive teeth,
the horror of a victim,

your clean, unpolluted head
for all its innocence and purity
guillotined, blood shed,

the terror of Grief holds you
by its relentless claw,
until blood is drained,

the shiver is a tremor , engulfs you
in its abysmal deep.

Nomenclature

Nomenclature

This potentially hidden primo face
Life force, in the beautified clay,
this body, lurkingly mobilizes,

singly, a manipulating wizard,
goes by many names, life,
breadth, soul and Atman,

how it enters, wherefore it leaves,
this small ‘ it’ is big enough,
it enters the tuned doll,

skips ,rolls and jumps on
large and sturdy Mausoleum,
keyed and controlled by Santa Claus,

this ‘it’ is a rocky boulder,
weeps, withstands, have recourse
to births ceaseless and many.

Those eyes

Those Eyes

I swam into those eyes,
blossoming as lotus or

Chrysanthemum in my
garden, blooming, booming,

no mascara, no eyeliner,
no swelling passion, no anxiety,

Rubric in the face,
A glassy mirror that

is reflective of ceaseless
Creation and vision,

No empires falling, no
kingdoms surrendering,

Neither irksome lust,
Nor seductive charm,


My sweet grand daughter in
Silken robes and sweet smiles.

This little thing on my little finger

This little thing on my little finger

This little thing on my little finger,
White, rounding and rounding,
day by day, bulging and protracting,

they call it whitlow,
not giving me pleasure,
paining and paining,

alienating me from writing,
this little thing is crafty,
I apply rice floured bandage,


Soaked in oil, my beloved
Grandma’s treatment, followed
in good earnest,

this little thing says,
be patient, I’ll go when
only I am satiated.

The other foot far.....

The other foot far…..

Is that the praying mantis in your tidy
bedroom , or a cricket that leaps and chirps?
or cockroaches hurriedly moving from
corner to corner wooden shelves to
colonize as a matter of right,
the bedbugs go hiding underneath the pillow,


Another addition to already bugging mass,
yet, do the insects have the intellect of
sixth sense? Ply my evening by the beach,
the crab dead and fetid, tossed up and
down by the surging waves,
dashing against the pebble, a dead prowess!

Romping boys balloon up the air,
inflate and diffuse, innocence plays,
boiled ground nuts in craving baskets,
Young urchins in rags and tattered,
I part with my son’s T-shirt, loose garment,
A treasure, till youth matures into manhood,


Why this human debacle? I query within,
It is karma, destiny, the Avatar replies,
I move on, move on ,mind stretches far…
London’s stentorian Big Ben chimes,
Many stroll and sit on the broad steps of
Trafalgar Square, my creativity augments.

Celluloid show

Celluloid show.

I am a Celluloid bride,
Showcased on T.V stand with pride,

I dance to the tunes of many,
That many don’t exploit me for money,

What kisses, what hugs, what smiles, know not,
Still, I know, I am not rot, rot,

What Day, Sun or Moon, on me the same,
for me it is only a passive game,

a game to make others happy,
if you are happy, I too am happy.

Penury speaks

1) Penury speaks…

Under the tree sycamore,
She lies threadbare,

lobed leaves, her rich bed,
what more is for her to shed?

she closes her sunken eyes
in state limpid, yet with tears,

a cursed living to pull through,
isolation as if in marginalized borough,

rain or sun, the tree protects,
she has no dreams to protract,

her last breath would be her ideal gift,
much solicited prayer in tout.

He comes through my balcony.

He comes through my balcony.

He comes white collared,
bold as an honest romantic,
unstinted as the copious rain God,

he does not go into hiding,
shiver and fever wrinkle me
as a shapeless bundle,

then I lay, expose my body
to him, drink his warmth as
a medicine,

the dazzling hands extend his
stethoscope, seemingly
Prescribes garlic and pepper,

Slowly goes back the same way,
taking back the accessories
of apothecary he brings in.

Night afte night

Night after Night

Night after night, it is the
Owl screeching, that disturbs
me when my keyboard is vibrant
with tapping alphabets,

the traffic on the road is undulating
just as the heroes ranting in the
nearby clustered cinema theatre,
the gay and gaiety hand in hand

in colorful attire soon to be doffed,
for the weltering after revelry,
even Prudery yields to fetish countenance.
owl shifts its nearby abode,

what if the good news of childbirths
every second or be it childlifing,
or numerous rotten , carcass burning,
night after fight , the owl is the same.

Cake of crumbs

Cake of crumbs

He sits on the woody branch of a
tree, green verdures around the locale,
as if parrots block ensemble,
sudden shake of a feel , caught by blizzard,
those songbirds snug to the thickets by,

the ones recently migrated fear the exodus,
some rustles as though notes of prophesy,
I look up to the invisible and invincible,
“I drop some pellets or crumbs of eclectic
Poetic inspiration, bake a cake of creativity,”

It is appetizing, for the cake
grows bigger day by day.
as though necromancy became
water into it.

The protest

The protest.

There is hardly any spoon of well-cooked
Rice,that goes down your throat,
your trachea turns back,
hungry mouths swallow,yet
the process is slow and segmented,


The pouncing food protests,
just as the watch dog’s barks,
I am plundered and harvested,
from the field not belonging to you,
smeared with treachery, soiled

by greed ill-begotten,hawks and hounds
abstain from smelling that,
Perfidious, venom spits venom,
your coffer is dirty and rotten,
your vault is wrong begotten.

Domestic rant.

Domestic rant.

Those elders who read line by line,
Almanac codified by eminent astrologers
protested, when I was in the threshold
of my house,to book flight tickets for
London, don’t proceed, don’t book today,
for a cat crossed across a few yards away,
the flight was safe with thumping success!

you are in U.K .O.K O.K O.K.
is it raining there? Some good Samaritan
from afar, seemingly raved over the phone,
don’t start from the house for U.S visa,
when it starts raining , it is not good augury,
you will end up in a pizza,
yet it proved to be a big bonanza.

My mind like CD rom whines,
the past when, my neighbor in India,
wished me a grand success,for flowers
came in baskets and bounteous,
for my three children stay in soil away,
your visa is sure today,
alas! It was denied for the day,

me thought they had a fear
I would settle in foreign clay.

Blind man's buff

Blind man’s buff.
When I was ten, I played blind man’s buff,
A self inflicted loss, a game of ten,
blind to the sequel, blind to everything,
though only transient, me thought,
we played and laughed, we clapped,
and trapped, lost and won,
Jubilation as if crowns and kingdoms
were got, riches and spoils donned,

My past rotates in the wheel chair,
Wheeling me into the corridors
Of the hospital, consciousness forsook
Me, beneath the anesthetist,
Lights focused on my face,
I was placed on the clean linen bed,
Incision on the right stomach,
for the wrong diagnosis,

then too, blind and unaware
to surroundings.
My eyes are closed, now, me
on the reclining sofa,
yet bruised feelings awake
to perjury, deception, fraud,
still , blind to growing shams
that creep around.

A Gift For All Times.

A Gift for all times
What You blessed and gave me was not
a parrot green colored sari, glittering,
not a designer silk, nor costly Banaras
to add one more to my overflowing
wardrobe, fresh in warp and weft,

It wasn’t either turquoise ring,
nor oystered pearls beaded in strings,
shimmering diamond studs figure not,
nor the gold coins in big bowls jingling,
not even burnished gold chains brimming,

it stems free ,bounteous and benign,
sanguine and salutary as Heaven’s
ever widening door as of a Banyan tree,
the visible roots hang before me,
It is the much needed, extended Hands

of Protection and assurance,
of rocky stand, for me to fall back upon,
Darkness recedes, diabolic Devil shrinks
thanks to your holistic vision,
sudden pale of gloom and fear,

engulf me, me decked in platinum
and diamond, demurred and reviled,
demoralizing bereft of free conscience,
solatitum denied, would I dare the world?
Supremacy’s ever seeing eyes on me,

The bounteous and all time gift,
His assured contact, a boon.

I am doing, doing, doing.

I am doing, doing, doing.

I am doing, doing, doing.
I am doing, doing, what those
witches and wizards
cannot succeed in doing,
purblind passivity prevails.


I am pawned by this wicked world,
What is happening is a conundrum,
or His time honored scheme, know not,
Suffering is part of His doing,
Struggle and submit, alone His doing.

The chicken hung in the marketplace,
as if in a haberdasher,
colorful, yet caught in a canine trap,
soon to be disheveled, torn asunder,
their doing, doing, these en masse dying,


I am dying of envy of those
Flamingoes wading,
Suffering and submitting,
A doing of HIS.
Enjambment continues.

'semi-naked' reflections

‘Semi-naked’ reflection in the mirror.


The newly installed German cut mirror,
square and glossy goes up and down
like a wary watchman relentless,
and Rhadamantine judge, in the
often, power blocked Lift,


I see my face, a prominent mole
below the right cheek reflected ,
shining with my garnet earring,
a birth mark for the ration card
or election Id to be photographed,

The usual, habitual buzz,
the lift comes to a halt,
imagination stretches far beyond:
I am in the London tube,
reading Sylvia Plath,

the pages of Emily Dickenson flutter,
the intercity express passes through
Rugby, Arnold is reborn:
It is slowly lifting me up,
the lift is coming down,

Yet another reflection of the tribal
woman, in tattoos, breast feeding
her new born, a bamboo basket
on her head, the picture too
fritters in the fast rotating fan.

FEAST

Feast

Today I have full round of feast,
sounds and drumbeat for those
who don’t love music,

for me, nostalgia rivets
Music and melody and memory
steeped in glittering vibrations,

of compact discs,
vibrancy rotates in notes and nodes,
voices envisioned to a dim past,

The egg omelets slip off my plates,
jerking at my jauntiness,
my three year old playing ping-pong

weaves a rhythm to the tune,
toast to the drum beat,
disc lost in enchantment, winds.

Walking and walking

Walking and walking---
You and I are walking and walking,
walking along the just getting dried up
Soil from the recent rains,
See a parrot sitting and pecking
On the rosy buttons of the mackintosh
hung on the water dripping branches,

I am Penelope weaving and unweaving in
Mind’s eye many tales of injustice
distraught and mystified,
The Jupiter in you wondering at the
Universal laws guarding us, we the believing,
Most of us misreading, soon to be in mishap,

The young girl picking up the
Gooseberry, chuckles, for her gooseberry
is the only matter,
I hear London’s Big Ben chiming,
Poetry takes as many rounds on
The wheels of London Eye,


We float in the dream,
The halo of Madonna
and the Buddha under the tree,
encircles and glimmers,
you and I are walking and walking,
you and I are walking and walking.

Thanking the Devil

Thanking the Devil
You and I are crossing and counting
the upturned slabs of the precincts of
the temple with the ruling deities,
the cracks in the redbrick peeping walls,
unwiped, augmented saffron marks,
bespeak of the decor and devotion,
in the ageless, uncared construction,
our visits are a daily routine and ritual,
immersed in the sacred waters of
unstinted faith and devotion,
stabbing enemies are stabbing and stabbing
at the back, smiling smiling,
the ultimate mounting mysteries
Unraveled, unlocked,
Allahuddin’s lamp glows, in the
Surrounding dark.
How often we crossed the long ropes
Carefully fearing to be snakes,
We thank the harrowing devils
for making us cling to God.

I desire not the forbidden

I Desire not the forbidden.

Calling! Calling bird’s melody in my garden
echoes in my ears: no midnight, no morn,
some unreasoning, irrational call it a cacophony,
my somnambulist child stares and smiles,
I pick out the apple from the refrigerator,
the cute apple of my palm size,
place it on the flowery bowl on
the rosewood, oblong table .
like humans , the appeals too need the
warmth and hug;
the sharp knife with the shimmer,
goes berserk, slices it into two,
half rotten, half ripened,
I still bite and chew the ripened,
to know what it is to be hungry,
I desire NOT the forbidden,
I desire NOT the forbidden.

A ghost raves in the library.

A ghost raves in the Library.

Something raves in the fritters of papers,
those musty,outdated history books
half moth eaten, half rat smelling stuff,
with dates of wars won and lost,
dusty journals torn asunder by hasty
hands of readers for whom it is a show,
norms followed more in violation,
than in volition and discipline,

Rape of the lock craves for Restoration,
to its neatly combed upper loft,
Paradise was Lost in the ugly syndrome,
Addison’s Spectator papers with mere
lookers on, some popping out,
Pride and Prejudice and Sense and sensibility,
Slammed and shattered into pieces,
Twentieth century dethroned into

Shaking rack of twelfth cantury,
A piece of cloth crumbled into
Squirrel like form, sulking
in a corner, once upon a time
for wiping, now weeping of disuse,
Something raves in the fritters of papers,
Something raves in the fritters of papers.

River of Fear

River of Fear


It is the River of fear that is perennial,
that flows in my heart’s chamber,
awesome fear for God that rivets
toying physique and craving soul,

it is the River of Fear that is flowing
unpolluted by the muddy, quagmire
of skeptical rim bald that is vociferous
Putrefied, prevails upon many,

It is the River of Fear, which is undried
with ripples of faith circling ever, ever,
no sands of dis harmony can ever encroach,
It is the River of Fear that is perennial.

Gamin in the kitchen

Gaming in the kitchen


This gargantuan, all ruling Power,
deserted for an hour ,my apartment,
me plunged into darkness,
as the candle melts, merciless,
entering into a tie up with the dark,

I devour a cup of porridge,
as this macabre ruler, of all,
Hunger eats me after
a day’s toil, squeezing the
thews and sinews,

some little intruder entered
through my half closed window,
I wanted sunlight, but in
came a freedom loving
Brat of a Rat, nibbling

some pieces of coconut
scrambling up and down,
toying with the utensils
meddle my foot casual,
moving in cross, across,


in the criss cross of the
five /five kitchen,
playing acrobatics
mastering somersault,
loosing the prospects of game.

LOVE IN SOAP WATER

Love in soap water

After a day full of love making,
from hectic morn till midnight,
Love in the kitchen, love with the
sharp edged knife, love with


the rotten brinjal, cutting and cleaning,
love and play with the utensils
in the sink,the aroma of foamed
detergent lingering still,


Dove is melting of love
in the cozy bath tub of
hot and cold mixing,
Dove is melting Dove,

in the bath room the cornered clothes
cry for love for your feather touch,
love in soaking and washing
rinsing and wringing,

Love is work, work is worship,
Love is work, work is worship,
I lay on the mosaic floor,
head on a pillow improvised,


Robert Frost by my side,
His poem ‘nothing gold can stay’
in memory and meaning,
whispering a philosophy of life,

Love, love everywhere around me,
Love plays on my cheeks,
Love covers my chest and hands,
The next day my love printed

loose jacket in a bucket of
water, letters in soap water,
love is everywhere,
love lying in soap water.

This thinking mind

This tinkering mind hounds me like hunting dogs,
The same, thinking,deviates, heals me like an apothecary,
of my sudden bouts that are my queries,

The hard white shell that protects
the pith of Yellow and white, egg globular
broken and jettisoned into a bin,

for crows those egg shells are
Superstructure, their nests,
Coves to fondle their chicks newborn,

In the nearby show, I see a calf
dead and tied, hung on a rod,
already stiff as a stick,

for the morn a fancy show,
in the evening a fraudulent show,
the milkman to appease the mother cow,

over there, fire in the car, nothing but the
charred remains, a ghastly sight,
here, a rammed car into the tree,
a break failure, a life’s rupture,

The same thinking mind tolls like
bell with in me “it’s like that.”

Deserting sands of Time.

My newly bought shoes get embedded on
the ,brownish, countless sands on the shore,
am I brooding over countless sands of Time,
who deserts whom? Does Time with its winged
Wheel desert you? or you gibe at the Honesty
of Eternity, saying it is only in books and looks
not in living or saying,

Yet, I see honesty in fair children, nearby,
themselves, pretty pair of dolls,
the colorful fringes and frills touch the ground
while they round and round on the sand,
yet those sands speak volumes
of undying, still unread pages of the past,
as even rocky waves dash and recede only,
to silence the harrowing hubbub of
humanity in deliberate cacophony,

those pretty dolls, with their mouthful,
blowing empty balloons up the sky,
emptied balloons come, not heavily
back to the sands of shore.

A humble birthday gift

A humble birthday gift.

It is designed into white papered
and penned in letters Bold,
neatly pressed into folds,
well captioned, a birthday Gift,
a poem of how to be calm,
while your man rages storm,
how to let it a big Go,
when his ego pampers him so,
neither gold nor silver nor platinum,
will always stand by you in distress continuum ,
shrewdness and diligence with ambition,
take with you in any adverse situation,
follow a piece of Advice from this experienced,
to have a life handy and Blessed!

On a less sunny day

On a less sunny day like today….

I dry up my hair standing in my balcony,
No hair dryer, no desire to have one either,
as the breeze rustle through your silk sari,
gently serenading your cheeks and face,

What brouhaha it frees from the
Melee of cocks crowing,
a painful, sincere mourning,
for a fellow crow trapped in a wire,


A sudden shudder, a fear of tornado
of rains, battening, shattering your dream,
What if the trees are uprooted by storm?
One hanging big coconut falls on the
Passersby unawares,

It is only a fear, assuaged by less warming sun,
fear goes westward along with the Sun.

The poet and the swan

The poet and the swan

In the wake of the serene dawn
When half of the humanity is still drone,
On the bed, for it is still summer,
A bed coffee, but a bad beginning of the day,
For them both are the same,

The tender sun’s rays gentle and straight
On its commuted unswerving path,
My muse betokens me for a stroll,
I see a swan as pure and white
As un spoilt purity and uncorrupted
Conscience, stone like strong as ever,

The static swan move less as the judge,
Our universal purveyor, God,
Knowing and seeing all, yet giving a nod,
Salmon and the fish bypass by the puddle,
On the sand, the crab plays hide and seek,

I see the swan, the swan too smiles at me,
Questioningly wonders why man should
Drag the unseen, yet all seeing into the
Quagmire of dirty, devilish,
Purloin the spirit of Independence;


Yet, the pond and the sand are the same,
Just give a nod but not to blame.

My mouth waters at the crispy bite …


My mouth waters at the crispy bite
of the cashew nuts,
In the summer afternoon, the sun’s
rays dazzle in my face, the beams pass
through the balcony farther to
touch the mahogany TV stand,
my grand child agile and angry,
playing Frisbee, now comes out
from underneath the steel cot,
ceaseless effort to trace the hidden toy,
what if for the child, sun or rain,
it is we who bother about the
seasonal shifts and wet clothes
to be dried.



Noon passes to darkening eve,
On the ground a sudden
spell of showers, as if a lesson for
mankind’s temerity, they all flee
home. We are all living in a Globe;
Sun doffs at man’s folly hides
in the orb.

Back again with my poetry thrills,
My mouth waters at the crispy bite
Of the cashew nuts.

In and around you

In and around you---


At the end of the day, when you sit,
On the pyal, your eyes closing slowly,
do not wonder, it is of No meditation;
letting pass your thoughts unscreened,

in a rehearsal of desperate despair,
brooding over the syndrome of sins,
and sinning creatures,
just as a pinch of salt in everything,

Just as the holocaust of tsunami,
and typhoon rocking in front of you,
You are a helpless, passive onlooker,
Can you stop those gathering clouds?

Those Rose buds in the garden still dance,
the other day in the lunch box,
when it is just opened, the droppings
of crow cawing, not knowing the hazard,

those duty conscious squirrels on the wall,
weaning away the half- bitten nuts,
the colorful butterflies saunter around,
my eyes open to view many more hidden vistas.

Me, the rains and the ground!

Me the Rains and the open ground


You are so sudden and shower like,
Springs of water from spa,
you do not appear to come from Heaven
or from the rain bearing clouds,
as we were used to read from books,


I see the parched land of stem and stalk,
felled and spread like wounded battalions,
bleeding red, like thick paints,
no longer their valor solid by them,
for they fall a prey to the soil’s anger and greed!


You come to sing songs of requiem for them,
You undo the heat of the unabated and thirsty,
Nearby play ground, children disperse with dolls,
hopefully to come back to play with sand houses,
I see they are harbor of pearls of wisdom.

we are too small

We are too small!

The green leaves which rustle
under which I sit and read,
Say they might touch the ground soon,

The wind blowing with a shimmer
not seen, yet seems to message
I don’t expect anything in return;

The growing anthill by the tree
and by the steady line speaks
not of dormant state,

The dried pond reminds me those days
When the washer men dipped
and dried their colorful clothes,

Yet we look up and smile,
I am too great and big!

An obstacle removed in my dream.

My drooping eyelids close,
as the gatekeeper closes the main door
unwillingly, for he is a good Samaritan too,
some more last arriving inmates,

Yet, Tomorrow came into my dream
removed the thistle of yesterday,
A static car from the garage came out,
weaning out the rust and dust,

Thank God, I removed the thistle, else
It would have pricked my soft foot,
Who knows it would have pricked many,

My dream itself a fiasco,
A flimsy gossamer, a diaphanous
film torn into erasable segments,

I woke up to see the sun shine,
Somebody was already bleeding
for the thistle has already pricked up.

Rape

Rape
Reena was a bubbling girl of Rose,
having a sip of Orange alone in her house,
enjoyed the movie too, each sip by a straw,
little did she realize her life would be straw,

Two gang men entered the bungalow
to enjoy her youth and beauty with a glow,
She lost her virginity, a victim of rape,
Did she have a hope?

Why God is eyeless on these many- eyed men?
When Lust makes inroads into their den?
Is there no law to drain away the lust
from these outlandish clout of dust?

I saw a bird calling,craving

I saw a bird calling, craving.

On a mild sunny morning, when the rays of the
Global Sun just as if from his majestic cove
Spiraling, aiming escalation of His radiance
And confidence around everywhere,
I saw a bird from its own nest built by
Its own labor and necessity, with the
Sundry sticks and handy picks and leaves,


The bird was calling, calling aloud,
with articulation, wide opening its
orange beak, I could see the symphony
in the open and close,
I could hear the universal Rhapsody
I saw the bird craving for oneness
Of the clan, sharing its crumpet,


The bird is calling, calling aloud
The bird is calling, calling aloud
For the symphony of serenity
Echoes in my mind too.

Midnight Moorings


It was past Two in the Night,
how lucky those stars are in
the blue, still and serene,
I go back to my past days when
I too would move along with the
Stares, high and unaccountable,

I stare through my balcony,
for some poetic fowl and chicken
to be fried upon in the pan of
Undisturbed and unpolluted
imagination, fertility shoots up
in a steady write-up.


When humanity is sleep,
Some snore, some pretend, some toil,
I am awake, my eyes wide open,
There is neither sex nor secrecy,
Only eyes wet with tears, for willful
Suppression of secrecy and tactful
manipulation of it,


decades don’t collapse,
the secrecy is laid threadbare,
on the tree some bird calling,
articulated language distinct,
calling, calling calling
like London calling,
like London calling.

Summer ramblings

Summer ramblings

It is summer receding, yet with usual power failure,
I sit by the door with the bamboo fan, country made,
fanning my face,
inherited from my grandfather
both the habit and the bamboo items,
my left hand turning the pages of
Andrew Motion, still am motionless, for the
Sweat is flowing like what,
running water on my forehead.


I hear the whistle of rice cooker,
After all we should have one eye in
the kitchen too,
as our cogitations burst,
to have outlet,
the sound of whistle on the lid,
gyrating.


I look up at the multi-storied building,
from balcony still in progress,
a high scaffolding and how those
Laborers suffer the heat and weight
of cement and concrete?
For them does life have concreteness?

Yet Life is for all of us,
Yet living is for all us.

Her panama reminds

Her panama reminds.

She adjusts her souwester with her hands,
the blister in her hands in comparison with
her soft silken hands that thrust some sweets
into her popping out bag.

The cotton panama flies in the wind,
She concludes the sunset of her life,
Dusk intrudes, no more brightness,
All pervading sun’s rays straight on her
Sunburnt face, she forgets one moment,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

Hopefully she can feel the sunrise,
Again she adjusts her souwester in her hands,
Her mouth watering, the smell of
Sweet tempts her,

Hope heals her swelling heart of sore,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

The thirty minutes in the Lift---


The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Made me a dead plank, the power failure
ran down a tremor into me.

the suffocation, the sense of my being lonely,
the thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
sent a shock of despair and trauma.


the thirty years of living in this world
with atheism creeping in me,
agnosticism, all shattered into nothing.

I am one with the POWERLESS now,
I am one with the POWERFUL now,
The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Turn a powerless into a powerful now.

Hope

Hope

Hope sits on the top of a full branched tree,
Green leaved, in the grip of full-blown Spring,
as green as prosperity in a glass vial,
till yesterday, jollity struck
swinging along with the jubilant parrots,

sudden glimpse of a bleating cow,
Hope sees on the other side of the mountain,
environment goes berserk,
hope is slowly melting as ice cubes,
transparent white chunks thaw and liquefy,

do I have a future, where do I go?
Hope introspects sad and bemuse,
Ageless rocks of the mountain, ready to
disband the inhibited tears of hope, say,
look at us sturdy, even mighty waves
cannot shake us, hope! hope!hope!

who needs prayers

Who needs prayers?

Sitting on the broad branches, broad
as big as a drum, though felled and dead,
Still seemingly alive, for the wetness is green
with brownish color, for the soil struck roots
are strewn are here spread idle on the corner,

looking up at the sky at the injustice done,
I too look up at the sky, it has forsaken the land,
the gurgling waters of the pond murmur
we are in the throttles of death trap,
aridity is our slow and frequent visitor,

the horse effortlessly grazing upon the
withering grass, sand and pebbles popping out,
the nearby mango tree has two regular
visitors of parrots pouring in,
counting the life span of the tree, fruitless,


the graveyard is full, people mourn
looking for a burial ground,
the stench and stink rotting the wind,
stack the busy throb of life,
who does not need prayers?

Mother gets a message from abroad.


Mom, when I think of this head ache,
me in my cot within four walls,
this shiver runs through my veins
like an electric shock,
I experience a windy day, ice cold,
chill wind intrude unquestionable,

how often you would knock at my door
barred by my obstinacy, to give a hot
cup of coffee, arrange my assignments,
papers in order, remove those china cups
with left over tea with sediments,

these unwashed clothes in the corner
longing for a washing machine,
remind me those days of your
quick decision of their removal
and cleaning with murmured affection,

these empty plates in my shared kitchen
downstairs mock at my laziness,
for how often I had hurriedly left
food stuff on the plates still held
by your caring hands,

oh! Mom, I miss you for many many
things, the very thought you is
energizing, now I get up and go
close my window for the frost is poking,
Oh! Mom, it is a costly miss.

Indian Summer

Indian summer

It is very hot, here in India,
I sweat, perspire, squeeze my
handkerchief wet becomes
droplets of water, on my handbag,
sweating on my forehead, as if
to shed ego and pride,
giving advice to ego,
as I come out, you too wean ,

I forget this weakfish like,
Green colored, lurking in the
Corner of my bag the umbrella,
as I unfold it, it spreads like a
Cute little girl spreading her
frilled frock, dancing before me,
dancing on the smooth mosaic floor,

I picture my granddaughter who
Danced, dances, rounding, holding
her frock, this is not the age for her
to realize, that life is a mosaic of
seasons and serendipities,
I cool in the late spring showers
Of my London flat, the mild white
Snow, a companion to my bath tub,
Dove is creamy white, with its froth,
Bids adieu to trivia, trivia.

NOW is only time for her

‘Now’ is only time for her.



There is enough grain for porridge,
just for now, just for three,
her eyes reveal no prospects of tomorrow,
her thin wiry hands pumping the stove,
intermittent cough visiting her,
those squirrels jump over the shed,
there are convenient gaps, both for the
squirrel and rats to exchange interplay
in the thatched roof, sunbeams too pass
through as a matter of fact,
the sick nonagenarian,
sits up on the sinking cot, dirty pillow,
the third inmate, the white cat, fondly
licks the plate of porridge,
the grand old woman with a porridge
reaches the old man, looks up,
near the threshold, Now is hers,
she admits, nothing about tomorrow.

Garbage speaks

Garbage says---

From the sprawling mound of garbage,
for it is called so, papers soiled fly,
onion layers stinking, rotton tomatoes,
ooze as if bemoaning their last degraded stage,
looking at the bright Sun, flutter
“you are bright, shining,
we are decayed and decomposed,
man has crushed us and thrown away”,
cock and hen with their
cleft, star like feet, scramble upon,
as if searching something,
the chuckle mock their being
Uncared for, flies feed upon them,
some cleaner gives them protection
gathers to dump in a black cover,
promotion from the corner to van
to the dump yard,
Sun shines there too!

JUNGLE

Jungle

Life is a sapless tree, when man loses faith
in his spouse, poison stays back as a
sediment, dregs vile corroding him,
home becomes a jungle, man
shouts like a wild animal,
Obstreperous, thunder,
dregs of poisonous vasps
stinging all the time,
even trees shed tears in the forest ,
but man is hardened thick stemmed,
ignited by the lion in him,
roaring, roaring he dies from within,
in the unrefined jungle of his heart.

note books

Note books

I preserve the note books of my youngest kid,
Not a record of strenuous schooldays
twenty years back, a childlike and childish
curiosity and transformation of hardwork,

listings of alphabets ABCD, capitals and small,
cat ,mat and rat in rows and lines,
in cute hand carved in pencil
again innocence speaks, speaks,

Mathematical tables written and re written
Sums multiplied and subtracted,
Additions and omissions right and wrong,
Tiny hand and cute workings,

I browse my note books of recent days,
Where day today account is maintained,
Provisions bought, home loan paid,
Paper and milk due and phone bill doubled,

Note books are the same, what matters
Is that the inside difference it makes..

Responsibility

Responsibility

As is the responsibility
of the seasons to spring and flower,
to summer and glimmer the warmth,
to dry, shed and fly, helpless,
to shower and cool in winter,


As is the responsibility of the Gods
To create, care and protect,
In a cyclic process of creation,
Procreation, protection,
Destruction and devastation,



A cosmic process time-bound,
Predetermined and God ordained,
No need to talk about deluge
Tsunami and typhoons,
It is also the responsibility,

of the Gods and Goddesses,
A Cavalcade of continued responsibility.

Creation and killings

Creation and killings

Why should you scan and ban?
The soft fetus within the globe
of carefully designed pouch,
grows with life infused stage by stage
kicks to your pleasure and rotates,

After ten long months of struggle,
Hard labor, squalling, the baby comes
out, peeling its skin,
playing, seeing, around,
smiling, sitting down to fall, to grow,

your only rights are to grow it,
not to throw it, not to abandon it,
if umbilical cord is to give a
new lease or release of life,
new beginning, fresh showers,

why should go ,search another
cord or rope to hang round
to take away your life?
Your precious life, Life
Infused by the Creator,

Oh! Man it is not your job,
It is not your job, job.

Morning Meditations

Morning meditations

In my home garden,
Cock and hen chuckle,
The askance looking crow
Sits on the fence, pecking
With its beak the tiny dead bone,

The Vedic chantic
in the nearby school,
the members of the house
cawing for the first decoction
coffee in the hot boiling milk,

the so-called learned pundit
of the house calling by name
the daughter-in-law of the house,
Medication for the grandmother
Bundled in the corner,


Repeated calls for second round
of coffee , the children flying
on their heels for learning,
the utensils rolling sound
in the sink and kitchen noisy,


This was some ten years ago,
When no time for morning
Meditation, only altercation,
But now I close my eyes,
Thanking God for all strength
and support to surmount
all wickedness surrounding me.

Little things

Little things may become fiasco,
or great mishap, if we ignore,
as little, as very little.

A careless throw of a plantain peel
though on the corner,
is a matter of risk , slip and fall,
the pedestrian faces fracture
and unexpected expenditure.

A match stick still half burning,
Cast on the straw on the
thatched shed, like evil eye
burns leading to cataclysm,
flames engulfing whole.

Belief and pity the wrong woman,
bring woe to the man.
give her shelter and money in need,
poison becomes your food,
a thing of little only to sting you ever.

In a temple precincts, where monkeys
Stay, play and prank,
A bag of valuables, passport
Currency and jewels, by your side,
You turn head to the other side,
Gone with the monkey,
Your trip is gone,

Neglect of little things may lead to
great failures and costly miss.
ruin life's happiness.

I hear you.

I hear you

I AM THE UNIVERSE
I hear the voice of the unseen
When the resounding waves recycle,
White surf in booming tides submerge
destined, I hear you in their destiny.

when the dogs bark, redeem the newborn,
from the buried layers of the heaped mound,
the baby wails the unlucky mother for the
fate which is to befall for the sin,
I hear you in the innocent cry of the babe.

In the wake of the sunrise, when
the birds chirp and surf on the blue,
the mellifluous flute mingles the air,
what a wonder! the bluebells dance,
I hear you in the song and dance.



Meaning and melody through a
metal of compact disc, rotating,
eclectic power and enchanting rhythm,
human voice in a voiceless mode,
I hear you in the rendering of music.

Oh! God! I hear you! for I have
A will and wish to Hear You.

Get Ready

Get Ready

We are racing in a quick start
get ready world,
When I get debunked and demystified,
My experiences, pepping me up,
Wake me from my slumbering mood,
We are racing in a quick start,
get ready world,

get ready to face the mounting
challenges, each day is an unexpected
experience, stagnant knots and twists and
turns, but I am ready to untie, relax
the adverse situations,
to my convenience,
meet up the get ready world,

like stuffing the broken pot
with soil to grow colorful flowers,
I get ready to take away those flowers,
I am not getting ready to say
Pluck the flowers, sounding harsh,
Those flowers are getting ready
doubly smiling and ready,

With their sacred aroma to deck the
Gods and Goddesses,
These Gods and Goddesses
Are getting ready to stand by me
For ever for ever, never never forsake me.
We are racing in a quick start,
Get ready world.

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?