We ought to see

We ought to see with clarity,
with open eyes, without disparity,
we must ruminate ,assess and admit,
it is bad and cruel curse to be blind ,
it is worse to be blind to realities,
with a vision closed , willingly stifled,
believing the disbelief, disbelieving
The grounded reality,
We ought to see, see.

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem
Grapple the day with a Will Power,
grip it with a vow not to surrender ,
come whatever may to stagger you
yield not even it bothers you .

A Cherished will to overpower consumption
like adversity caught in the grid of presumption,
animosity, jealousy and perpetual vituperation,
undaunted Will not to be swayed by botheration

ye! Blooming trees , wither not, fade not,
ye! Blossoming flowers, fall not,
smile in the web of freshness
with a fragrance of perfumed mildness.

Seize the day with a message of peace,
Passion for writing, passion for diligence,
Message of Massacre of macabre,
Seize the day with the message of Peace.

Fresh air

Fresh air
Oh! Fresh air ,
Sweep us gently, as if in a lullaby,
Sing and serenade,
wipe our sweat,
Keep us tout ,
though we twitter
You don’t think of letting out for rent
Your free air, you don’t bargain,
nor are you mercenary
in your dealings,
You don’t mind the space
you pervade ,wade,
have uninterrupted free play,
mystery is your origin
fritter and twitter
in this thankless world.

This Life

This Life.
In a Hamletian Dilemma
of To be or not to be,
before you dilate upon
what this Life is, where it
leads you, or misleads you,

the civilization with the ghastly
garb of technology veering
round you into a snare,
concords, cornucopia of fleet,
the distance between the ground

the air, could distance you
to a land of unreachable destination,
blink and wink, the camera
takes you nowhere,
accidents and blood streams

man scratching his
cerebellum into activities
of sin syndrome,
Macavity Cat does not mew.
Why this Life?
why this Birth?

Oranges and Apples

What are those oranges and apples!
the hues and juice
to tempt , to tantalise,
what do they matter to those
destitutes, the rag pickers,
the platform dwellers,
the colour of their life
is their karma,
yet they don this
colourless tattered patches,
uniform for their appendage;
when karma teases, bugs,
their relished juice is their
porridge of ration rice,
yonder, I see a woman ,
heavy on her head is a
basket full of oranges , apples,
to be sold, not to suffice
her flat bellied hunger.
Her life is colourless.

Relationships
The correlation of sex and flesh and blood,
where love hate relationship prevails,
looks, gifts, repartees and clandestine meetings,
when involved pairs live in the euphoria,
looks are magic charm,
most important , lasting for ever,
not hearts and souls,
more and more are growing number like this,
money and matter a dice in their hands,
a centrifugal attitude distracting them
destroying peace and decorum .
Barring this, relationships are looming ,
divergent relationship outside,
when you step out how
much of confrontation in your dealings,
with friends, acquaintances, some to be
with you, more to let you down,
no surprise, these are the days,
our own blood rebels, revels in
estranged relationships.
Relationships are partnerships
run with the current of deep waters
not transparency,

Summer

Summer
Summer is so intense:
I wring my cotton shirt
into vessels of water, after
squeezing into multi layers of
folds, beyond description.
Summer is so intense:
Summer specials commute
from destinations numberless,
anticipation of vacation for
children a special expectation,
a most welcome gap,
what is special for those
farmers , sturdy only with a
sustained Willpower,
their back carrying loads of
gunny bags, recently harvested,
minus their toil, our lives would
have entangled in embittered starvation,
a cool sip of butter milk
from thick glass jar ,
for many , thirsty
a timely ease and comfort.
Nothing special in summer,
You bask with a wish
Trees, plants and birds,
That Spring’s blossoming Love
Be proceed with Summer’s heat, tout.

Breathing

Breathing
God the Supreme breathes
Life into His malleable and the crotchety,
making them pull on, till His set plan
fructifies. Nearby in the park, I see kids
swayed by jubilation and mood of play,
kids blow colourful balloons, rather breathe
air into light balloons blowing high in the sky,
rivet and roll , from the ground control,
till, the end, the distanced journey
pushes into a whimper,
what is that rustling nearby my head ,
what is the not mildewed noise,
BREATH infused thin paper kites,
by those urchins in summer ,
There is vibrant breath in their
Clap-trap and merriment.
IF Breathing is not in the
wooded forests, how can their be
Melody and music in the air?
If His visionary Breathing stops,
Humanity comes to a standstill.

Mistakes

Mistakes
We,multiply, make mistakes,
as weasels obtrusive ,
make a remake of mistakes,
abjure the idea of rectification ,
make mistakes of building
castles amidst bituminous lava,
mistake of uploading heavy
Cartload of home work ,
on unmistaken tender kids,
mistake of infusing fear of
Corporal punishment beyond
human consideration,
off springs springing from
careless mistakes,
mistakes hesitate to leave us
for they have made penchant
vow not to forsake us.

I see the real

I see the real

Sitting in front of the mini T.V.
peel the just uprooted ,fresh
green leaves for the much awaited,
The tomorrow’s menu in the kitchen,
I watch the mega serial ,
actors with costumes, glitter
on the face, passion in their lips,
anger in their articulate words,
rants and cants , glycerine and tears
moving as much in realistic terms,
I become immersed in their show,
I am not drawn by the blow of
whistle , in the pressure cooker,
yet, I am not angry with the villain,
nor the jail warden, nor the
run away marriage,
Behind the curtain, there
is treachery, villainy
in basking smiles,
salacious looks, in around us.

Bubbles

Bubbles
Brewing hot water,
I see the boiling bubbles
in the silver vessel
in the morning for the
hurried coffee decoction ,
for sprightly pep up,
bubbles are meagre
significance then,

now holiday mood,
children see no better ways
to spend time in
blow the bubble game,
the flying colourful bubbles
vanish unassuming.
Life is merry-go-round
for them, bubbles
are play things.

Many flooded streets,
much flowing inundations,
unfailing rainy seasons,
paper boats and frogs,
bubbles , bubbles and ,
I view those broken bubbles
Life is like the same,
how they project in different ambience.

What goes before me?

What goes before me?

In the wake of dusk, when
the ambered Sun goes down westward
after the day’s default journey,
when the cowherd drives home
the cattle back from the grazing spot,
in the dim evening ,
when I set out for a walk,
What goes before me? What follows me,
What accompanies me?
It is not Belinda’s lap dog,
nor it is Cerberus the three-headed dog,
It is not the white puppy with its
wagging tail with thick spongy fur,
it is the Avatar’s incognito
symbol, His pet to protect me.
that goes before me.

The potter's wheel

The potter’s wheel

It is blazing hot,
the potter’s wheel
comes to a halt,
it is my ancestral profession,
I cannot abrogate,
in the break I shape the wet
lumps of clay into many forms,
I shape many a religious idols,
a Lord Shiva, Ganesha, Vishnu,
God in dancing postures,
The busy road , projects a
walker, jay walker, talker,
usurer, a commuter without :
paying a penalty of rupees
fifty for fifty paisa default ticket,
a public kiss, hug, a derelict husband,
argumentative criminal, understandingly
good inspector, who believes in reasoning,
prolonged atheism,ungodly deeds?
A Dire reflection of the age;

I set the potter’s wheel again,
Oh! God, why are you dumb?
What is the meaning of your reticence?
Why this abysmal cataclysm?
A universal voice of clairvoyance
as if from my clay gods:
we need a base for
these entities for next JANMA
or creation.
Their birth or JANMA is their KARMA.

Poverty

Poverty
After a long ,tedious walk,
walk in self imposed exercise,
thirst , sweat profuse,
compete each other,
inexplicable, insurmountable,
I opened a street tap,
wearing a dent ,
It went dry,
for want of repair,
Poverty dons vicinity.
Poverty in the hands of
the governing,its administration,
Shaking its invisible hands,
it looms large,
unassuming it taps
the select,
Poverty taps those in streets, pavements,
Improvised tenements,
Street urchins hungering for life,
Poverty catches up as if
Pantaloons, infects patches,
Young lad working sums
under the street lamps,
it is this ugly bug, mars
his future prospects,
sing the slogan of
drive away this hankering
spirit of poverty.

A rightful reproach to God.

A rightful reproach to God

Here near and dear are wailing and weeping
for the dead are those look like
still sleeping , in the still sleeping,

After their departure, rupture, rupture,
everywhere rupture, for the vulture
in the burial ground only rapture,

follow the holocaust in tsunamis
earthquakes, -- shiver runs , scares ,
driving many into tantrums.

Burial grounds are few, electric cremations
are more, falling are powdered ashes,
divisions and partitions in household names.

Oh! God, what are you going to do
With those departed souls?
Where are you going to house these numberless?

I know not the answer, the right answer,
for you hold the keys , to the tricky quiz,
for you hold the tips for the buzz.

Karma's door

Karma’s door
Like the lightning that flashes
and goes, you devise a path
of your own , it is a gardener’s path,
segregate the bush and thimbles ,
in the routine, discord the
setbacks allowing the course of
action, not knowing it is the
preordained course of destiny,
abomiminably get trapped in
the dispute of karma,
whether karma follows you
or you fall in line with karma,
the interminable debate is like
the brambles that crop up:
your hand inadvertently
fetches a pail of water,
can you douse the burning
question? With the
emptied pail to refill
you go back,
karma parts:
you go your way, today,
I will catch up tomorrow.

Spirit glows ,rages!

Spirit glows, rages!
It is the spirit of internet addiction
Not obstreperous obsession,
unequalled impassioned affinity
that propels your poetic oeuvre.
I envisioned a different spirit
In yesteryears, in Hamlet,
“ look, there it comes!”
You shudder to see a different
Spirit in Dr. Faustus ,
In a high spirited drama
Of jugglery many spirits
Entwine around us,
believing and disbelieving
in a spirit of charisma,
there you see a drunken
street brawl, in inebriated spirit,
disintegrating the family into a
spirit of abysmal nadir.
Where is your imaginary
Spirit of handsome youngling
Cuddling you ?

Face the pitfalls of the Age.

You inadvertently stumble
upon cobblestones and gravels :
This is an age of dupes and
desperate , despicable shams,
How easily you are drawn
by the mirage?

There is a tripartite ,
nondescript victimised, the charlatan
and the onlooker at the dramatised,
you are afflicted by the
tomfoolery, foppery ,waiting
for the curtain to be drawn.

They don’t go by your living.
they, the incredulous apes
they , that are willing to be enormously
duped by the letters , forged , scribbled in
multiple fashions, they don’t go by your
cloistered living , ignorant ,

sealed , as if in a magic box:
Not ignominious, they don’t go
by your living, Your living.

Weep

Fibonacci Poetry Form
Weep
Weep, why?
Weep what for?
Weep for the ignited connivance,
Weep for the tumultuous interference of those officious,
Who are uncompromisingly obdurate ,unable to accept defeatism, painstaking in inflicting to others,

Painful pain, reigning supreme right from ancient days, unalloyed, unmitigated,
A gift of the Devil, seductive,but solatium for the SATANIC.

Autumn

Autumn
Those autumnal leaves
dried and crumpled
just as the strewn feathers
of the aviary, the hunter’s
missile aimed at, with the
Mercurial vigour,
like the age’s wrinkles
and dropping skin on this
haberdashery,
sitting on the grass,
my expectation incredibly
failed , it is like the
reigning fantasy at
the helm of my imagination:
there were no autumnal
leaves, the beams of
sun piercing my burnt
skin and cheering up
my drooping mood,
the melody of the chirping
birds by mound on the grass,
there is no autumn :
man’s values are
topsy turvey , Nature is
in cue of Man.

Goodbye (theme)

Fibonacci Poetry Form


Fibonacci Poetry Form

Goodbye
unhappy coinage
unpleasant to utter
in stations, platforms, airports,parties,
worst even in life's final ,cruel destined journey,
but if you like it or not you have to inevitably admit,yield..
if you understand this ,you are not only wise,you can lead life in peace and prosperity,you are called Sage.

Grief in it own way

Grief in its own way.

When Heather smiles,
Hawthorne chuckles, for
the pain of its bush pricking
others, it is sadistic pain
Injecting like needles on others:
I grieve over the loss,
over the abominable loss
of many, failing crops,
fetish craze for somebody’s
coins and cash and trash,
of the prophetic warning of
the impending cataclysm
a whip for the callous and greedy,
she grieves over the plenty,
prosperity, cuts across for gain,
I am bemused by my pet
cat drinking the last sips
from the porcelain cup of
my grandmother’s remnant.

Love's anguish

Love’s anguish

Love’s anguish is not in the
Immersed repetitive utterance
Of Romeo and Juliet,
romping romances do not fill
the limpid, white sheets of
papers frittering on the table,
cries of wails do not creep into
the corners of streets, stories of
clandestine meetings, gifts in
glittering wraps ,do not suffice
the unabated anguish, many a
dithyrambic songs of ‘ I love you,’
‘ I love you’ do not fill the pages
Of books, not in empty stares
and looks, not in brooks and rivulets,
Love’s anguish in eternal waiting
If found to be honest and sincere.

Today

To day

Today dawns not with the message
of a Messiah, nor with the vociferous
counsel of a seasoned wiseacre,
Today dawns not , the loudspeakers
Over the Radio, announcing the
Weather forecast, not even the
Thunderous clouds quaking over the
Dimmed sky, not with the baby
Squalling in the cloth cradle,
Today dawns With the milkman
Failing milk and cans at the doors,
A multiple disappointment for
the eager many, a custom
Cannot be a abrogated,
Today dawns with the LIVE
TELECAST OF TSUNAMI over
TV , a timely warning for many.

New Love

New Love
It is not the ancient , time honoured ,
Universal Love of God , merging with
devotional path of absolute Sacrifice,
in the perpetuated creamy layer
of ardent rituals and rigour unpolluted,
after tireless churning ,the Divine verdict
appears either in watchword or catchword,

I t is the fashionable New Love
for the negation of God or
Impregnating Godhead into
many mundane forms and
unethical visions : IT is the nomadic
New Love that is high-minded
mocks at the old or weaves
multiple layers of questions,
ending up in unanswered or
answerless quandary.

Bartering

Bartering
Your mind forays by the restless beach,
Sheets of water with seagulls serenade,
ever since the Creation, gyration goes on,
tired you are, mind seeks a solace,
Untiring waves, booming with a challenge
Of roar, still , there is a stillness silencing
the vicinity, in around , childish,

silly questions surge with rocking waves,
Can you separate salt , can you drain water
Of the deep, can anyone measure the age
Of the ocean? Tremor from the Midsea, Deep-sea
Is the only pliable answer,
Foot draws sketches on the sand,
Bartering goes on.

Pain.

Pain
Pain looms large, a macabre
figure in front of you, causing a
frightening tremor around you,
pain is no longer a pain
until you know the cause of it,
pain befriends sadism , for
together they want to tap you,
sapping your patience,
pain is continual, tapping
different doors , by quirks
elsewhere, by its whims and fancies,
no balm can cure its
obduracy, pain’s vicious mind
is cool, calculative , not
knowing the meaning of pain,
it pains , it pains, it rains.

Escape

Escape
Escape is a word which escapes our mouth
just as air escapes our nostrils , inevitable,
Children also crave to escape from
the cartload of bags and baggage and
the trauma of gruelling examination.
Today humanity struggles, unable to escape
from the hubris of flamboyance,
mounting environmental hazards
crop up, winding and wiping mankind,
there is no escape from this sad , mounting
pollution and personal incarceration
of this body ,foppery ,yet soul escapes
when time comes to its predestined
abode, since we cannot escape from
this notation of birth and death.

Dying

Dying
You see glowing embers,
setting sun in front of you,
You melt along the last flicker of the candle,
Dying, a fear, a feeling , a repression ,
You run a trigger, you see yourself obsolete,
In you runs a shiver, gnawing you,
A sense of thrown garbage,
a bundle In the corner, you disown you,
panic gripping you, the final call, you introspect,
what will be like my final journey?
I want to hug close my children,
Who will take care of them?
What will happen to the door
that will bar me from this floor?
What will happen to the entropy ,
to the cacophony?
I shake, why this sense of doom?
Let me be done with
when my eyes are closed in sleep.

In my happiness is my grief

In my happiness is my grief.

In my happiness is my upsurge grief,
for it propels into many ifs
and superfluous whys and the
lasting happiness quirks back
if I am otherwise , caught in the Web,
what would have been my predicament?
I continue to ponder, what would
happen had I been a lone tree,
had I been a marooned ship,
for the insurmountable surging
acrobatic like misdeeds weighing
heavily upon us, once, for decades
shaped in twists and debacles, and even now,
but, at least an awareness , a solution
creeps, manna like Divine Succour:
again veering round to the
recent phenomenon, a question,
puzzling, sensible grief, grief.

Memories

Memories.

Seasons may come and go
In succession of each like
the legal heirs in
long, unbroken thread of dynasty,
leaving their reprints in blossoming
buds, flowers, chirping buds,
buoyant youths in singing merry tunes,
thick in laid woody forests,
cottons, autumnal leaves ,ice flakes,
frozen rivers , deserted tents,
all in cycles, recycling pattern,
but memories do not leave us
that easily, cling to us as children
to mothers, as nations to histories ,
they tend to monopolise some
corner of our minds , hearts, asserting
in bouts and feelings :
Those memories can be cobwebs,
which you tend to brush aside
with a strong brush of determination,
but your brain clings to them as
inevitable episodes to sprout forth,
some memories can be candelabrum,
ever glowing and could be torch bearer .

If God’s Memory is not strong,
His Boons are not effectual,
Who knows what are the
Banes of His Memory?

On charity

On charity
If you are poly vocal about
every act of charity to the needy,
if you are vociferous about the
donations you made to the poor,
if you are going to calculate
every rupee offered , expecting
in return ,often and often ,
it is nothing short of mean,
if the act of charity ,stems
not from your heart but out of
compulsion , devoid of compunction,
it is no longer an act of charity,
but only publicity.

First love

First love
A mother’s first love is her imparting
A blissful kiss on the tender New BORN,
Nestling of the chicks for the birds,
Act of unbounded first love,
Cow licking the forehead of the
New born calf,
His first love for His Creations
Forgetting and forgiving,
His Children’s misdemeanour:
Love, His first love extends
in giving a long rope,
You have often reiterated that
Our First LOVE ought to be
towards singing His Glory,
Act of Immense Gratitude.

Fire
God the universal proprietor
With His Supreme Magic Wand
Visionary Sight , designed Five Elements,
This fire ! fire! Fire!
It was the congenial Fire in Prometheus
that made him steal fire from the gods,
it is the fire in every house hold that
welcomes the morning with breakfast
a bonhomie and nourishing wakeup call,
it is the fire that propels many of us
to gorgantine goals and accolades,
it is the unabated fire, the gruelling ire,
distraught with anger and wrath,
Gods have wrought nullification
On the earth, it is the Fire,
Fire, that engulfs humanity when in dire.

The Heart

The Heart.
The heart is congealed like a
huge rocky stone
on the edge of a hill,
no palpitation, no murmur,
no blood clot, yet reason,
compunction, deserting
to a desert ,dry mound,
Many a time we try to
Salvage the desiderata,
The heart functions normal,
Its dysfunctional core
Stupefies some of us,
It is the Heart of Many.

The wind

The Wind
It is the rustling wind that sweeps
in and around you, romping with romance,
Soothing like a sooth sayer,piercing your
Creative aura weaving a lullaby of
Tranquil bay , it is the same wind
bewitching the curtains as if by
necromancy, waving along the
printed figures ,
it is the same phonic wind
ruling the windpipe making
your vocal cords vibrate,
it is the same wind that emanates
musical notations through the
bamboo’s gaps and eglantine flute,
it is the gorgantine proportions of
the sweeping wind that rules
our Universe from the first day
of Eternal creation.

Fashion parades---

Fashion parades---
Silk and cotton saris , hand
and mill woven, synthetic
designer and printed all
showcased,a belle, a model,
fashion parades,

hangers throng with loose jackets,
sleeveless and long hands ,
shorts and panties ,in heaps,
T-shirts and free size numbers,
fashion parades,

in public places, in private chambers
there is a fashion parade of
signatures –all forged in varieties,
a fashion parade of sins,
Sins in multiple signatures .

Solitude

Solitude.
In the crisp and tender Dawn,
when you enjoy the bliss of solitude,
ponder at the mythical mystery of creation,
A state, where no love ,no hate ,no loss,
but absolute abnegation of the Self;
a much sought after Awakening.
You see clarity in the chirping of the birds
Seek solution for myriad unanswered queries,
treading a path , in search of an Identity,
Still you feel unidentifiable, yet an extreme step,
A goal ,no wonder why sages gone on Penance.

What poetry is to me...

What poetry is to me......

Poetry is the verdant ivy
in my blooming garden,
A mythic metaphor innate
from the umbilical cord
of creativity fused with spontaneity
lasting down to your final
journey, a visionary landscape
painted by the dexterous strokes,
poetry the embodiment of unique
messages culled from experiences,
empathy, euphoria, eglantine moods,
also the tale of unyielding,
uncompromising Destiny;
byzantine path in search of relief.
Real poetry is gyrating from within
by the wheel of Divine serenity .

She takes off now

She Takes off now.
There are so many
like the livestock
in the common shed,
meeting, pretending and hating,
munching the cud
of gossip, a non stop
calumny , ruminate the
sin of runaway,
Her runaway,
She is on the RUN WAY
The INDE RRRRR ...... NATIONALLY PUBLISHED
For writing is her passion,
ENGLEEEESH teacher, anglophile,
Takes of f now,
She is veering on the run way
Takes of f soon.

An archaeological thrill!

An archaeological thrill!

It is not Samson’s secret of strength,
It is neither Delaliha’s betrayal,
It is my living in the hundred year old
building, a luminous addiction grown
into a deep-rooted passion.
Every plank and panel ,
aach mud lump and sand dune
Is a vital resonance of the
Deep rooted past, with ancient history
revitalising .I smell its aura permeating.
Whetted by a saying strengthened
by generations of dwellers ,there
Is a possible treasure buried in the garden,
A copper pot of coins,
My angst of desire propels me
to dig , dig , delve in the garden,
round stones, roots, mud slumps,
dried leaves, anthills, molten sheets,
ribbons, broken combs,
I imagine dead bones of new born
Of miscarriage s,
I foray into my grand mother’s
Story times with sad details,
It is a thrill of a thread unbroken
A treasure I see while wiping sweat.

In every drop of blood -----

In every drop of blood shed,
there is the milk of mother’s
Kindness , gruelling care .
Every drop of red blood
that runs on the violable mound
or platform has the excess ,
alcoholic addiction ,
the glassy seductive vial’s
sardonic contribution,
every drop of blood on
the battlefield for justice,
runs with sacrifice unasked
at times unsung, unhonoured,
each drop of blood
with handcuffs and fists exchange
blows and words the mounting
meaningless gruesome warfare,
where egoism has it kernel
has pride anger and unreason shed,
shed in profuse in coloured red.
In religious crusade every drop of blood,
I see sacrifice, sacramental
Vow, devotion, strengthened,
When humans become irrevocably
mundane , every drop of blood
shed is sex exploited and expunged.

Better to be a wall and ----

Better to be a wall and .......


Stroke of Midnight, clock strikes,
But the wall is motionless, silent,
Dead as a stone,
It is better to be a wall,
brick and mortar and lime stone,
no feelings, panic and jittery moment,
no Arthurian legend, no Herculean strength,
no tears, no sentiments, no sanctity,
absolutely no sense of defeatism,
even grass bends ,glows, dewdrops glitter,
life infusing therapy, divine Melody emanates,
wall, the dividing wall is stubborn ,
better to be a wall.

When Memory takes you too far.

When Memory takes you too far---

You relax under the Banyan tree,
Lighthouse for the ageless hamlet
Perceptible landmark for the searching,
Habitants gone, only roofings remain.

The Banyan sprouting far and wide,
marvellous emblem for lasting days,
Sturdy roots, yet not uprooting
The Byzantine agents of green recollections.

Blowing wind opens up pages
the voluminous hard work in my hand,
bookmarks fritter and fly ,
chapters rehearse facts of the present:

Echoes in the local temple where
Devout Sage on the podium preaches,
grab not, crave not other’s possessions,
amply Citing sterling worth from scriptures,

amidst countless vultures and foxes
who read in –between lines ,messages,
steering in the front, stabbing at the back,
the influx criss-cross temple precincts, chapter closes.

It is easy to forget, it is hard to erase
Memory ,anecdotes of childhood days,
Yesteryears and angst tracing you,
Living knit unto memory perpetuates.

You chase after those crows
Feline cats that sat in the backyard:
How your grandmother fed them!
Old tiled roof under which many

generations have augmented ,
swing you enjoyed swings in your memory
green , you relax under the old banyan,
How Memory takes you too far!

Trappings of Fear

Trappings of Fear

It is past midnight,
Eerie silence is thwarted by the
tap on the key board,
seconds ago, minutes ago,
My involuntary eyes observe
two needles join the mumber,
when half of humanity
immersed in silence , when the
other half silently active, seductive,
knock! Knock! knock!
I feel a knock on the door,
In reality it is vibrating echo from within,
The gyrating rhythm in my heart’s core
falsifies the established heresy,
how can there be a nocturnal visitor,
when round the clock there is a
guardian angel , keeping vigil of
your hearth, your dwelling,
The uncouth even traps the unseen
In the debris , of quagmire of dirty politics,
I am bugged only by this fear,
that they all have to pay the price dear.

You too live in illuison

Ye! Rosebuds in my well groomed garden,
Hyacinth and jasmine of aroma,
among twitter and chat of parrots ,
you dance and serenade,
whispering breeze gently glide upon you.

Some intruders by means stealth;
God has knit in his well ordered cosmic
mansion , ye to flourish and prosper,
but you live in ignorance
not aware that you are going

short of time , you are plucked ,
dethroned, endurance blighted
for ulterior motives,
man’s unknotting obduracy persists.
God’s knitting goes on,
there the gardener’s pail too.

On the bed again

I am on the bed again,
Not on the cosy bed of Roses,
but an improvised one
on the dovetailed tiled floor,
roll on on the floor of matted thoughts,
ruminate if the slick body
in the fictitious figure in the novel
in your glossy hand is
commanding and prurient
or delving and demanding.
Compact disc player by the side is
Whining , at times seductive,
You ponder if the SOUL unseen,
Yet seeing everything around you,
Hidden , silent and angry craves
for liberation ,waiting for the
final call from The Above:
this silent voice becomes more obdurate,
but this boorish tent on the skin clings.

What I see in them!

Those pictures meticulously transfixed
to the wall ,long drawn images ,
The Buddha, a Christ, a warrior,
The saviour , a sage, a monk
in them a sacrifice , lait motif for
a willed abandonment of self comforts;
But what I see in her ,
A visible protraction of frog’s eyes,
Greed as a vulcanization, long drained
Passion of envy devouring the other;
Croaking all the while,
For decades this corrugation develops,
You are a passive onlooker.
Hens chuckle in the yard.

What Man has made of Man

In my drawing room, I am
no longer cosy and comfortable ;
my reading divan dilutes my attention,
The Book of Modern Verse
Prefers a trajectory pushed to
corner, for the post modern
paradox of a problem ,what
Man has made of Man has
Possessed like a Devil in me,
Man hankering after crazy
fast food, growing old age homes,
wives abandoned, wedlock
ending in dead locks, matrimony
blighted due to of husband’s
parsimony, greenery blocked
and burnt into dead wood ;
stoves burst for in-laws angst ;
craze d lure for money infecting
like swine flu , new born in garbage,
cankering corruption amidst disgruntled
plots and parasites, Sodom seduces society.
This is what Man has made of Man
and more and more.

Knitting a facade into a flower.

It is a Climb atop
a scaffold meticulously drawn
with mounting pressures up on you,
a climb that inevitably draws you down,
mood of threnody weaves round ;
look down the demented soil
that wears a worn-out visage,
hunger and un augmented desire
inextricably knit into chaotic corruption.
Sprawling around cacophony of confusion,
a pointed peg pokes my collar ,
in between the spinning patches
of assurance, many stark revelations,
echoes of cropping revelations :
is it Maya or ignorance that
encapsulate me, or collective
connivance isolating you?
Ruminations into profundity
merged in rooted thoughts
into words into cavalcades
of mystic expositions.
A poetic flower blossoms:
Now you are fallen in wrong times,
Times are topsy turvy,
Topsy-turvy are Times’ values.

--------- The melange of thoughts

I sit on the vast green lawn, browsing Ginsberg,
The aroma of of greenery, the smell of wet moisture
the murk of wet soil inviting your poetic sense of
perception, what a fine breath the air permeates with!
Nearby the terracotta with its uprooted grass ,its stickiness
lying exposed upwards, unwilling to die, to dry up,
Whiff of sudden wind blows the fluffy dandelion,
Only the gauzy is driven off , the flower stands on,
a melange of thoughts come up,
why this life? why this breadth? Where are those
familiar faces? where are those souls wandering?
Where are those afflicted whose life full of
torture, because of diabolic devils , intruders?
I am a karma yogi ,those unanswered questions
linger on ; like the blood oozing from wound cuts,
in the process of healing up, from wireless nearby,
I listen to warnings of landslide, storm, torpedo,
ants line on innocently, sparrows close by peck
grains, both unaware could be danger
and destruction, extinction from human heart too.

Knit a poem

Knit a poem

On the bed of upfront grass,
I make a bed of convenient table
to lay forth my imagination
to knit a sweater of poetry
for my granddaughter sweet,
with the dexterous needle of
vibrant creativity .

Rhyme or no rhyme? the
Question taunts me,
Why waste time? let your poetic pen
decide as it flows; let the predominant
idea be the colourful thread ,
the thread of chubby cheeks,
the ruddy round face.

She springs by me sudden,
I allow the flannel to be
the most vibrabtly embroidered,
embellished collar.
Her smile is the rhyme,
dancing posture is metaphor,
a poetic jubilation is fructified.

Give it a thought

Give it a thought.
They say toads breed in the stones,
Stones sing and stimulate,
Here, in the caves, I see shapes
chiselled out of stones,
rivet and roll,
you are un malleable ,
even rocks corrode and give way,
You are trendy tawdry,
give it a thought,
give it a thought.

Zero and zero

Zero and zero

The music galore is on ,
the gorgeous , colourful
shows and gambols take
grip of the stage,
sudden darkness plunges
you into a sea of revelations.
Convulsive tremor strikes the
Podium of thinking; Zero hour
Zooms, in the zeroed significance
to your appendage, those that
revel in your devaluation
continue to delight in the
deglorified mischief of many
forms .Thought of their sins,
the whyness of which bewilders.
Sodom uncompromisingly
Prevails, you are bound to share
the sufferings, bugging and
goes on,
yet in the zeroed hour
pleasure and pain dovetail,
your zero is zero
with values and experiences.

Where are those souls?

Where are those souls now?
Where are those souls
who quit this rubble zone?
Are they clustered behind
twinkling stars? Wish to be
eclipsed by the strolling white
puffs of clouds? Or shake
hands with comets?
Yet they desire not to
return to this mound of
hellish fire of corruption
jealousy embittered by hatred
and devouring calumny.

She wears her tears

She wears her tears.

The pages of history
fritter in my hand,
that beauty queen Cleopatra ,
her affinity for her brother,
that is history,
my eyes go beyond the
half closed curtain;
the septuagenarian, cross legged
in the opposite before the polished
mirror, new flat, new luxury;
her wrinkles on her neck
a matter of yesterday,
today, her hanging skin
decks her coral necklace,
a bracelet of sea pearls on
her shrinking coil of hands;
every honk from her son diffuses
the smell of Dove and perfume.
His wife is missing in the hearth.
Yonder, the waves , roll and weave
A tale of woeful narration.
The old lady ,the bundle of untimely
Desire wears her tears .

He converts a garden into a garbage

He converts garden into a garbage.

He welters in the water of his life,
Navigable, Steady and steering,
He determines a cool pond
into a dirty pool, stagnant,
unable to realize life is not
for stagnation, leaving the
grip of steady progress,
like an elephant run amuck,
trampling upon what ever comes by,
roses into crushed piles,
devalues God’s boon into a bane,
delving a self –made garbage
Devil is reigning supreme his roost.

His house goes dry

His house goes dry.
His house goes dry.
It is raining dogs and cats.
After gathering clouds,
it is pouring, downpour
in the city and villages,
a boon falls
in the umbrage of drought.
Brimming pots tilt to the
cemented floors, raindrops
drip through the gaps
of the tiled roofs.
canals a re channelized,
crops fail for deluge swallow
the fields green,
in the throbbing centre,
his house in the city
goes dry, for his heart
overflows with cult
of sadism .

Eglantine pillar

Eglantine pillar

I veer round eglantine pillar,
from cemented floor to
the criss-cross roof,
My hand s weave silken
Shawl of miracle, advent of
Avatar, my mentor in my life.
The structured pillar bespeaks
a harrowing tale of the past,
how often , my grandmother
would sit by ,ruminate her
life, struggle, sacrifice,
open pages read, also misread,
in my blossoming age,
it would have been a hug,
one may call so;
but now, no hug, no paramour,
no love, no seductive looks,
for life has to sail amidst
rough weather,
if you read in-between lines
it is because you have
jaundiced eyes.
I stand by as the pillar stands.

A moment on my pasture

I rightfully trod upon the green ,
Green smelling upfront grass ,
I recline , with my Muse
ready to enthrone my book of poems,

The bunch of sprawling green grass
bends ,it sparkles humility to me,
we, the humans don’t bend easily,

I look up , my muse craves for
immediate inspiration, interaction,
singing lark and veering aircrafts
embark upon a voyage of their own;

every dewdrop a pearl on the
slanting grass , a decor ,
the hopping butterfly dancing
around,feasting by itself

a feast for all. I smell the green.
Smell the grass, smear the mood.

Life is gambling for many

Life is a gambling for many.
She is a Penelope , ardently
stitching and undoing the knots ;
the slender threads testing her
Patience, eyes compete with
her toiling hands, a handful of
cuts and threads and distorted
knots beside her sewing machine:
for her it is survival, for many
it is a gambling , her life gambling,
she saw not their hearts, they sought
cash or kind would replace kindness,
a post modern irksome paradox,
this gambling goes on ;
there, the predator growls , snarls,
here, she drinks a cup of porridge
to suffice her flat tummy,
her next session in the sewing
machine beckons her. Her spirit
gathers and removes the cuts
and knots for a better morrow.

That day in Central London------

That day in Central London......
That day, that moment relives
in memory, after all memory
lasting longer than life,
life after life!
lobby is luxury,
for living is expensive,
it is a single room
accommodation, central heating
reduces my shiver, biting cold,

I peep through the window
The vortex of planes
gyrating like creation and
procreation in God’s cosmography.
What a moment, mind enthralled,
Tabula rasa I enjoyed.
I fly back my my flights,
Those light mechanisms
carry your heavy sentiments too,
Aritha van Herk cosy on your
lap top, privileged , Ellesmere smiles.

English language glows, glitters,
England’s pride, Shakespeare’s tool,
The window of the world, brightens,
the pages of Ellesmere fritter
aimlessly for the sudden gush
Of wind blowing,
yet, the book inside is
blooming, blooming like
Anna in the chiselled hands
of Aritha. The Avatar inside
me is propelling like the
planes, ‘work is worship’ ,
what does it matter for the
crow by the window,
if it is tabula rasa or
your laden heart,
your life is yours,
the crow pecks on.

You think amidst thoughtless a few

You think amidst thoughtless a few

When your spirits are too low,
as low as the choked voice,
compunction and distraught
in the boggling mind,
you walk on the shores ,
rhythm and rigmarole
gyrate with the waves,
You count the majestic ships ;
Blue, Deep, how sail amidst
turbulence, flagged off,
sequestered, you sit in a corner
slipping the sands,
you cant afford to slip
the precious Time:
You look up at the sky,
Starry night your
lone companion ,
for the exodus is visible.
also inevitable ever.
unaccountable stars twinkling
Perhaps the dead also merge there,
where are those dead?
The departed souls
are not far off.
Those are encircling
in and around your vicinity.

My dark horse runs --

My dark horse runs-----
I drew a picture of a dark horse
in a white paper of oblong size,
as white and pure as a newborn ,
The peeling skin peels further,
imagination ran out of my mind
like a warrior in the battle field
who bade his lost kiss and adieu
to his ever faithful mistress,
the braving on the dark horse,
left his warm hearth
not to return again ,yet
to leave an imprint on
the soil benign, blood oozing ,
sacrificial fire still rages
in his breath and vow ,
the dark horse runs, runs.
The paper fritters on the breeze.

A view when I close my eyes

Yesterday it was a huge elephant
lifting its Proboscis as if to bless me
when I was depressed,
the trunk was bedecked with jewels
rich silken robes , majestic in look.
Memory assumes to redeem
A bygone day.
Today it is a caged parrot
not longing for flight :
It pours the panjandrums
of the officious, official,
ordinary too is not spared.
Those free and freed, what
have they got and fraught
nothing but danger,
my changing envisioned object
before me stratifies many things.
I think, rethink, delve,
What it appears to be
Is not a dysfunctional,
Nor a crab,
It is a feeling from
a clogged one.

In the middle rung of the ladder

In the middle rung of the ladder.

I am in the middle rung of the ladder,
skyward ruminations amidst fear,
for the ladder is shaken by the battening
wind. Below, I see mounds and murk ,
Gossamer like cobweb runs from
Somewhere inside the window of
a house ageless .The bricks and lime
are falling. The unconscious nonagenarian
on the cot , equally counting its days,
“ give me a hand “ I beseech the
Sturdy branch of a banyan tree,
Banyan rehearses a past history .
I climb down only to view
the anthills on the platform.

A long wait

A long wait

It is a long wait
at the metropolitan
crowded bus stand,
you wait, but the long line
of eroded thoughts
still crop up to regain
to pest you internally,
your umbrella tilts,

the flared up dust and wind
move past to settle on the
poster on the wall,
you shudder at
the sight of the
tilting bus almost
touching the ground,
the commuters are like
push and pull buttons.

it is a long wait
for so many
for the ration card,
more for the ration rice
to be pilfered and sold
for the double rate,
to treble their income,

it is a long wait
for the honest and choked,
amidst bohemian ,blatant,
seems to be eternal wait
so many in the queue,
it is a long wait,
it is a long, long wait.

I see a God------

I see a God----

I see a God not in the labour
and the baby delivered
in the toilet
of the moving train,
not in the syringe timely,
dexterous, for the brain fever
of the ten year old ,
a God not in the gospel of the church,
the chained cross of the nun ;
no, not in the cocaine and poppy seeds,
a God in the struggling innocent,
not in the collar of the vile at the gallows,
But I see a GOD
Yonder in the dead,
a body in the coffin ,
for he breathes his last
in the sleep , a boon .

what is the walking for----

What is the walking for-----

Walking, walking, walking,
walking and thinking, by the
Sane shadow, you call it awakening,
Karma or protection, byzantine
path you walk ,in search of realization,
you seldom value the past, those by gone;
these hard gravels and broken stones
by the melting tar , you abhor for
they are impediments for a smooth
go by; do you feel for those who break
the stones, who in the process break
their hands, the overflowing sweat
and blood which merge ? the massive,
gigantic felled tree , impasse for the
Commuters, yet walking goes on,
Paper boats in the far off pond,
fish in the sieve of the maidens,
play and lagoon , life goes on.

God alone knows!

God alone knows!
The ghostly eeriness in the ICU ward
Competes with the palpitation of
the patient, longing for life,
‘No visitors allowed’ on the board
mocks and tilts on the painted walls,
God alone knows what she wants to confide
in the forbidden state, whom she wants to confide in,
'No visitors allowed ' board still mocks,
The nurse attaches ventilator
an accelerated process of detachment,
God alone knows what is her last sign
Or gesture or poly vocal utterance,
He only knows why no visitors
allowed In the ICU.

change

Change
Like the sounding pages which turn ,
the twitter of the birds on the magnolia,
just as the fast track on the moving slide,
you move for the change, or changes
bounce in heaps ; mound of leaves move
for the better, though fallen;
I hear the gurgling by the brook
Which brooks no delay ,
Sodden, holy , the saint meditates,
cormorants spy and spare not the salient,
the poet scribbles, what is life,
Love, lust and perfumed skin, petrified?
open pages change into closed episodes,
still changes crop up like ghost stories,
many Changes are drops from above.

A song from within

A song from within

In the wilderness of my aching heart,
amidst bushy thorns and pricks,
There is a rhythmic cry of parrot,
Secretly ,serenely creoles but not to the Surfaces,
those in the surface, feel and face the threat,
of the world’s animal instinct grit.
I know you are the Palladium from within
Gyrating of a motive serene,
In the wilderness of my heart,
You are stolid and flaunt .

In the margin of

In the margin of ---

In the margin of a foolscap white paper,
my pen sketches on a figure,
A marginalised woman , with larger
ambitions, misapplied ambience,
her struggle is her only reward,
a blossoming flower, now exposed
to Wuthering sounds, a mute victim,
the sketch goes beyond the boundaries,
where and why nobody knows;

In the wilderness

In the heart of wilderness-----

In the heart of wilderness,
there is a feeble voice,
Voice of thimbles and thistles
by the scented jasmine
and rose buds sprouting
here and there, sprawling
dandelions, gauzy covers
protecting them until blown
by the mighty winds ,
when they sweep, when they
subside they themselves know not,
memory grappling the fresh pages
in my mind’s eye,
fresh pages of what?
Pages of anything that is good,
the bouquet in plastic cover
slowly loosing its fresh charm,
yet the giver and the occasion
live and relive in memory
adding verdure to wilderness,
my search goes on.

Existence

Existence

At times we are like wild flowers
Craving for existence and sustenance
In the midst of aridity,
Smiling at gravel for be friending,
We walk on a threadbare rope walking,
Our existence precarious ,yet growing for
Stability, wild flowers are essential
to imbibe the aroma of lavender and jasmine,
this filmy existence craves an exist
into a gargantuan powerhouse .
wild flowers need be seen every
now and then,
in the bunch of rose and jasmine.

Post man for them---
It is in the post man’s brown
Shoulder bag , their destiny lies,
their life , the innocent children’s
hard lives, amidst canning , sparse
caring, rigorous training at times,
partial and cruel,
the school children’s lives,
their ambition, their results in
post card, one full year’s dictum
in single word-promoted or
detained, their tears and jubilation
all in the post man’s brown bag.

Worlds away

Worlds away
It is the worlds away
that memory keep s
Us going, living reads
Many meanings in the
Past and present,
Several things bind us
together, what separated
You and me like the
Maize from the bunch ,
to be frozen and fried,
is still a conundrum,
worlds away, may be
you are still in search
of a local habitation,
or entered into an abode
of sanguine body ,
worlds away, we are,
things make us philosophical
pine and pine for
the no more to be
attained, living is dying
into a different world
of the unknown, unknowing.

That she is the ultimate...

That she is the ultimate...
She is the iron strong gate of the moat,
She is the bright, sun- craving lotus
In the pond, a sacred lily in the altar,
She is the bright star in the
Pram , prayer book in the
Sanctum sanctorum,
She is at the peak of the ladder
Viewing the motley crowd,
That she is undaunted, unyielding
That she is the ultimate of her times.

It is enigmatic that---

It is enigmatic that---
I try to read the mystery
or of enigma , of his ,
moorings and ambivalence,
when sun and moon
follow a path of routine,
UnStultifying and undeviating;
he questions , quirks,
he distorts and abuses
to his convenience,
to his delectable advantage
the repetitive ,the time-honoured
Scriptural norms of tested
attested experiences,
This feline ,sly attributes ,
sticky, clammy attitudes
are bugging the
enviroronment,
Aquarium tub is emptied,
Canal is dry;
thrombotic block of
his thinking goes on.

Melange of thoughts

Melange of thoughts
I sit on the vast green lawn, browsing Ginsberg,
The aroma of of greenery, the smell of wet moisture
the murk of wet soil inviting your poetic sense of
perception, what a fine breath the air permeates with!
Nearby the terracotta with its uprooted grass ,its stickiness
lying exposed upwards, unwilling to die, to dry up,
Whiff of sudden wind blows the fluffy dandelion,
Only the gauzy is driven off , the flower stands on,
a melange of thoughts come up,
why this life? why this breadth? Where are those
familiar faces? where are those souls wandering?
Where are those afflicted whose life full of
torture, because of diabolic devils , intruders?
I am a karma yogi ,those unanswered questions
linger on ; like the blood oozing from wound cuts,
in the process of healing up, from wireless nearby,
I listen to warnings of landslide, storm, torpedo,
ants line on innocently, sparrows close by peck
grains, both unaware could be danger
and destruction, extinction from human heart too.

Nothing is new

Nothing is new
Like the gyrating wheel
loosened slowly, cog less,
rotating towards a point
of slope, inner rhythm sings,
weaves a melody of malady
of times, dark times;
tuned into a cacophony
of dark ages, sin and salacious
Predicament in hooded veil,
facades in multiples thronging
around me, the stentorian
church bell ringing around me
the violated ethos of Yuga
Dharma, how can you expect
Otherwise? My mind re reads
Lady Macbeth, Sampson and Delilah,
close by somebody preaches
Environmental hazards.

He wa s like a sea horse

He was like a sea -horse
He was like a sea horse
rearing in his pouch of care,
mothering , fathering weathering many,
now paces his steps with a walking stick,
the jubilant kids clap, clap clap
in tune with his stick, the third leg ,of his,
the old aunt just gets up
from the noon siesta ,yawning
to gossip and filter the frequented
surroundings in her efficient
proficient rating list,
the hot tea smoke embers
from the china cup , mix
and merge in the air from
the spicy culinary kitchen,
I taste the cardamom
In my first sip and drink,
I transcribe my heavy heart
Into the blank pages, the
Past relives in the present,
All that closeness
Is not close and good,
Only a pretended smug,
The old sea horse
Passes by,repeats the
rhythm, believe in the God
who believes in you.

Usefulness decries

USEFULNESS DECRIES
It is the gossamer like
Spreading around me
now gaining rocklike
solidarity questioning all
what is the useful ness,
the donkey carrying your
burden of used stuff in
uncouth bundles doesn’t
boomerang the
fetish question,
the mighty sun and moon
and the stars don’t
insist on your usefulness,
yet, your scientific brain
craves for solar energy
lunar coolness and oceanic
energy, you need to
go for a synergy.

The note book of a three year old--

The note book of a three year old

The one fourth blankness is like
Islands in a map , three fourths
multicolour, drawn by sketches,
scribbling, lines criss cross,
ebullient sketches from
the tender, fast egalitarian hands,
a casual, glitters,
all my efforts, concentration
to draw a tortoise from the wall
lurks into nothing, a sheer waste
of my time and effort,
I crush my page to trash .

Thoughts

What thinking can be in
the minds of those lying
bewildered, under the
lulling spell of tranquilisers,
their thoughts already tranquilised?
Can those drunken driving,
wounded in the hospital
have new thoughts of
redress and redemption?
The cute child she herself
being a doll ,beautiful,
A doll ,fluffy in her white
frock lolling in the chair,
with her made in china dolls,
what more thoughts she
will have other than combing
the hair of the toy,
wanting to have more
and more toys in her
toy kingdom,
while the grownups
nourish thoughts unrestricted
in the tiny cerebrum,
a tiny restricted area.

Cycle of faith

Cycle of faith
Sit in the cart of unstinted devotion,
Wheeled by the rotating axis of
Interminable faith,
touching the ground of
stones and pebbles of sadness
and despondency occasionally
scarring you, or perennial itch
of anger and envy corroding you,
let the faith drive you on,
in the cycle of faith,
let not the summer of
sweat and toil of faith
sulk you to an impoverished
corner of tedium,
allow the Spring of Faith
to blossom into new flowers,
but you autumnal sheds
and cold wintry deaths
of doubts and agnostic ,
only impasse for you!

it is a child's play

Her cute, dexterous, nail polished
fingers fold, unfold ,the flimsy
white papers into corners,
open again draw the edges,
open again to paint some figure,
her scissors ply even,
in her cutting there is
evenness and subtlety
poor girl, does not realize
she is cutting her grandma.

Apple--modern cinquain

Apple
red, rotten,
stinking, decolouring, shrinking,
unwholesome dish on the plate, inedible, a toy of show of an
Apple.

Behind everything

Behind the heavy laden donkey,
donkey to bear the brunt of
man’s wear, wear and tear,
behind the uploaded load,
there is karma;

Behind the cat’s surreptious, silent
preying upon the mouse, behind
the cunning paw, the cat being chased
to being drowned in the well,
there is karma ;

Behind those innocent eyes
with devouring ambition,
ambition negatively enthralling you,
cutting passion for possession
there is karma;

Behind the wheels of those
broken chair, bearing the
broken people, the mechanical
wheels still wheeling around
there is still karma.

Her bent feet, paralysed,
Steadied in the sands of
the long beaches ,may be
the sands of Time’s healing,
this is Kama’s will;

Karma is still, not vociferous,
Still, karma is here.

Twilight

In that evening when twilight of
the mood of my life has set in,
I craved for sun’s rays resplendent,
longing for and more and more,
longing for what? Absolute peace
and serenity, inclined philosophical,
queried of the past,
unhappy ,unethical surroundings,
why this damp, dampening
my spirits, jejune and colourless,
in the wake of dusk,
craving for another dawn,
twilight is a must in all .

His voices of Whispers

I hear His voices of whispers
in the rustling of leaves,
in watchwords or catchwords,
gyrating from within,
are they voices I hear?
They are His whispers
auditory to your
benumbed senses,
in the rustling of weaves,
singing a lullaby to your
broken heart,
in the melody of the
chorus of humming birds,
His whispers of comfort,
in the crumbs of bread
Pieces, in the teething
humanity of airports,
His whispers of protection,
in the wailing of the
Newborn , uncared for,
in the garbage mound,
I see His care,
whispers of protection,
when the world whimpers,
He whispers from
morn till noon,
whispers, whispers
to wipe our tears.

Faith in GOD

Faith in GOD is
A gift either ingrained
from birth, breaths
through embryo,
or chiselled by
experience, pricked
by thistles and thimbles,
cutting across your
smooth sail,
faith alone sustains you,
faith to be nurtured
in constant meditation,
if forayed into agitation
lands you in perdition,
Faith and fear in GOD
Only doors of SALVATION.

Hope

Hope.
Hope , like sprinklers
in my garden, rose and jasmine
withering and upfront ,
hope sits on my flattened body,
beckons my half dead will,
resuscitates to catapult
to the stars.
Hope by itself, a new leaf,
A new breath, a new life,
A new arena, spiralling,
A warming up, there were days
when I sat in a corner dismayed,
Hope like those sprinklers
revived my debunk spirits,
hope counsels , ‘’all you need to do
get up and , go to the garden,
today dry soil, barren stem,
tomorrow flowers blooming.
Hope, hope and hope .''

She is a lost soul

Words glare and stare,
In black and white
In bold and boisterous,
rise and roll from the agile
Key-board: ideas obstreperous
and mellifluous shoot out
for a proper formatting,
like a swathing starfish;
a skeleton of panic ,
atrocious sinful
looming large ,
She is bewildered,
She is a lost soul.

You had to go

Every day I commute the
Same laborious path,
Up and down,
Why should I feel the tedium?
for it is mechanical for my feet
to walk , mind laden with
thoughts of yesteryears ;
the togetherness of seven years
I could not forget,
It was a much lively,
Smooth path of love
and understanding,
now it is all of thimbles,
you had to go ,
for the call came from
your father , old-timer,
to appease your
father’s choice,
you had to go.

Beauty

Your thirty year old
draws a sketch , his
Brush is dexterous,
Paints with ebullient
Colures, frames it,
hangs on the wall,
a thing of beauty
to watch on the
wall , a wall decor,
three year old
grandson vies his
father, quickly
takes all the brushes,
patches wild on the
paint board criss cross,
scribbles on the
whit e paper fast,
sings to himself,
a thing of beauty more
to watch and share,
At the dawn, a stroll
in your beautiful garden
Of scented flowers,
humming birds by
the feeder, your
hands refuse to pluck
those flowers of beauty,
you are afraid that
you are spoiling the
beauty of something!
Daisies and violets
intertwine to serenade,
a thing of beauty ,
things of beauty
all around us.







,

If there were to be no garden of Eden---

If there were to be no garden of Eden,
No luscious fruits of ruddy apples forbidden,
No fall, no life of strife,
No perpetuation of progeny,
No sinning amidst syrups and juices,
Yet, man invents oranges
to make a melange
of a new group of entity,
to fertilize another vicious
mound, on this earth,
a garbage full of stinking piles,
his private garden.

Requiem to a woman

Praise be to the woman,
Peace be to the woman,
May Heavens shower their
Choicest Blessings on the woman
who was enslaved, tortured,
done to horrendous death,
held in captivity, not knowing
what for she was suffering,
cause hidden, commerce continued,
stigmatised, cornered,
cunning and crafty those parasites,
Those obnoxious intruders
who plundered and amassed,
leeches, another lineage to
Faustus selling their conscience
to the sinister devil,
blood sucking continues,
amidst devils’ chuckling.

I am timeless

I am timeless
Privileged to be at His Altar,
I came with Him,
The Devout chime me
at the church,
I sink in the hospital
warden’s meticulous care,
Timer in the visitor’s lounge,
I am in the time bomb,
Your wrist decorates me
In a golden case,
London’s BIG BEN, rings me
In rhythmic chanting,
I go by His Universal Command,
He ordains me to draw a line
when to make it a deadline,
I am timeless and dateless.

From illuion to Reality

I sit on the winged Maya,
also called illusion spiralling,
in and around, gauzy something,
to quench my thirst in the nearby
river, it is again only a mirage
I realize Maya has taken
me for a ride, me looking backwards,
but it marches along ,forging
Ahead, I get dropped
in search of reality,
waving my hand , bid farewell.