" Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive".

“ Bliss  was   it    in that  dawn to be alive”

“Bliss  was  it   in that dawn to be alive”

But   Now     to be  alive is to  be   trapped in the

Quagmire  of  peevish  slush  and   slump

Of   vampire of  Desire  eating   the  most,

 also    Prurient  who  in turn    aim the

 Wicked   arrows of   Greed  and  garnished

Garb  of    pomp  and  show  on the

helpless    passerby,

Here  Life is  deadwood, deadwood,

Overweighed yet  with  onerous   issues,              

Half eaten  by  cankering  worms,

Floating ,drifting   aimlessly,

you   also  helpless,  set  aside    rotten piece,

You  are  just  a    Swan  calm and cool

Brooding  in the waters ,allowing

the    watercourse   in its  own way;                                                                                  

“ Bliss  was  it in that dawn to be alive”,

But  to  be  alive   now  is to  crave 

for  a   peaceful  corner, serene  and spotless,

There   are   many  to     Sap

  the   string  of   action     their    beneficial   turn,

 You want to draw  the  curtain

 In the middle   of  the   theatrical  show ,    

  oh! “ Bliss  was  it in that dawn to be alive”.        

Time's precious Gift and Legacy.

            Time’s   precious  Gift and  legacy.

When  you  and   I count  Time,

Yonder  many welter in the 

fleeting  time’s see-saw games,

unawares   Time  dispossess  them,

as  those  that  set  the time for

my   vanishing times, not

knowing that  ERE,

 their countdown  begins,

while  I was  gored by

 the timed tycoons , yes  they

 are unconscientiously  

tied  up to their knots of

their own  doings, their

times’ collocations,

convulsions of our Times,

litany  goes  on  nearby.

An  inner  Voice ,good augurs,

The  Times  Ahead are Propitious:

The  Timely Advent of my Mentor,

 Avatar,  sacrificial  icon,

MY Times’ Boon,

Thoughts..

            Thoughts.         

Oh! I see  many  with  a  soft  texture:

   yet    these  Machiavellian  thoughts,

Macbeth’s    colourful  attire of ambition,

For  cankering    power  and  lust  for  greed,

Lady   Macbeth’s    a    little  water,

 running   simply, as  simply

as  the  unattended accident

 victim’s  blood   flows  on the

main  road,  crowd  merely  a

watcher on,  for   law  ,  Law 

is  larger than Life, what to do?

Days  and stringent  laws  are

Like that:  Most  of us are

In  Hamletian     dilemma,

Dilemma  continues,

 for  many things  in  night

and  day  shifts:

How long, don’t know.

Some Essentials you experience

       Some     Essentials   you  experience

A t the  end of  the   Day’s  resilience

for   you  are  comfortable   with your  Muse,

though   Dusk   and  tedium  for  some

 revel with  musk   and matter, 

the  printer  in the corner  like

a  preaching  Messiah,

professes   with  the   black   materials,

you   are  alone  by yourself,

in the  grid of  contemplation,

rustling  wind   a   therapy,

mewing   cat  a  companion

in the  dead of  night,

exhaled   breath   in the void,

meaning this  flesh   one  day

or  another  inevitable

 to merge with the

 embers  or  to  get

 reduced   to    ashes,

you  type   fast,

as  fast  as the  bestial 

that   goes  on  outside. 

To my daughter unreal..

                    To  my  daughter  unreal

A  noon  siesta, delectable,

Summer   showers, the  fixed  swing

In the   big  marble  hall  always  sings,

Swings,    a    lullaby , a  coda 

to  your  musical   soft

 notations   within   yourself.  

She  whizzes  past  around  me

 like  a   butterfly, in  full  throb,

propels  me  to play blind man’s buff,

a  ribbon  band to  cover my eyes,

a  childlike  command  to  imagine

myself    a   band of  Not    seedy

observers   and   participants.

A  bang  at the door, a   knock

gyrating within  myself to see

my  play mate,  my butterfly,

I wake up to  see  a  doll

nodding  its face, to  and fro:

I wake up  to  see this

Void  around me,

 Charlatan  and   some

  still in torpor.

The  doll  in  silk 

Is  active  yet.                                                                                                         

This Mad Desire

                      This   Mad  Desire

This   desire  rubs ,

This  mad desire  runs 

like  triggered  lion on

Perfumed   oily , supple  skin,

The invincible  Desire, the  Oleander

Permeates,plays  not niggardly,

 Karma   irrefutable  stands

and  stares,  unmistakably:

I too  am  part  and parcel

Of the  painful  jamboree,

Karma  says  and    drawn 

With  the  self   abnegating  grudge.

A Gift for Valentine's Day.

        A   Gift  for  Valentine’s  Day 

Unfolded   stories   with    prognostic

twists  and turns, not    furtive ,

colourless , dreams  of  today

heaped  up  in  senseless  moorings,

underneath    my frilled     pillow ,

those   wet tears  salty, irate,

roll  on   to  remember  me  to

a  tomorrow   with   a  nugget  

of   chance , change, a  tranquil  alcove.

This Seamless Happening.

This   Seamless Happening

This   happening  is  happening ,

Seamless    from within,

Picturises    the    horrendous  outside,

I see  kids  see-saw  in the  play  area,

Some  light  happening  for them too,

go  up   and down,  a  thrill,  a  jubilation,

Many   a   somersault     here   and  there,

to    topsy  turvey   the  shaped ;

the   Lighthouse   from  afar and

 the  ship quizzical, mystery  of the waters,

vanish with  a  faint     glimmer,

queen  Moon  shines, on the  shingles too;

countless   sands   wear  a   ghost like

hopeless  to  redeem this wretched

humanity coiling in  a   falsified

arrogant ,uncompromising   notions

that  beguile  all, dehumanising  

 to the  core  , the chagrin of   it all.

Everywhere  it is happening,

Happening  beyond  our perception,

Happenings  you  and   I cannot  thwart,

Happenings you  and    I  only  can  witness,

This   happening  is  happening ,

Seamless    from within,

Romance

                       Romance

In  the  shadowed   evening’s  receding  attire,

The   gardener’s  pail   sprinkles   cool on soil

glands, the  oranged   saffron  on the western

horizon, bidding  farewell    now--   for the next morn’s

tender  advent :there  is  a touching  Romance.

The   ash  coloured  Dove  and chirping  sparrows

On the half blossomed  red   roses and

  Chrysanthemums ,sit   and serenade,

Speak  in  a  language  sacred to  the  Above,

  there is  romping  Romance,

Sudden  summer  showers  merciful with

Open –hearted   mirth  descend   below,

wet the  carefree  and dancing bunches

 and  spooky  stems  as if to  exorcise the 

fear in them , there is  a  leafy Romance.

                                                                                                               

The  writer  with   passion  and driving

enthralled   force  ,pours  forth  her emotion

on the   craving  soil,  with slender sticks

stems, transplanting  her creativity

there is  a   poetic  Romance,

If I could...

               If  I could...

If   I could  follow  the Soul,

Happy, jejune, afflicted, or

Angst  ridden, whatever name

You  term   consequent  to

 the   libation,

 Soul’s Liberation, for  me

a   stringent  ordeal,

Faithfully, meandering

 Its ordained path,

If   only  I  could  predict

In   all  authenticity

And  veracity , the  Birth

After  The  Soul’s  sojourn  here,

If  only  I could measure the Journey,

The  specific  TIME and Distance,

If  I could  instil  Breath

In the  embryo , gyrating

 in the womb of  its   mother,                                         

I  would  be   an  extraordinary

NOT  an ordinary, Super Being,

But, then ,here  God  puts  a   definite

Check,   a   sure check post,

If  I  could  challenge   that  I 

Would   surpass this   sacred 

Impossible   jurisdiction,

My boundary  is sure to invite

Devil’s    Adjudication.

My First Day at School.

My  First  Day at School.

An   assemblage  at the  Prayer  Hall,

Blue  and white uniformed,

 in the  vagrant  and jubilant  morn,

Sure  to be  soiled  by the   busy   noon,

My  seniors  breathed in

  taunting  fear, discouraging  words;

For   some   tension, for most  

Homework  was  not  done,

A  must, corporal punishment,

Sure to  endure  a   nasty hasty

Kneel down, some  even swoon  down,

Hot  sun   and the  big  lecture

by the senior most matron

on the  dos  and donts;

I recollect boys  falling like

Hot pellets  or  coconuts,

Wooden  framed  slates  and

Slender  chalk pieces,

Most  innocent  elementary

Kids  use  their  saliva as

their  solution  to wipe

wrong  calculation,

bags  and  bags  and cartload

of  books   and  hurriedly rushed

syllabus  amidst  stand-up

on the bench, after  three  hours

of  bending and meticulous

writing, failures  for many;

 inexplicable  night mares;

tortures  by the  pricking

parents ,perpetuated

until the next  academic year.

In this vast amphitheatre

In   this   vast  amphitheatre......

In this vast  amphitheatre, the world,

encompassing  all, equally pretending,

it does not get old, ageless,

Icon    of    gyrating  paths,

grappling   all    that comes its way,  

you   and I    and  all ,  roll on

each  in the rhythm of our

doings  and   deeds,

oh! Karma, unsparingly  impartial,

 you  are the  wicked  also  vinegar ,

I am the  helpless  speck

Staring  at  the  charcoal  embers,

I cannot  dowse it peremptorily,

Ye, cinders  burn  and burn ,

whetted   by the  gushing   winds,

endlessly  burning  as man’s passion,

angst   ridden , mistakenly  crossed,

crossing  each other, you  are  the  fire,

you  are  the    universal  ire,

Here,  I am  submerged by the

Gauntlet of    your   verdict

already  set  as  the  stars  sun and  moon,

Ye,  cinders     burn  and  burn  ,

Till  the  pebbled   shores

Exceed   their    boundless jurisdiction.

Mother’s Itinerary.

                      Mother’s   Itinerary.

                As the glass  jar dutifully    contains

               My hot tea  to keep awake in the

                Still night tick ticked  by the  alarm,

                 Winks  at my  sagging   posture,

                I am   now in a   Disney  world,

                I am in  a   faraway   hugged by

                Sleep world, not embittered , not

               Sullied   by the deliberate   castigating  

               Of this  slam world, the world  also

               Seems to  sleep now.

                 Some feather  touch, serene ,sanguine,

                She draws  a, woolly   blanket,

                Prays my life  and living  be not

                Steered  by woolly  ways,

                 She  trains me  for  a  rock bed of

                 Untainted   civilisation :

               Yet  alarming  is  her wake up call

               with   a     brewing  cup of hot coffee.       

                Her   itinerary  is   time bound ,  timeless

                 Her  itinerary   is   flawless.          

Feather Touch

         Feather  Touch

I   am in the middle of a poem,

Typing  fast,  alphabets   are in  a  quandary,

for  a   change, this  time   uniquely

different :  ideas first, delectable  

and   a  dish  of  marmalade ;

could  be  a   pickled  jar, sour  and hot,

unless  your  taste   bites  crave for  this.

 title  next,  rummage  through  the 

stubborn   storage called   Mind,

my  note book  fritters ,jubilant,

euphoric,  ebullient  quill   peeps,

peacock   feather, prismatic , 

a  book mark , a  feather touch

from  my   nocturnally   more  active   MUSE,

fecundity, efficacious,   pours on.

Awesome Revelation.

                       Awesome    Revelation.

Pages   fritter, freak  and  free play;

Days   and   months  and  years  roll on;

They    elusively  seem    only   on papers ,

mechanical   and  careless ,

yet inerasable   imprints in hearts,

intractable  thimbles, moorings,

Casablanca   and   cleavage   paving

their  delved   roots:

Outdated   sheets  on the calendar

get   demoted  to the overflowing bin.

It is a   mystery how a cerebellum

Retains    so  much,

 Storage  in  delicate   tissues.

 Five  decades  of  mischievous

glee  and   manoeuvre,

splashes  of murky  puddles,

getting   thwarted  all ,

not by  yo-yo but   by  a 

Cosmic   vision   of    ubiquitous

Spirit,  halcyon  and  impartial,

Yet, both  play  yo-yo

In   full  uncontrolled   vigour.

Faith

  

                  Faith .

Faith    sits  demure,

Unusually   impoverished,

Slowly   decreasing

  in  a  corner ,like

 a  deflated   balloon,

Insignificantly   viewed,

Now   a   whimpering, corrugated

CD, whines, shrieks ,

‘I  am assaulted  with  a

mangled   tooth    of

sceptical   questioning,

 a  bogey  of   detrimental

spirit delving  my  arena,

my   garden  of  Eden 

is  haunted,  hunted.

Now   I am  a   sloth,

No longer  a  Faith’.

Grief.

       Grief.

It is the Grief of God

that   His  Own  Creations

Outsource   His   well wrought

Cosmic   Strategy :  do you think

They  are ,  unmalleable ?

He  seems  to  query  

Reclining   in   His  Abode

From   where  he   views   from

His  Seamless  vision,  those

deviants   and  defiant

in   His own   vast  soil of

 eruptions.  Yes. Tsunami 

befriending    lava , magma     are

  to    reshape  them

in   their  karmic   knots  of  

deeds   and   dooms .

His  conch  blows.

Book to hook you..

                  Books to hook   you.....

There   they are, dispossessed

Of   their rightful masters,

 emit   a   gibberish smile,

colorful   books, spiral binding,

Some    resplendently   laminated,

Some   pages   are  abominably    torn,

Others,   Thickly   bound, voluminous,

Usurp   three fourths   of the

Mahogany    table, sterling and polished,

I am hooked  or  books  are

Booked  by my  thirst   for  knowledge,

They  crave to be restored

to  their lawful  abode,

 to their  abode of  freedom,

yearn   their  manumission.

A spirit---He is

          A spirit -  He  is  ....

 He is  with the pain and relief

 Of the agonised sickly  and recuperating ,

  Some  desperate, helpless, wheeled   

In the assistance to the  wash  basin,

He is  with  the ward  boy 

In the uniform   and cap,

Sweeping the corners

Brushing   the  cotton   and

 Blood  stained   sponges,

He is  with the  Cross   hanging

On the wall  by the  Star,

Magically  winged  is  He,

He  inspects  the   labelled

Vials  with   bitter   tablets ,

He   permeates  the  slippery

Mosaic   floor, prevents some

Falling,  connives  with  many:

He  is  also    inarguably       with

 those  breathing last.

The Baby.

                   The   Baby

Imbibing   the  cosy  warmth

Within      protective    tender walls,

God    infuses    His ordained  

Breath  into the tender balmy,

Careless  and   gyrating   inside,

Its  eyes  closed , soon to

Open  in the   shaggy ,cruel world,

Kicking   the   mother from within,

kick bats  in the near future,

sometime   or the other,

once the flower  blossomed,

mother  pours kisses unbounded,

Kisses  are  simply  Blessings,

The  spongy baby  sleeps,

  Innocence   sleeps, sleeps.

This Life a blotting paper....

                         This  life  a   blotting  paper....

            This Life, a    big  blotting  paper,

             Stares : a   booming   necessity,

             has  to be   : aside  otherwise  white

             pages retain    figures, neat  and distorted, 

             meticulous   sketches, portmanteau

             portrayal. One  blotting sheet  goes

            to  the bin,  you  deftly  get   another

              from   the slot,  stack  is  suave   

             and  smiles  assuredly,  

             as if  a   smart  rejoinder,

            ‘  me   indispensable  ally'

             

Karmic debt

       Karmic   debt.

In  my  oblong  shaped  balcony,

The  mud pot   bears fragranced  bosom,

wears  a  thick  garb of  clustered

leaves, pruned by its  wary  caretaker,

polished  courtship with the sun’s  rays,

yields  Karmic  debt –serenading flowers.

It is full of ire.

           It is  full of  ire.

 Denied    its due respect...

 It  is   full  of  ire.

I get  up   and face to see

It   Is in full   ire,

It sits   dogmatically

On my silvery, shining,

  Four burners gas oven,

It  is in the tip of the

Gas  lighter,  lurks

Amidst    the   spooky

 Colourful  match sticks,

Cosy within the box,

It is devoid of any fire,

It is full of  ire,

For it is drenched

 inadvertently in water.

A second voice

A   Second voice.

After  so many  whyness   of whys

You  plod  along, simply  swallow

the   unanswered   questions :

the   passing  brooks, the  foamy,

 healing ,  waterfalls  acclaiming

their   uniformity   and unanimity,

fast  moving  lilies  that  bade  good bye,

rustle of  leaves, ever wrestling  mankind,

you    look  up  the    blue  azure , majestic,

canopy, folding  and   unfolding  many a

dark   secrets   and   mysteries,

is  it  the  heaven  that  the 

time   honoured  have branded?

Or  the    twinkling  stars the  

Unaccounted, unreachable,

By  choice  or  by  no choice,

 Untimely departed   ones

take   refuge   in time  and   again? 

Oft  you  were  besieged  by

A compelling gruelling   pontifical   ordeal,

‘ to shuffle off  this   mortal coin’

 to be  zeroed to  a  further  void,

not  a  gruesome  yet welcome

death wish, a wistful  desire to

end   death  and  dearth  in  life,

A crane   by the close by pond

as  if   in a  penance  presages,

‘Wait  and  watch more drama’.

  

Flowers

           Flowers

Humming birds   hone   a sweet rhythm,

 serenade:   twittering  sparrows

hang   around  in the Hope  emanating Dawn,

but  no  blooming  flowers in my  garden,

but   only sinking   buds   in the  mud ,

bitten   by the cruel  frosty hands  of 

shrivelling   Winter,

the   half   lived   stems

crave  for  the  warmth,

looking  upwards, what else

they   could do? Where  else

they expect ? could it be from

mostly self centred  humanity?

Trees  know  better.

A String of fallen threads......

           A  String  of  fallen   threads......

 These  bunches  of  fallen coils,

 Unable  to  extricate .

Mehendi   abnormally  usurps

   the  white colour,

these  demented,  entangled   on the

yellow  white  comb,

aging    head  dethrones them,

 Some  slick  hand ,promotes

Them  for   a  wig.

These  fallen  angels 

Giggle  and  smart

Ready  for up gradation. 

Poetry in Motion.

Poetry in Motion.

If brooks and rivulets can inspire ,
swoops of birds and soaring kites
take poets to seamless heights,
poetry is in motion, poetry can also 
be in commotion, crowds and platforms,
trolleys and chocolates and bookshelves,
signals and throbbing tubes, 
smiling ,crossing hurried 
faces, cigars in corners, 
poetry is in Motion.
poetry can be flawless inspiration
from poets and stations and statues.