A chuckle from the corner.

   A  chuckle  from    the corner

The  loose  hanging , irate cobweb,

As  if  to  sever  its  life  and living

from the  hitherto   asylum  giving 

wall,   mocks  at me ,chuckles  at

my    pecuniary  approach,

you   save plastics  and pennies ,

pence  in   cute  bamboo    boxes,

scribble   and  sweat,

peas  are   luxury  for    your   

hungry   stomach,  pizzas   crave

some  other  dominion, you

bend  to   assemble  the  broom

to   swipe   and  sweep  and struggle,

when your pence  sleep, steady

in   their   safe  vault, blank

cheques   and  pounds 

fly  in the   air,  they  are  airborne.

I   measure the scale  range 

In  between  the  price  of 

Prized   poignancy   and  priggish,

self-centred   buoyancy. 

 

In the busy throb of ..

     In  the  busy  throb of  .....

In  the  busy  throb of  vociferous

Humanity’s    hubbub, a  claptrap,

Or  a  congregation  of  wilful  ,searching,

Scrutinizing,   assertively   defensive   or

Obnoxiously   offensive  groupism ,   or

Garrulity,you  bypass  the  cute  cat  or

The terribly  innocent    bleating 

Ram ,select   a  secure   corner to

Ruminate  the Universe ,governing

Laws of the  Magnum opus of  God,

The   architect:   you  also  peer  into

blinding  realities  just  as the blinds

that  are  drawn  during  curfew;

here  there is  no  curfew;

you  drink  the   juice of   consolation

but  for  THE  UNSEEN,

you  would  have  been  SEEN in

bits  and   pieces.

It is catching.....

           It  is  catching...

You   are    seated   in  the

Centre  of   the    bash  convulsions

Of  the   knocking  ,turbulent  Times,

 NOT  the   invigorating

  Bermudas  islands,  cruises,

You  were  in the  core  of  the

Rut  not knowing the sinister   roots,

You   have  sufficiently  lived 

Through the  irate  chamber of  

Iglood  ,isolated  ignorance,

Now,    You  live through the  rut ,

View   silently  the  mad  desire  like

 the  bubonic   plague   Catches  ,

countless  are the  wilful  victims ,

wait  and  watch  how long  the

ironic    fire , dire,  spreads,

it  catches, catches ,like  a

bubonic plague.

Through the troubled Times....

Through  the  troubled  Times....

Through  the   Troubled   and  Troubling Times,

not  yet  completely  through,   most  of  us

  surf through, at times even trapped by

the  slimy   pond  of intricate  ,clumsy   quagmire,

what  quaint  essential   full   moon ,or

   amber  in the  westward sun or the

 fringes of   the brook  could  pass

on  us    for   a  relief , or  cessation of 

our  teething   or  thrust  upon  convulsions  :

devoid of  compunctions , these  corrugated

 tin   sheets   mangle  and   manipulate ,

foils, they  are,  ever  agitated,

 or  even  foxed  or  bamboozle    tricks ,

These  already   Perforated  upswings

Or   openings    still  hang on,

Surfing, undaunted ,  goes  on  until

You   reach  a  perspective  shore.

Shadow of what?

Shadow  of    what?

Summer  like  a  militant    soldier  sets in,

Counteract   the  drooping  winter’s

Grim, falling  visage,   the hot

Pellets  of  heat  waves  barge in,

Somewhere   the  dog’s  bark  ,

Barking  of  man’s  seemingly  

 effulgent, arrogance,  it is  a

a  sepulchral  voicing of   seedy

happenings, unchecked,

my  key board    cravingly

looks   on for certitude

of   typing  and tapping,

somewhat  like  a  shadow

of  crow   peeps in ,

hop skips on the letters,

may  be  the  Soul  of  a

good hearted , long  ago

forgotten, reminds me the

cruelty  of the world ,

“ awake  always, else

You   are in for clean burial.”

  

Imagine how a girl in teenage would be...

Imagine   how    a    girl   in   teenage    would be....

              Just  a  parody  in first person.

My  semi –transparent  gown

Projecting   my  oily, perfumed  skin,

I  would   up  from  my bed

At  nine  in the morn, drooping

Eyelids   still   longing for  sleep

In the Dunlop  ordering for  a

Dunlop  cheese cake  and a  hot

Brewing  cup of  coffee  from

My housekeeper, my  lingerie

Helpless in the corner , in the

Basket  craves a   wash,

A  French bath  or  not   what

Does it mater   for the  ever

Perfumed  skin,

Percolation   of  a  juice  from

A  transparent  china  glass  through

My deft  nail polished  fingers,

Delicate not to spill it on  my

Just   donned ,glowing,                                                                                                             

Shiny,    Velvet   tea shirt,

Adjust  my  bobbed  hair

Which  bristle out  like

Pop ups  or  prying  looks

 What  happens in the next door,

I am out  in my  car

With   Agatha  Christie ,

Say   a  hurried  good bye

to  my   house  keeper,

for  my  parents  in heaven

Long ,long ago.

    

How Spring comes....

             How  Spring   comes...

She  brushes  the  thimbles of   chilly

Autumnal     turmoil,

Wafts  the  fragrance of  rose  and

Earth’s  lovely  child  of  Grass

Nodding,  beckoning lark’s

Warm  notes to  touch  the  ground

for   a  while,  to make   the  sweet

melody  reachable to  man’s unkind

ears,  for   he  droops  to pick up

coins  of  pebbles , searches  shillings

and   pounds  amidst wasteful     

wet  sands of   decay,

Spring’s  blooming  flowers

Assay,  ‘’look up!

Look  at us, we  are  the

Timely therapy, we are

God’s   plenty’’,

Spring   is  the  candelabrum

to  dispel  the   dingy

mushroom  growth of  

negative   ambition,

She  is  the   pure  white   Dame, 

She is the   sprightly

Dame   Luck. Come   quick.

A speck of Spectrum

                       A  speck   of     Spectrum

I hear karma  wailing   in  some

Inner   rings  of outer walls,

The  ding dong   of  some local

Temples,  the   solemn chapels,

The  bird chirping on the roofs

Of   village   mounds  or the

Calling  bird’s   lifelike   notations,

For  there is  a  mark of  irreligious

Note  or    quirk  of  fate creeping,

You   turn   the   mosquito net

Outside  in, the   bucket of water

discoloured  , disfiguring the 

White  tiled   floors, you  are

Dismayed, that is the colour

Of the Heart of  Man ,

Possessed  by  the Devil.

All the same

     All  the  same  now

A  life, grass,   brick and   mortar,

Bunch of  weeds under the stone,

Crumbled    to   the core,   crushed

Beyond  the identity, all  the   same

  feelings   are  feline , to  topple us ,

our  feelings  gone, they  are

 only  realings as  long  as they 

are   our   sufferings,  start  counting

innings,  you  are  outscored,

This    Life, this    filmy   gossamer,

A  gauzy   cup  of    lure,

Devouring    many .

She peeps in

  She    peeps   in

 Osiris   smiles in my  sprightly    garden,

The   rose  buds  are proud ,reciprocal,

Recipients   of  warmth   and  honour.

I sit  with  Ginsberg’s   HOWL , a page

to  fan   me , not to  howl me,

  Slowly  the  heat   subsides,

Dog star  recedes  with a 

Look  of   expressed defeat.

It is  now past    six.

As   I drew  the delicate  blind,

the  artistically  woven  printed

frills  of  the   yellow   curtain  fritter,

 waves   a   salient    good bye   

 to the   gubernatorial  Sun:

Queen  Moon  enters,  quiet,

assisted   by  lucid  ,tranquil  charm, 

To   spy  my  writing   desk.

The  glow  of  mouse

Lurks into  nothing.

A stone throw

                              A   stone throw

A   tiny stone  toss   and    throw

At    a   throb    nest  of    crows,

chicks    cosy   and   nestle  within,

 sudden  flutter  and  disturbed ,

cacophony of  harmony  :

a  planned, meticulous  array

of    words    hurled  at  many,

stagnant    for  years   roomy

inerasable , like  sediments   

and    clay not   a   matter  of   guffaw,

even   times  take  their  own   sweet  

time  to   redeem   this     macabre   awe .

     

Of that thing that is called Death.

  Of  that  thing  that is called Death..

Oh, of that   Death, which is the end of Life,

Of  what you call the  extinction   of body  not of  Soul,

The  time honoured  belief  exists,

for   the Soul  transmigrates

to a  different   entity  or  preordained  zone,

oh!   of   death , the cessation  of  life  breath, 

for some  the end of sufferings and   torture,

some  willingly  crave, some    brave,

how  you  knock  on the door, how  you

depart,    imperceptible  , you  are 

calm    as   sedate    or   as  disturbing,

and   sweepingly   dangerous  as   volcano,

you     are   in a   solution,   you  are  in  vial,

your   ancestry is   bugging  mystery  and

your    smile  of  victory  is  inhuman  cruelty.

" 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.