Nov 24th message 2008

She, prudish, became suddenly
European, addict to French wine,
frilled , smacking frock on
her perfumed skin, western
notes in Anglophile villa,
Turkish Cigarettes,
But her children remind
their Indian Father.

Nov 25th Message 2008

In the stillness of night,
Eyes search for special in the
Picture of aquarium tub, he
Revives his dream, passion
for, Swimming, diving, his mouth
waters, tastes spiced, fish fry.

Nov 26th Message 2008

What those cracks, mud baked walls
Could do their aging selves?
Dilapidation and trepidation of death,
Shake them not, memory of 
early life, the roses and jasmines,
revitalise dying cells.

Nov 27th 2008 Message

She has obsession with lengthy
Gold chains, risk to keep 
in house, the drunkard husband
often pledged and pawned her desire,
them as well as her peace,
she cannot but.

Nov 28th 2008 Message

My son comes from school,
Removes his tight shoes ,
heaves sigh, a stringent measure of
school discipline of blisters,
I see pearly
smiles in his face, I abrogate
such rules .

Nov.29 th 2008

She is a coolie, daily wage earner,
Can afford only buttermilk,
Chocolates and cakes beyond her purse,
Sees a craving for these affluence 
in her son’s eyes,
Affection stretches beyond.

Nov 30 th 2008 Message

As man’s meticulous plans,
Almighty’s decisions mismatch,
I started with poem of thirty words,
ended up with narration of hundred
lines, began with my tale, ended
in her confounding story.

It is a hazardous journey.

 It    is  a    hazardous    journey

Rueful    of  the tricky ,dark  hazardous

Journey, you   type    your  geography less

Out pouring, each  tab  is  a   ping  pong ,

Reflective , recording  your  innings:

He  comes  straight  through  the undiluted

Undeviated  path   as usual   as his   white

Beams   are   a  therapy  to  your   tormented

Soul. For  him   no  dogma,  nor  miasma:

Yet   my encircling   darkness,

 a  connivance  by   small    human ,

To  undo   my  survival . Sun      

To   replenish , to  console  and   care.

Dark  is  riveted   in the  corner.

Karma of consciousness

    Karma of consciousness

I carry my Karma of consciousness,
Or Consciousness of karma,
On my head, prudent and wary,
Different nomenclature,
Yet one identity,one reality,

I carry my Karma of consciousness,
Or Consciousness of karma,
A pot of injunctions,
A fear,tremor, shiver:
Lest it should incur wrath of Gods.

Surfacing on the Internet. 5-7-5 poem

Surf word on the web Singularly velvety Poetry on flow.

This good American Dream

This   good  American  Dream      

This    good nourishing American Dream

Of   copious  blooming like  Spring’s            

Freshness   singing  lullaby.

You  go  to  the rivulet  gurgling 

With  sound  as your  tiny  brass

Pot  gets filled, you  allow the

Tiny   innocent stream of   fish

With  glowing  fins  go  back

To  their   fluid  abode,          

Your  dream  visits  you    often:

There is this   mad  detractive   hurry,

rueful  run   into  the   moving  bus,

cling  to  the  rusted pillar

crumble   to  pieces,                     

Itch  on the skin , for 

Some .  scratches  are  too  many.

  

Tracking fast.

Tracking  fast

 I  look  through  the window,        

Green trees,  move  along,

Look  as if  they  run  away

From   mound   of  fire

Which  is   spreading   fast,

Proud  of   its  powers

 gifted  with  copious , 

Enriching ,destroying ,  life.

Cows on  the graze,

Cattle  bent  on the dried  grass

Popping   up in the fields;

The  train  speeds   past

rumbling    fast on the 

Curvature of tracks,

holding     many passengers

with trackless records of

memories, anecdotes , their

angst  dominating them,

I   too  carry  my  heavy  heart,

affected  by  the  see saw 

rumbles    honing   against

my poetic  voice  within.

I    open up  my  precious  page

In   the   bulky voluminous   note

Book  of  recordation  where  I  

 Scribble,  pour  my  heart’s content,

For  some  times   in  the  train,

Voiceless ,   the  bulky

Note book  served   as my pillow,  

Whispering   silent    notations

Into  my  half-conscious  ears;

I  revel  on my  improvisation:

Life  is    for   improvisation   at  times,

Train   speeds   past  doing   its  duty.                          

In the garden

In  the  garden.

While    the wintry  beds are

agog  to  bid  farewell ,  when

the  season   is  taking  the

last   breath, the  frosty leaves

creepy  on the  wet  land,

some crumble, some  roll on

in   clusters  like coils

to  the  corner of  the wall,

beyond which there is no

move for  that is the line

of   boundary , gentle  rays

of  Sun like  the  supple

limbs  of   New born ,

you  are  the loner ,

no,  not  yet    birds  to  chirp ,

you look  up to  the skies,

slowly  clearing  as if  to

answer  the  muddied ,

infecting , inflecting  cosmic

visions, still  the wet

smell of the soil  is invigorating,

wet  is  a  must,

that  wet  craves

in   man’s  heart,

you  are  the  loner.

I can only laugh at their folly.

     I can  only  Laugh  at  their    folly

I   can  only  laugh  at  their   treacherous

Villainy   of  folly  blinded  by  vile  avarice

going  to  land them  in quagmire

Of   retribution ; can  I call it

Incarceration of Souls, their souls

Cuffed  by  masquerading  fears

Of  uncertainty, Devil’s upper hand

Unseating   those; they   go into  Hiding.

Sun  creeps in   as if  bursting

 of clouds ,generously warming up:

quick   bouts of  Revelation.              

I'll be fine

           I’ll be fine

The  wintry  buds  in my  garden

Bid   goodbye  to  the  chilly  morn

and  slow  farewell to

  the  repressive  season;

this  cold  keeps  a  thug

attitude  on  my shoulder, 

papers  on the  table

fritter   and partake of

the  surrounding  chillness,

my  quill  is  yet steady

in   its  recordation,

a  bohemian   tempo,

 Summer’s   big  bonanza

the  golden  rays  peep in,

warm  up  my room                   

I’ll be fine  soon.

                                                           

The triumphant trio

     The   triumphant     trio            

One  is  chiselling  with  acute   vision

Malleable   plank  is   shaped  into  His will

Infusing  breath   with karma.

The  Second  is   ever  wielding

His  unique  umbrella ,shields  the

Wards  of His  meticulous  care.                                   

The   Third   is   relentless, His   axe is

Shining   and unswerving;

He  is   The  Timer.

What goes out, what comes in.

    What goes out, what comes in

   This hospital,   This  cot  ungrudgingly 

    accustomed   to many  like   me,

    the osteoporosis  inhabiting    many,

     the  wailing, overloaded   basket

     in   the   corner  awaits  the arrival 

     of  the  cleaner, clad   in  uniform

     bored  and  battered, doctor’s  chart

     determines  no   early   discharge,  a   week

     more  for   this  weak  bones’ asylum,  

     what  goes  out  is  the  use d  hypodermic ,

      cotton  soaked in    blood cots,

      what comes  in  is     the  Hope,

       smile  in  the  face  of  doctor.

           

Those eyes

    Those    eyes

Those  universal    eyes  within  the  frame

Encompassing  ,encapsulating  more

and   more of  visionary  gleam

 today  undergoes vile    censure,

vituperation,  and  cinematographic    shifts,

outcome  of  contracted, myopic  vision,                                                                     

Those  universal   eyes

merged  with  the  third  eyed perspectives

glance, peer   and predict,

those   eyes  are  unfailing   ever.

It falls

  It    falls

I   look  up straining    my  neck,

after  forty  eight  hours  of   steadfast

dangling  in the  air, it  dances,

holds  stead fast,  undaunted,

It  is  like  me , content  to be

By itself  in   a  sedate corner:

The  tiny, threadlike, in  for 

Steady growth, it  perpetuates

Its   life  in the  void, in the corner,

Fearless ,except it  falls in the        

Eyes  of  those evil  and greedy      

ready  to  devour  and destroy,

a  timely  tap  on the board

deters  the   lizard, I watch ,

the  filmy  weaves  a  web

of  its own,  content   and careful.

December peels

                                December  peels

 November   showers   end,   still  pop out of the

Sky   today ,  as  I view  from  my  balcony,

  They   are  dismembering    clouts; still   no  wants.

December’s   melodies   melange

With   the  Dawn’s   whispering   blossoms,                                     

Something    like   a   clairvoyance                                                                                                                                    

Springs  from  within  upwelling ,

Climbing  the  tricky  ladder of   hope.

  It   chimes   like  paradigms

In your   heart,  ringing   out   the old;

Somewhere    from  the grass 

Emanates  the smell of  airy  wet winds

 Coiling  fresh   roots. I  go  back  to

My  days   of   cold  thundering             

 November   Morn.  Church  choir

On the  cliff  rings  out  the old.

                     

Twin sisters

        Twin  sisters.

My  Soul  wears  the  crown of 

Serenity ,  views  from  afar,

For   the  Skin   shrinks  day  by  day,

Even      afore  skin   stood   aloof

In the hollering   crowd,

Did not  want to  wound  her

Soul mate ;  far away embers

Of  log  only    guffaw ,

At  many  in  queue,

My  soul  wears  salient,

  The    crown  of  Serenity .

The wall before me

The   wall  before  me.

  Plugged  wire  like  a  snake

Signals  love  with   the  switch,

Why  not   permission?

Reaches   the   table,

The    majestic   wall  is  blank,

Stares  back  at  me,

I am  not  the  brick   and  

 mortar  alone  Used  with  lime  ;            

generations  ahead  will 

foster    their  dreams 

at   least     for  a century,

wall  energises   my  furthering 

moves , mocking  the moisture

on    the  floor, my  moisture d

face    glares   back  on  the  wall.

Spin or Shun

                   Spin   or     Shun

  Just   now    done   a    page   of     Dithyramb,

Look   above    for   a resolve,

But  I  hear  a   more   definite  rhythm   evolve ;

They  are  the  God men ,recite, in uniform  beat,

Spinning   and    chanting, chanting   and spinning,

Spin  the  impeccable  wheel  of  our   destiny,

Set  the   path  of  our  Karma,

Our  Karma  is  dawned    by  them

As  the  vibrant  chanting   goes  on;

The  celluloid   cacophony  in the

background     goes  , the    continuum

 of     wheeling  by God man  rolls  on.          

In God's pot

   In    God’s pot

In   God’s well  augmented

  Pot,   Unbiased, unequivocal,

Just  as  straight  from  Heaven’s

Bounteous, long  spell of  showers,

Rains   splashing   Unto this   eddied

 earth,  Yesteryears’   seeds, saplings,

Today’s  sweat   and toil,

Tomorrow’s Sunbeams    flourish ,

Blossoming  flowers   boom ;

Her  smile  of   returns,

Many   a  sickle   in   queue 

 to  knock  and  Trespass  the   yield.

God’s  pot   cares  less.

                                  

Life is ..

  Life    is.

Life    is a    blithe  spirit                                                    

Circling ,  soaring   higher,

Methought, suddenly                 

In  a   swoop  drawn  by 

Many   spooky    arrows,

Dives   to   this     earth,

Wound cuts  still  pierce,

Make  it  bleed,            

Some  sage in  a passerby

Soothes  with   medicinal  care,

In  another  event, this

Wheel   of  life   racing ,

But   too  many  stumbling  blocks

 Clustering  speed  breakers

Dismantle  the  wheel of 

Commercialised, uncheked

 Wheel Now  comes off,

Awaits  a  fresh  lease of life.

 Both   eager  to  take off.

                                                                                                    

                                                

November Rain

                     November   Rain

It  falls, roars, straight  into   the

Pitted, rough  earth, uncompromising

Like   Karma’s   axe  on the  targeted;

                               

They    are    Heaven’s  darlings ,   dual 

glossy  layers, both    merciful   and merciless,

rummaging    through  the green  and sheen,

I n  November’s   seasonal,  unfailing    

Rain, no  puddles  ,splashes,today,

For  I am indoors, glued  to  my  seat,

 your   indomitable  spirit ,catches  

the  high-spirited   of  the  foamy

flow     on the    open    roads,

you  pen  on the  closed  chambers

of  man  who is     reeking    and reeling

on  the  puff  of  his  ugly  soaring   desires.           

This whimpering jubilation,crackers

This    whimpering   jubilation, crackers...

This  day,  these  crackers on the open  ground,

Rising  flower  pots, though upfront, melt  down

Whimpering   jubilation, cracking   ear drums,

Yet   a  colourful    feast  to  the eyes,

Sudden  shooting  monsters, some   lifeless

On   the wet ground, encircling   smoke above,

You    carefully   trample upon

  disembarked   entities,   decoloured ,

spooky   puffs  of   smoke  around you,

 At  the end of  the journey  this is life.

Something popping out on the wall

Something    popping  out on the  wall

Something   popping  out  on the   exterior  wall,

Defunct , deadly  life, this  living,

Modernized , yet  moribund  :  living  in   shallow

each minute  eating  up   your   conscience

You   allow  being  eaten up,

Even  the  void  terrifying   you,

 Something    pouring   in disguise

as  a  presage   On  the  web  of   mechanical

gyration, the   nodes   where filling

 and unfulfilled    desires  clash, 

yonder  you   sight  a 

breathless   whale, the   castaway catamaran

the   noon   time  delight of  urchins

allowing  countless  crabs  a freepaly,                       

in  a quickly  transported   vision

 you  see  the punctured  dead bones,

hither   and  thither  wandering ,something,

shadow    or enigma  or  a  soul  whacking

on the   half  burnt  bones,

flesh  already  corroded  when alive,

  fetish   for  wicked  or   sinister  living :

something  popping out  on the exterior  wall.

'' GANGA IS SUNKEN''

‘’ GANGA    IS  SUNKEN.

The  meticulously   bought   copper vessel

Tightly  sealed,  gurgling  within,

Ganga    water making  noise  when  shaken,

Sacredly  covered  in saffron  robe

Now   travels  in    A/C coach ,

Amidst   speeding  rail  sounds                          

On    curvature  tracks.

The   great  ,obedient, septuagenarian 

  son , strictly  adheres  to  the  command,

Obeys  the ordinance of  his great  mother,

brings  home   the sacred   symbol  from

Banaras in  all veneration ,prostrates at

The  feet of  his  aged  mother.

Home   jingling   in  all  religious

Venerosity  for  grandma  passes

Strict  injunctions   that   after

  ablutions  the    Ganga   Water

be  sprinkled  all  over  the  house,

Grandson ,the  third  generation product

Furtively  making  merry upstairs

Finds  no  harm  in  mixing   some  Ganga

Water  with  the  whisky vial.

‘’  Ganga   is  sunken’’

God has unfolded His Umbrella

God   has  unfolded  His  Umbrella.

God    has  already   unfolded  His 

Well wrought   scheme   of Umbrella

For   His    chosen   and  snag less;

 Man  folds   harsh  and crude

Punching  and pricking  his  palm,

The  splash   smearing  his  face,

Puddles  as  if   to  blur  and swat

He  is  faceless, like   a cat

With   scratches  criss cross  

Its   mewing ,  looking  aslant;                                                                                                                    

God  has  unfolded  HIS  Umbrella,

Rains  ! Rains! It  splashes from the

Heavens .   Man    cannot  fold  them. 

Smart kitchen, Smart God.

  Smart  kitchen,  Smart  God.

My  well equipped  kitchen

With  a  shiny  tiled floor

Reflects   the  vessels  my  

Granny  passed on  to me,

 Ceded  out of  love  and affection,

My  wedding  gifts,  ancestral  galore!

 A picture  of modern kitchen

 Hangs on the  painted wall

Mocks  at those  upside down

 Giggling  vessels;                             

 Microwave ,  Tupperware  

Melamine  and    hot packs  almost   ready

to  usurp   their coveted   seats;

Inadvertently   thrown   matchstick

Still  dangling  with  a flicker of  Life,

Mates  with  a  dry    Jet clean   scouring  pad,

‘Ready  Set  Go’

The  magic flow  of water

On the black  granite

My  Home  God  improvises

To  quench  the  ire,

Smart  kitchen, smart  God.

Awakening

     Awakening...                                                                                          

 After  decades  of  torpor,

 You   never  knew  the happenings,

For  your  tarot  cards failed ,

Or   wilfully  executed  masterminded,

Strategy  by   those that  excel  in their art,

The  chess masters’ move  was   taciturn,

All the move was centripetal,

Subaltern  and wile, not perceptible

By   your naked eye.

This  awakening   comes like  a flower,

A  golden   Frisbee coming  towards you,

Sudden   like  the  advent of  celebrity.

                                                                                                                                                                               

Faith

            Faith

When   the  city  was engulfed

by   the   gruesome  blackout ,

the wailing  thin city as if

Clamped  by  curfew,

The   roaring  sea  devastated,

the bridge  and the  rail

giving   the  happy    passengers

A  clean  and sudden burial,

 the  Labour  in the  hospital

goes   on , the  cry  of the

new   born  comes in,

 the   flicker  of  the  candle 

emits    hope   for  the  inmates,

I  the lone  walker  on the

Flooded  road,   breathe

Faith ,   by the   felled

Tree,  slowly  Falling,

Falling  in the   Fallen hour.

Requiem for missing one

 Requiem   for  a  missing one.

Two  years  have  passed,

Two  long  years , no  ! they  are  short,

Looks   as if  it  happened  yesterday.

Where  are  you  ? Where  did  you  disappear?

I chanced  upon  a  blue  coloured  sari

Gifted  by you,  even  the  cupboard 

Wails for the loss, loss of  both.

I    look up   to  the    heavens

  demanding     full  Justice, 

is  she  eclipsed by them?

they  are  clever in their  whisper,

whisper  of the   Message,

she  is protected  by  every  wink,

every  blink of the stars,

personal  care.  Away, away

from this eclipsing  threnody.

What  is   Real  Dark?

You   are in the  deep  centre  of  the 

Gnawing   Rut  of  abysmal  confusion 

Corroded  by  Sins  Syndrome, 

Not  knowing  the  reason ;

 You  are  the  butt of   revile,

This  is  the  real   dark ,

The  causing  treadmill  continues

 Its    work ; its  tireless  play,

You   are  the   munching  cow  now,

Mull over  the  stupefying   mystique,

It  is  like  Stygian  cave,

Could  hear  the guffaw;  

Guffaw   by   outwardly smiling

  Yet ,  Boiling  within..

At last   you  go  circling.    and circling

Circle  beyond  the  ambit of   revival,

till    you  get  submerged

until   some   redeeming 

Divine   divines   your   anchorage.