A Pearl sheds tears

 A pearl  sheds  tears.

I   was  reared   safe  in   waters,

Mother  Ocean  midst  roars

 Protected  me,  some  selfish

Beauty  conscious  monsters

Pulled  me  out,  I decked a   

Rugged  finger,  sure    I was

A  gift   from  a  woman

Longing  for  love, life, endurance.

 This  undeserving     throws  me

Out   on  and off,

Soon  will  repent for  it.

A Dew drop, a Pearl, and a new born's Smile

A  Dew  drop,  a  Pearl  and   a  new    born’s     smile.

 Not   all   the   folded  colorful  silken  saris

On the    hanger, in the  showroom,

The    dazzling   beauty  of

 Diamonds   In the  small  cute  ears

Of   a   five  year old   dancing  doll,

The     shimmer  on the golden  ring

A  boost  for  your  thin  finger,

Nor  the  golden   horizon ,

The   orange    hues   of  the  Setting  Sun,

The   first   rose  bud  in your garden,

Not   all  these  -to   compete  with

The majestic  PURE,   SERENITY   of   a   DEW DROP,

A   PEARL AND  ON  A  NEW BORN’S SMILE.

A take on: My heart leaps up.....''

    A  take  on  :

‘’My  heart  leaps up  when   I behold

  a  rainbow in  the sky’’.

  Now  I  spot  no rainbow

  No  buoyant flowers,

    I am   past sixty,

    I   am old   and  palsied

   I feel    I am finished,

   I desire  my  soul  to  go

  Higher in the  cloudless  sky,

  To  merge   with  the  unique

Stars   and  stellar  system:

Let  the  kite   go  high

and  high  not  to be

mangled  and torn,

or   distorted  on 

tree  tops , rustling  :  

let   the  thread  be 

channelized   by my

Mentor, in  slow  and

Steady  rhythm, till

It  reaches   its  Heaven’s portal.

A summer poem

A summer poem

I had spent two receding wintry months,
Me, beneath the thick woolen rug,
Completely frozen, my writing mood
at a standstill, at times shivering
and quivering along with my body,
long spell of rains with uncouth
sound of the falling waters,
as if not to wet the parched land,
the appeased deity of rain followed by
rituals and sweet rice ball and offerings,
by the childlike village farmers 
yields to wet the stony heart of
folks whose hearts have become
dry and totally dry,
nothing but venom ooze.

I get up slowly resisting
my wrestling mood,
browsing Emily Dickenson, 
setting me into a summer mood.
The glass shutters of my window panes 
moving to and fro as if in a warring mood,
the penetrating cool breeze 
now takes to my balcony,
mild sunbeams creep cheering me up,
a small sparrow on the dried leafy
branch swinging to and fro,
I am afraid if the coconut would fall
and crush the spongy feathered bird, 
the bird swings and swings,
oblivious of the scenario, 
the book of poems on my hand,
summer hangs on with my siesta.

After Matilda's Fire.

After     Matilda’s   Fire.

I  walk  out  of   a  show  of

Matilda’s   Fire,

Saddened   by  the  tale.

Not   a little  far off,

Here  is     God’s  ire

Aghast   by  the  grim

Tragic  outlook:

Mortuary  man  beckons,

Me  in,

I  cross  the  fallen  ladder,

Greed   chuckles

at  those calm  now

The   boxes    protect  them,

Today’s  ice ,

Tomorrow’s  embers.

Life in embers...

             Life   in   embers...

Like  the  patient ,   drooping  cloth liner 

Bearing  heavily    the   clusters of  wet clothes,

 The    day   wears:   drags  on 

With  the   lengthy   shadows  ,

 Suppliant    grass   on   the  Craig

Bears   calm   and gentle      the

 Stamps   and   steps   of    the   careless

Passersby.  The  concept  of    Life 

and    Death    same  for  them.

Ambulance   from  mortuary   

accustomed   to   its    seasoned

sirens  ,amplifiers    of  life’s  philosophy.

Loading  and unloading  the    LIFELESS,

There  you  see   real  life.

Those   burning   embers  in  

The  graveyard,   inch     you 

To  see  a  beginning, a 

 Page less    past.

                                         

Walking in the fog

                                              Walking    in the  fog.

                                            You walk  in  the  fog,

                                            To  ease  the  clouds,

                                             Besmearing  around  you,

                                             You  walk  in  the  fog,

                                             Under   the    careless   dark

                                              Yet,  Sinister    and  spying  :

                                             Spiraling   everywhere. 

                                             Creepy  with  its  crooked

                                             Deadening   silence,

                                             You   think  of  next   Birth,

                                              Snowballing   the  transmitted

                                              Issues  of  karma, while

                                               Many   stifle   the  very  life,

                                               The   living   along   with

                                               Their  conscience,  submerge

                                                totem  into  a  fearless

                                               Uncanny ,diabolic

                                                underwater  currents.

                                                You  continue  waling

                                               In the  fog, with the

                                               Clouds  multiplied.  

                                              A sigh, stopover, heals .

Inside the purse.

                                Inside   the purse.

              

                 Inside   the    folded, quality leathered purse,

                  Sophisticated, attractive,

                  Tucked, cosy   in  my  palm, 

                  Inside   the  crowded    public transport    bus,

                 My   creativity   ruminates, chews   the  

                  Cud   of   observation, moving, moving.

                  Inside    the    purse, heavy  

                 Worn out   zip  struck  in the  middle,

                 Inside   the  bus, the  conductor

                 Calling   for   defaulters, loud   and emphatic,

                   Whistle  sounds     automatic ,

                  As if  it knows  the  timings,

                   Inside   the  purse,

                  No  pounds, no dollars, no

                  Western   money  transfer  receipts,

                 Jingling   are  a  few   Indian  coins,  

                 I   preserve    a    paper , very fragile,

                 Oblong,  crushed, yet  preserved,

                 What  is  there  in  a   name?

                 What  is  there  in a  piece of  paper?

                 Yes, very much  is  there

                  It  is    the  bus  ticket,

                 rolls    and   moves  faithfully

                  to  my  destination  midst

                 jolts   and   bolts.    

                                                        

                                                            

                                                           

Look up to The Heavens for clarity

Look  up  to   The  Heavens  for  clarity.

When  man   is   bemused

Most  of   the  Times,

Confused, or  pretending   to  be

Lost  in  the    trackless  path  

Of   thimbles , vouchsafes  the 

 Cacophony  pleases

 his  ambivalent  Moods,

 Silently  you  watch  his

  Histrionic   movements,

  Entreat   the  clouds  to

  Clear  up    fast  :    

  look  up to the Heavens

  for  clarity.

Can anything redeem those Innocence?

Connecticut Elementary School Shooting - Dec 2012 Poems

   A prayer,  a sad, painful   memory,

    a  candle  or  lamp  relives  your  life,

   also    those   departed noble  souls,

    silenced  into   suffering.

    The    bright   wick  of  lamp  glows,

   Fear  is  shed, pale   darkness

   recedes  like  a  defeated, dying  soldier.

  the illumined  glow  shines  

   as  if  with  a  warming  smile.

   But  this  to  stay  only

   a   short while .

 When  the  Dawn  of  Christmas  is  too  close,

 Those  innocent lives  are  also closed 

  To  be  opened  in   a  New  Haven,

 By  a  violent   trigger of   vile  bullet,

What  was    shed  was   Innocence,

What  was   cut short  was   tomorrow’s

Future  with  high  feats  and laurels:

What  blinds  those cruel with  calumny?

What binds those with wicked  treachery?

The  thread of Universal Peace

  and Harmony Is  jeopardized,

Can   anything  redeem  those

Innocence   and  lives precious? 

In God's Hands..

  In  God’s  Hands...

In  God’s  Hands,

His   Special   Green ,

The   Golden  parrot 

Of   future reading

  picks   tarot  cards,

My  karma  plays,

Gets  tuned   with 

Early , pristine  visage,

Your  karma  stays,

All  our   karma  relays:

In the amphitheater of 

This   arena, a   mirage,

All    get  shaped,

go timely sharpened

as  the  dexterous

potter’s  clay  moulded,

at  times  you  get

deluded  : But  His  third  Eye,

the strong  sustaining

wand,  pervasive  sturdy,

whirls    round  on the

cute  beak of  the Parrot.

It   plays  in God’s Hands.

Be true to your salt.

Be  true   to  your  salt.

On   New  Year   Eve

I  made  some  sweet  pudding,

Offered  to  God,

Placed  on  a sacred  plate,

It  looked  as if   THE Sacred  picture

Of  Avatar  spoke  by  intuition,

‘’Be  true  to each  and

 every  grain You   eat.’’

I took  some  grains 

And   sowed in my kitchen

Garden  tiny   cute   pots,

The  pots    looked   as

If  admonishing,

Be  loyal  to  the  farmer

Who   tills  the  land,

The   farmer beckoned me

The  land  :   ‘’  but  for  the 

Arable  land, His profuse,

I   wont  be here 

to  plough  and    cultivate’’.

I sowed   some  fertile

Seeds  to  germinate,

Seeds  advised  me

‘’ we   cannot even  breathe,

    We  look  to the skies 

   For  water  and  sunlight’’.

I looked  up  to  Heavens

The  sun, stars, moon

and  the  firmament  

chuckled: look  up 

we  are  all  created

by  HIM. THE   UNSEEN

Be  true  to  Him.

December wails or wheels?

December   wails   or wheels?

When   the   year  with    ups  and downs,

Wayward   sentiments    and   peregrinations,

Wandering   souls, coming to   a close,

The   final   month  December,  cool  with  its

 parting    crescendo of  jubilations  and  windfalls.

The   wool  to   cover  you   cool ,

The  close   jacket   speaks  of

Its  loyalty, or  servitude, of  how

Many  years  of   its allegiance.

The  hanger  blissfully     smiles.

You   unearth  the  pot  of  memories,

The   century  old  house your

Ancestors   lived    died, the  coffee mugs

Arranged  in order  on the   wooden  shelf,

The   warm  home  brewed  coffee  

Served  in the   big  mug in the  December  morn,

In  the  garden the   doves   in the  merry  swing,

Make  us  crave  for  the  same  comfort,

December  wheels   out the  departing   year.

Drooping    Leaves   and     Dew drops   shed  tears.

 

This is the city and my work at this space.

   This    is   the   city and my  work  at  this  space.

This   is   the  city   in the  December  Morn,

Where  the   creeping    dark  still  haunts   dawn,

Birds   cosy,   self-willed, in  their   nests,

Hot  water , old  fashioned  boiler ,still 

In   ancient   roofs, copper   shines,

Granma’s  sentiment and  ancestral  lineage

Works, still   occupies  a  space,

Cattle   and  cow   graze ,  slow ,

  Proceed  to    Steady  pace,

Some   still  in   bed,  yawn ,

With  s  sturdy  blanket   to

Cover   their face, craving   more  time .

This  is   the  city  in the   December   Morn,

 I  move  on   the  personal  computers,

Records  the  slow   whispering  dawn

and   the   crows   and   song birds 

start   their   free play   in the 

falling   clusters   cleaving   popping  

feathers   and  bones.

This   is   the  city  in  the  December  Morn,

Temple   priests    agile  with  Vedic  hymns,

And  the  church  bells  chime   in

Repeated    tunes    and   chores.

Ardent    devotees  in queue

to   collect   offerings   in 

sweet    puddings   and   food  packets.

This  is  the   city  in the  December  Morn,

Where   vessels  jingle  in  busy

House hold  , the  housemaids,

Housewives   rivet   their  bangles  

and  hands  to  edge  their  toils,

This  is  the   city  in  December  Morn.

I look at the full grown tree.

I look   at  the  full  grown  tree.

I  look   at the  verdant, lush green 

Dripping   to the  bottom of  the   stem

Or  the  deep roots, it  is  like  the

Nonagenarian   full   bent.

She   ambles  slow  and  steady.

The    embossing   full  green 

Speaks  of   ancient   galore,

Perpetuating   oneness  from

The  creator   and  the  entity,

Your  Soul’s  ongoing   journey,

Here  and  there, some    untold

Connection, connectivity,

From   distance   the   uniform

Soft, silken   green , glowing,

Mass   consoling   man

‘’ look   at   me   I am  evergreen, smile.’’

Flowers

Flowers

I see  the  world, spin

Spinning   on  the  wheel  of 

decadence    and    self  inflicted   despair,

 I look  pathetic   at  those flowers,

near   in  the  verge of  bathos,

 crave  for  company

In   falling   chill,

Some   still   hanging ,  ready  to 

Ensemble   the   fallen  petals,

Rosy, bitten by  the  frost,

They  all  spin  , spam ,

  in this  Spinning  world,

 Snowballing    tardy

Agnostic    belief,

We    bask   in  the   chilly

Corner  tightened  to  the

Rope of    strong    Faith.

What? who?

       What who?

What  drives  the  autumnal  leaves  to  shed

to  the  ground  or be  heaped  to  a mound,

Scattered  to  corners  as  if   dismembered

Clouts?   Who  gives water  to the seeds

Or  breath  infused to germinate?

 Yonder  the  soulless   bogies  already

On  peregrination   to  their  pre ordained

Destination . who  infuses  life  or  breath

Into  the  dormant  seeds  to germinate?

Who   descends  to  give   most needed

Helping  hand  to  redeem you  from  sinners?

 Who   transforms  the   listless  to  be  agile?

The   list is   too  many.

November poem

November poem  2012

What    if    the leaves   fall?

I   am   slowly   atop   the   tree,

The   smart woodpecker

 Chirps ,pecks  the   tawny    

Stems, as if to rejuvenate,

  The   lonely   tree  reverberates,

  wetness   as if  God’s

  Mercy  Pouring   down,

The   gubernatorial  Sun

Hides  behind  the  clouds,

Deliberate  as if  to 

allow  them  to  release

The  down pour,

After  all  the  Sun

Is  The  Ruling  Rod 

Of  Justice.

Here   the   boys

Revel  in  November  showers

 paper boats   are    too many.

In   the  kitchen  grandma’s

Billowing  log  of  fire

Keeps   us  all  warm

From  the  shiver.

Suffering and Thanksgiving twin sisters

Suffering  and Thanksgiving twin  sisters.

The   long  voyurage,

Sea  ruffled  weather

feverish  hectic  holding  you

In the  midway,  mid sea,

Gnarling   waves ,

Magic  wand  of  creator,

Waves  touching   the   Moon,

 Eerie   nightfall, 

Days  and   nights   pass by,

Sceptic   if   you  would  

Reach    destination,

Afraid  if   your    Death’s Paw

Sure  to  grip  you   soon,

Finally   reach  ashore,

Many  thanksgiving,

Thanks, thanks  ,

Thank  ye, Gods,

For   being  with   me

Throughout  this   tricky

Journey, want   not  anything,

But  YOUR  WATCHFUL  HANDS.    

Dream

Dream

In   my  noon   siesta,

I  dreamt   of   thousand 

Memories,  colorful  vistas,

Ambitions  stretching  far , and far,

Sailing   into    many    realms,

Overconfidence   giving it

A  colorful    glee,

Soon    all  those   memories

Galore   reshaped  into   a

Big  dream of  nothingness

A  void :  I    wake  up  

To  see  only  an 

Empty    space.

October poem

                 October   poem.

  In   God’s  calendar  of   foregone

 Settings,  seasons   mostly  indulge

 In   fair  play. There   ought  to  be

  never  Room  for    umbrage.   

The  gardener’s  pail   sedate

Now  in  a corner, the  soil-  smelling

Sharp  bladed  grass   wails  to

The   windy, slow,   darkening, sky.

Not  merely  sore     bitter  feelings,

 Nor  Memory    whet   by  corrugated

Surroundings    like  secret hideouts,

Yet   you  crave   herbal  treatment:

 This    bugging   ortho    on the left  arm,

drives  me  to  the  bunch  of  leaves,

Grandma’s   celebrated  herbal  remedy,

Multi   purpose    Tulsi    leaves  rescue  me.

 The    crumbled  golden  leaves

Don’t  grumble  their   age’s   countdown,

Accept  demure , resign  to  their   Mother,

Different  from  mankind.

 October’s   Morn  is  slow

More  dignified  a  maiden,

 You  continue    Walk   with  me.  

Come   ye, October!

poetry in com (motion)

           Poetry is com(motion).

Today  is  national poetry  day,

My contemplative  Muse, agile

By my side,  gently dictates,

Type  as it comes  and inspires,

Don’t go by alignments   now,

I   wander  to  the  riverside

Of  my  younger days, lie  by

The  sand, watch  the gurgling 

Waters,  fish   move  along,

Beautiful  fins  glitter  in the

Ripples,   crabs   monopolize

The   sand dunes, playing,

I   look up the    starry  skies ,

Sun,   stars  ,moon    and rivers

don’t   have  karma  or

Consciousness, they    are

Carefree :  they  are    happily    static,

 only  we  struggle

With   the   baggage   going

Before us, they   drag    us  along

Meticulously  during  the  sojourn,

Still   the   age  long   query  lingers,

Why  I came? Where  do  we go?

This  tiresome  journey  knocks 

Mercilessly:  it  is   eventide

Slowly   merging  with 

Amber ed   Sun  to   His 

Majestic  abode of  Shift.

Dogs   bark  in  mistaken

Identity  at  the  fallen 

Mound of    leafage.

Poetry  in motion

Now  covers up my  commotion.

  

This is now

This  is   now

This   is   now    pure   white   drop

Of  water    straight  from    above

 A   sprinkle  of    wisdom ,  a   dawn,

It   is   now   a   caterpillar   falls

From   atop  of  balcony  sticking   

On   terry  bath  towel,     you   remove  it 

with  the   tip   of       your    art pencil,

it   is   now   you  realize  you  are 

a     Haberdasher  to  be

soaked  in  the  water,

it  is   now    you    tear 

the  last   page  to  know

only  you  are in the  introduction.

This  is  now   past   12     midnight,   

You  brood  of   bygone   ‘then’

 This  is   a   strange   now. 

Tears -what ?

  Tears    --what   ?

Tears   swell ,   sudden  flow,

could  be   some  

Pearls  of   jubilation, over

Some  reckoning, beckoning,

Reasoning ,  like   sky’s

Guarded    warp;

  unfailing   season’s 

Pour,   farmer’s  boon,

Those unsurpassing      tears

Monopolised  by  the  eyes ,

Now  gloat  over, roll  over,

Crossing   the  boundaries,

Rub  sweat on  the  cheeks,

Wet  her  neatly  folded

Sari, here  unfriendly 

Bend, reach,  what  for,  

She   knows  not.

Blank to Plank

  Blank   to  plank 

 A   paper boat,  a   torn kite,

A    trash  can   overflowing ;

Inescapable, inerasable;

It   is   all   blank, a total 

Blankness    devastating,

You   are  in   the midst  of 

 Bogey   of  mischievous   

Immersing   you   in   the

Tornado:  you  stagger

 Not knowing   the   cause ;

Sudden   SHIFT  into   a

PLANK  of  safety, a  grand 

Relief    like  a  big  flower

Adorning   the   Trinity:

Shored     plank  shared

Your   shares  unaccountable.   

poster poems September

  Poster poems  ---- September.

 Majestic   August  is  going  away,

Sun  beams   dim,  recline  westward,

Maudling   Pale    is  covering    the 

Stems     already  with  a   denial

To   accommodate

 Those   drooping  leaves:

 I  hurriedly  trod  upon  these

Rusty  brown  leaves,

Scattering, scattering   are

Those    leaves  yet  gathering

Garnished   moments  in life

Once  upon  a  time  precious 

Moments   they  were

Golden   and  shining,

But  faded  by   Time’s   calumny.

I cannot  hum ‘  come  September’

I  look  up  to  see  the  fallen  kite

Clinging  upon  the  hinges  of

The   thin  barred  branches,

 It  fritters, tries  to  extricate ,

You  watch on  with  a  rug  

To  cover  slashed  self.

Who am I ?

Who     am   I?

 Who    am  I?

 A  lean,  lanky ,

Loose   jacketed,

 always    munching  

The   green  grass  of

  poetic   Imagination

undiluted, unspoiled ;

                                               

Tightening    the  grip 

Holy    and pure 

 The   thread   Eternal,

Gyrating    the   name

 Of   my   Mentor,

  springing like   sprinkles

Fresh   showers,

 Sachchidananda, The   Avatar is Eternal.

 Eternal  is  Sachchidananda .

In   the   vicious  escape   syndrome,

He   nullifies  the  vile   and vituperation,

Sachchidananda    is Eternal  Bliss,

If  only   you  give  total  surrender

To  His  Will  and  design and plan.                                                                                        

I drink the cup of HIS Bliss,
Avatar is Eternal for me.