A SHADOW

A   shadow

Your   half  close  open  eye lids   

View   a   shadow,    just  moving ,

Could  be  a  strong  feeling  too,

 A redesign    genetically cast,

from   its    closed    existence:

it   moves , waves ,releasing

all   its   anger, or   frustration,

happiness   and    failure;

it is  all   from your  reflection

or   seeing   in its  place;

only  it  is  devoid  of  features

it  comes  back  to  life,

yet it is  a  shadow,

foreshadowing  some

  significant  aspects  .

The predominance of karma

In    a   mood   of    vexation 

  and    adamant   questioning,

I   burn     the      effigy    of    Karma

Cast  it   to   embers:

Some time  ago    it   was   a   coil  of    Rope

I   imagined  that

  I crossed  on the  road,

Yesterday  it   was   a   serpent,

I feared   it   and  brushed

  it   Far   aside,

Now   from   the  burning  embers,

A  gathered   but  not   garnished 

Shape   voices  :   ‘’  I am   the

All pervading   universe,

Sustains    the    Shrusti.   

 

What those pictures sand for?

Those   pictures   hanging   on the  wall,

long  lost  from   the  exuberant   Breath

when  alive   and  those  living   now,

 those    pictures   in   your  heart,

  for   Memory  binds  them  stronger

to  you ,not   allowing   a   crevice,

you   crave  for  those  memories,

moments  of   sad  music    still

ringing   in you, they   gently  tapping

to   the  tunes. Tears   are    ultimate

rewinding   episodes.

In   a  way, pictures   are  impasse,

Also   tales  of  flow.   

Resurrection

Resurrection

Though    clipped  wings  they  are,

They  nudge    along   upwards

the   tawny  stemmed  tree  that

 almost  shed  its  leaves,

 the   bright   sky    looking   Askance 

at  the   mystery  of

 the   yesteryears Bonanza:

the   insect   on the 

fallen  , half withered  leave

floats  on the   sailing   comrade

hopefully   surrendering  its 

destiny  the  way  it  is 

steered  through;

you   stare   at  the   substandard

sand   and    brick   crumbling

along   the   storied    building,

Resurrection   is    misnomer  here.

  

My reflections on the album

MY    reflections    on the   album

The   hot   air   puffing  in, 

amidst  your      prolonged   desire

to  preview  the   album,

but   it  is  not  going  to be

a   preview, but  a  profound  delving

into   those  dear and dead  ones:

where   are  those   departed  souls ?

SILENT SUFFERING  was  their inborn  trait,

Today    you  can   read  their   suffocated  

emotions, but   then  it   was  all  hidden 

under   the polished    exterior  of  a  calm

visage    and    sacrificial    urge.

Can  you    spot   them   amidst  the

Unaccountable  stars, perchance their

Partial   face  reflected  in their  twinkling,

 you  realize  a   vain  craving   it   involves,

The   album   holds   them    steadfast

Which   some  people   cannot  do,

But   you   hold   them   in your  heart.

Nothing is more dangerous..

Nothing   is   more  dangerous..

Nothing    is   more   dangerous   than 

The   dangerously    encircling    innocence,

Or   ignorance:   the     morbid   gruelling 

Conspiring   factor  is   as   cruel 

as  the   timer:  the   retributory  times  :

The    already      dwindling

 sparrows    chirp  around , suddenly

fall    in    to  the  killing    trap  of  the 

trading, merciless    mercenary .

Strewn  feathers   speak  of   endgame:

Many   sparrows    still    chirp  around,

 equally   are  there     elusive   traps.

Heart consoles

Heart  consoles.

   After   a meticulous   search,

    long   wait   and    stand in the BIG BAZAR,

as   we  wait  for  Spring, season’s

fresh   new  lease     and   crescendo ,

Where  customers   buzz  like   bees 

Ringing  in  and out of  bee  hives

You  reach  home to  unpack 

The   picked up and  assort:

It  is  just like  winding  up

Of   office    staff  at  five.

You    fall  asleep   like   a  deadened

Patient  in  a  hospitalised  corner,

whether    sleep dominated    you 

or    etherealised by   surrounding 

mode    of     silence, you  cannot  configure.

Figures  in  Dream like  quality

Pop in    short,  a  sort  of    come  and  go ,

Your   heavy  heart, much   to 

Unload    consoles,

Only   thing  that    can  be  done

At  the moment.  

It is not the caged bird alone that sings...

It  is  not  the  caged  bird  alone  that  sings.....

It  is  not  the  caged  bird  alone  that  sings,

Outside    vagabond    voices   to  the tune of  timbre

both  of  his hey  day  and   declivity    now:

 With   tumbrel  the  farmer is  wedded

 to  his   ancestrally   transmitted ,proud

 lineage  of     cultivation.   The bard

 not   wilfully   but    woefully    writes

 his  pages  of  unethically   got  and

seen Mammon  worship .

Only  his  pages,  but  others’ coffers,

 The  black  crow  in the much

 visited balcony    amens. 

Acidity remarks

                   Acidity   remarks

I   am throttled ,  bottled,      

Tight-lipped,   furtively 

thrown  in  a   hurry,

The   angry  young   man

throws  me      for  love  negation,

Or  retort ion,

  is  he  bothered if  the

Victim  is   defaced   or  deceased?

Out  of  the   empty  bottle,

Broken to pieces,

I  am  flowing  still,

My   supersicilious      pride

has   bubbles   all   over,

 The  flash in the newspaper

In   the   morn  highlights

‘’I   am  banned’’

Hungry voices

Hungry   voices.

Those   indefensibly     dead , still   rig out

Of   their    half    burnt  bones, care  to

Somehow    speak  to  this   uncaring

 Sadistic    world  of  diabolism:

The     still  burning  embers of  the

Burnt  wood,   remind  the  sad  tale

Of  bygone  ,   the   dead , resonate

With  their   craving  angst  

Irredeemably  suppressed  

For some  reason  or  the other.

Tapping  the  cold ,chilled  ,barred

Doors  of  Justice,  Some  familiar

Passers  by   rehearse  the  poignant

Faces ,out  of  gratitude,  record

Their  voices on the   tawny   stalk,

I  refresh   those   lines  as   I pass  by.

Chocolate

Chocolate

April’s   Dove  spreads   its

Wings  of   message   of  peace

While   the   shiny   sheets   of water

by  the  glowing    River  Thames,

caress   your    creative     aura,

I  stand   by  the   wheel  of   London  Eye,

   A  sip  of   hot    chocolate,

  Fragranced   smoke   escapes

   the  seductive  cup,

   hot  chocolate   is 

 women’s day’s  best  treat.

Lovely! Lovely! Lovely! Is The Rose!

Lovely  !    lovely !   lovely!   is   the     full

 Blossomed   flower ,

The   Metaphysical   Rose 

In   my   ancestral  reared   Garden,

 I  don’t   smell  it,

The  fragrance  pierces   my   nose,

Pervading   the   Valhalla   like.

I  feel  a  sensation  it

Wants  to    contract   its  space

To  be  more   possessive,

No  more  loves  you  crave,

No  more  lost   things you  miss,

STILL  the  ash  coloured  Dove

Looks      NOT   askance  at  me 

But  to  approve  of  my

 Internalised   ambience.

Words'changing attire

       Words’ changing  attire.

 Words   always  not  bright  strokes

Of  brushes   of  ebullient  painters,

Not   splashes of      retaliating    waves

Or   receding    froth  dashing  against

Pebbles  or  crabs  hiding .

I  closely   sat by,

saw  hammering   words  

on the  frittering  pages,

 him , hammering  words

 twining enjambments,

At  times,  words   are like

  Modern  double   sided  saris,

words  could mean  a lot

behind   the  closed  eyes

of   a  saint. Yet  they  are powered.

On floods and watery deluge.

if man has hardened His Heart,
buried his Soul alive,
conspired with his Conscience,
we can take recourse only
in floods, waters,and rain,
devastating though they are,
they listen to our redesign.

There is a BONE.

    There   is a   bone.

I  settle  upon  a  quay 

A  huge   final   transformation

After  corrosion   and

by   the  surfing    waters 

splashing   upon   it,

 far   off ,  a   bone  

craving   helpless   for

a   comrade,

a   swooping   bird 

pecks  upon  it,

bone   when  surrounded

by  blood   and  breath

had    strength   and  stamina,

 almost   cracked  now,

who  cares  for it?

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.’’