A Take on ''Things for which God knows I'm a soft Touch''

         A   Take  on   ‘’Things  for  which God  knows  I’m  a  soft   touch .’’

  God  knows   I’m  a soft  touch,

 Though   I am  inundated  in  things 

 Of   rigor   and rigmarole,

Stifling me   with   a  rope of 

Crudity ,imposed  servile   morbidity ,

These  are  things   which will not 

Touch  me; ruffle me.

God  knows  I ‘m a  soft   touch.

Questionings   and cross   questioning

Turgid  readings    into  Golden  sayings,

I can  see  hardships  far  beyond 

My  will to  endure,

Yet, God  knows  I’m a  soft  touch.

This  fabulous  gentle ,sudden

Miraculous   Advent  of  An Ambassador,

This is   what  I call not merely

Visionary , but an envisioned

Scenario  by  Him   The  Seer,

Maker  and   Baker. His  is  Gentle  Touch.             

A Bird from The East.

      A  Bird  from   The East.

It is  a  lovely chanting, chirping

From  east, parrot  green and red,

Twittering, from  roost  to roost,

Rules   top  and  twists, twigs,

Swings  back ,pecks and  pours,

In   rhythm   sacred  ,sweet,

Not  phony  but  in balsam soothing,

 gathering  Clans too.

Loves its Maker, mentor,

Lives   in  abode of

Peaceful   surroundings.

Its  beak  I  draw,

Wonder  how He   that

 hath made it ,thawed it

with   melody  and repetitive awe.

In  bright  dawn, it

Yearns   freedom  not,

But only  a secluded corner

To  rue the  rude  and  ride.

My propensity

                       My propensity

My   Anglophile   silken, cool,

Soft   feather cap, I don, willingly,

 Some   seemingly, bemused

 queried   me   why so?

 I don’t disown  my Indian  twirling

Grandfather   Umbrella ,

 astutely  remembering me,

My interminable  roots of

Tradition and   tether.

Grand ma’s  herbal  juice

for  jaundice  in the diaphanous

Vial  apportioned  on the shelf

treats   her  visitors. 

They  are mine too.

My Garden.

                 My   Garden.

In my not peremptory  home  garden,

Which  is  not    Garden of  Eden,

Neither is it a  den of  thistles,

No piled up   garbages, yet garnished

With  well pruned, protected  plants

Of    Jasmines,  Roses, Chrysanthemum

and  hither and thither  heather too.

Serpentine ,decorative  frills  to

Take you  plenty   around.

No nymphs no fawns:

Could  be  rosebuds  are   fawns,

The cute, kitten  are nymphs ,

You sit in a  corner of  a mound,

Type  and  tweet ,twitter with

The  birds  soaring   blue  benign.

 No killings, no  yearning,

My  home  garden ,glowing

With   serene,serendipity ever.

Womanhood.

Brave  the  boorish world,

But not  belittle  your  Soul,

Shed  the  onerous load,

weighing  you  for decades,

Twigs   and  logs  of  wood

Alone   do  not   infuse  fire.

 Let  Glory of  The  Seer ,

Faith  not  undulated,   reign

in the  Benign  hearth.

 Your  vintage point

is   your   commitment .

Oh! Woman,  crush the

 cantankerous, by your

  sagacity not by your  audacity.

Hoist  the victorious banner

Of  smile and  serenity ,

Plant on the pedestal

Of  Diligence and  Dignity.

Look for me.

---    Look  for me 

    Look  for  me, in the  summer’s   sweat  and   blotch,

    Wipe   and  type, scroll  and  drag,

     I   fly  swifter  than    the  ambulance, no  hitch    

      For  a  call of  SOS came  Not     from a  brag.

     She  was   a  school  friend  of  mine,

     Now, alone,  met with  a  mishap,

     Time   and   friendship  wove  a thread  of  twine

   Infusing  a  lesson of loyalty,  work  and worship,

    I rescued   her in dire necessity,

   She reciprocated  in  hurried     exuberance

   also  committed   In  assured vivacity,

   Look   for  me, any  help,   any time, peace.

    

Take on '' Trembling into the restless flame of day.

Take on  ‘’ Trembling into the restless flame of  day’’.

Trembling   into  the  restless flame of day,

Brood of    swan  and   crane  on the Bay,

Placid  and  cool  for  timed  chances  in  their  way,

Look  up  soaring  eagles, and  birds,

I   too  crave  to flit  like vanishing  wings,

But   diaphanous  anxieties  and  worries

Seem to  clip  my wings  and  moorings.

Somewhere , some  soothsaying s,

icon  or aeon of  sacred  magnificence

echo, comfort   my  restless flame of  day.

The   day  recedes  into   Dusk,

ambered    sun  transcends   to  another    kiosk

only  to   climb up , spread   its rays .      

It  is  no more  trembling  restless  flame of day,

But  a  transcended  globe of  Fay

                                                                     

Think and Thank

      Think  and  thank.

Your clamour, their glamour

Of vociferous, voice  and noise,

 Some  haste, some  waste,

Will go  to  the   ground, in the mound,

Bake   and  cake  will  not 

always   suffice  your  hungered  ache.

When  Gods  open  their   third  eye,

Your   vision of  intuition   as well

They  must   close  their   flamboyant

Tricks   and  vile   calumny too.

The Morns are Propitious.

The    Morns   are propitious.

They  call the timing as BRAHMA MUHURTHAM,

Some  read/misread/misinterpret,

Books  and   celestial Messages,

Some  read/re read/  analyse and interpret,

Some  write, delete  and  destroy,

All in  calm  and serene atmosphere,

More  to  execute in  excusive  privacy,

Ere ,Brahma writes off in  full earnest

The  lifeline  of  preordained destiny.                      

''One Rough Business this writing Life''.

‘’One rough  business  this writing life.’’

Sail the Rough weather,

Roughing it   always,             

This   writing  away  day  and   night,

Of  my angst  and  disappointment,

This  typing  always  noon or moon,            

On the polished   web of global access,

Computing   or  cascading,          

This withering   life  is  painful,

Yet  is not a rough business,

This is pleasant   and   eglantine

Of  writing  life, of  strife, sacred.

This business of writing  life.

A City of Gold.

         A city of Gold.

 If   be  a  crock of porridge,

A melamine  of   crispy  snacks,

For  good   Ingestion

croquet or sandwiches,

Whether Jamaica  or America,

Caribbean seaside  village

Or  Indian  tillage,

Run not after  ill gotten

Gold   and  fill your coffers.

Let us  taste    the  drink the victuals

 Of contentment ,void of perjury

but not  absinthe,

To the passing of gods.

This is  the  city of Gold,

A  pleasure of  Marigold.

How Patient Gods Are!

5) How  patient Gods  are!

The   Avatar sits   on  a  seamlessly

Perfect   and poised Chair,

to  have  a  fair  view of  humanity.

But  the unfair   and  crude

Topple , at least  contented 

To have  thwarted God’s plans.

Avatar    pulls  the thread of  patience

As  far  as  He can, Every pull emits

New   Revelations much to

Their   chagrin and dismay.

Rolling In Unrest.

  Rolling  in  Unrest.                                                           

We, the grand Persian carpets,

are  used for welcome  feasts.

Today, they unroll, a day of  unrest,

Like many days, many moments,

We  are  seasoned  and accustomed ,

When they come to  roll,

 For us   It is  a  mood of  zest.

In The Sleepless Night..

      In the  sleepless night..

Barbeque outside, convenient improvisation,

Rescued many, toasts   for the   privileged,

Bread   crumbs for the lowly ,underpinned.

Wind  mildly  fans  the  fire, brewing  goes on.   

Rumbling  continues , for the jaywalkers,

Theatre revellers, relief outside.

 Eyelids refuse   your rightful  quota of sleep.

Mustering  curiosity , You view  through the

Window, the wavy curtains, looking askance,

The moon shines, moving dark

Patches remain, bemused  I am.

Moon   shines as if replying ,

‘The dent   is in  you, the  mankind,

From  ages, from   the  Days   of

 Creation, from  Shristi, he is erring,

You  always  view  with  a

Soiled  telescope. Else   The  Fall

Would  have  been  averted.’

Slow, the  sleep  embraces me.

Troubadour

        Troubadour

We   are  a troubadour like

donned   by   the  Muse,

tapping  our  beloved  tents,

sharing  favourite  food,

we  avidly practise

and perform   in the nights,

exchanging our  poems

their  thirst  for knowledge,           

Timbre  vibrates  in us.

We move on to another village.

A Birthday Gift.

)             A  Birthday  Gift.                   

A    Lovely full  blown Rose   on your buttonhole,

Fragrance   permeating   the whole surrounding,

Smiles  are  nothing  before   the  flowers,

Flowers   are soothing  and  sacred  and sincere for  ever.

I   put  this  on your  ash  coloured   suit,,

But   your look  of  Demure ,makes  me  deter.      

I took you to the  dining ,Mahogany beckons

With  a  glimmer and  warmth of

Dishes in  china ware  and   Melarmine.        

Eggless   cake  with   a   cup  of  coke

Would   in   certitude please you,

Me   thought and    joined  you  in  cheers.

Polished  sink   and  the  towel

The   white flowing  water,

The   foamy  soap  to  wipe

Your  hands  and   the   reflecting 

Mirror  as  if  says:   look! Something

Is  wanting , he  looks  dissatisfied.                              

A soft, laminated book  pops out

Of  my  NOT VANITY  but multipurpose bag,                     

This  is what I want!

This   is  what  my passion.

A  Book  of Poems,

A   Gift  of  All  Times!        

A humble take on Solar Microscope from - The Guardian.

      Yeats’ "The only thing certain about us is that we are too  many

 Yes. We are too many, many  with different genres,

avocations, ambitions,  animadversions, critical theories,

more  poets with  distinctions, publications,

with  a  motto,  ‘’publish or perish’’.

We   have our own problems, polarised views,

Poets!  The  warring  world of Land is ours

Where  Imagination  and aesthetic  beauty

Propel us, guide us, infuse enthusiasm in us.

The  land  we live in , is  a   land of

Acute   aridity,   Drought  and  denigration ,

also  overflowing  mass of  floods.

All  according  to seasonal  shifts.

We ,the poets ,attribute these

To Nature’s  Fury  and  ensemble

In our  writings and  poetic  codes.

We, the poets, quote lines of   repute

‘’water and water ,everywhere, not a

Drop ....’’ and so on.

 We propitiate  the   Rain  God

For  more   and more water.

We , the poets, congregate, aggregate,

Discuss   and dissect.

There are poetry haters and

Dissenters of   writers  and groups.

Strange paradox, we and they.

Her Unlimited Move.

                Her Unlimited  Move. 

     She  bounteously   blows

    on the transcient,uncared for,

    Slender bunch Of

    Grass  and  steep ;

    Touches   the  quay

    In a   gentler mood,                

    dives  beneath  a  stone,

    attempts  a  nobler

    whiff  of  violet flower,                   

   my car  stops,  cannot       

   steer  for the windscreen

   blurred   and  besmeared,

   for it is  a  massive  toll.

  Beneath  the  vast umbrella,

  She comes  and goes,

 Sweeps  and recedes,

Whoever  can   check her?

We  all can only bear  her.

 

  

  

   

A Take on Black Beans, in the afternoon( Guardian)

A  Take on  Black Beans, in the afternoon( Guardian)

In the  Afternoon,

I sit before  my computers,

Tap  and type on the key board,

Delete  and control.

In the afternoon,  I  type  poems,

Copy and paste ,at times  ‘’ cut’’ too.

In the afternoon, I prepare

Coffee decoction, the aroma

Tempting me, again  take a break

In the afternoon,

Take  a hot  sip and taste,

Store  again  black beans

In the container for the morrow.

Switch off  the oven,

Go back, contemplate  again,

Will  this  coffee  remake

Your life’s  turns  and events?

Afternoon  also turns  its face,

Sun   goes down its  orb

To  make its  appearance

In the next day.

'Love' theme for Valentine's Day.

  LOVE 

I dip the ebullient  brush of
Expression,

my expression

In  the  water colour
 of  painting

in  a  diaphanous

bowl, 

Carried brush, stroke it

On the wall with  the

Decor of Love, 

Wall  stares   back .

Accepts it, resonates

With my perception 

‘love thyself, love humanity’.

A Take On Engram.

    A  Take  on  Engram

A  hurried  Bath

In my tiny bath room,

No showers, no sprinkles    

for  the  handle is rusted

because of  non –usage.

BY my  side, Dove

Gives  nice   aroma,

 It is  Dove, bubbles of  Dove,

No   humming   of  Love, love.

Even  two decades  ago

The same is  the scenario,

For  no time, but of reading,

Preparing for class room,

and   writing,  editing.

Now the  same , for  my time is

Spaced between kitchen, sink

and  my  adored   Guardian

for Dear  Carol  would  send

the signal of  deadline,

‘’comments  are  now   closed

For this   site.’’

I must hasten to comment

Else  my conscience would  

 prick with a feeling of guilt. 

In The Temple of Human Body..

       In the Temple of Human Body...

In The  Temple  of  Human  Body,

The   Heart  is  the  Fulcrum,

Soul  sacred   Sanctorum,

Seated invisible, noble,

Ready to migrate  and

Transmigrate ,upon

The   Call   and  Will.

Don’t  deconstruct   the 

Residing  Deity, who

Presides over day- today

activity.   Practise   the

Silence, Mantra for

Most of The  Times,

Betimes, Divine  Succour

Will reach  your  Doors.

The Land's Telescopic vision

   1)    The Land’s   telescopic vision.                                                            

In its  verdant greenery, it 

Craves   not  for  more  rains,     

In  its ubiquitous   Mother-Earthly

View, it protects, feeds, the  fodder,

Cropper, breeder  and   fender.

It cares not  if you  are grateful,

But should   you be bountifully

Duty  conscious, a dictum  it

Gives, no   vintage  without   tillage.

In its   sardonic  execution of  destruction,

It   justifies  all parameters of reaction

Fury, and  finished, a  sort of Evolution.

It  echoes,  ‘’ oh! Man, be humbled,

Else ,sooner you will be  crumbled’’.

This Creepy Cold,,,

         This   creepy cold.

Six long hours of  wait and sit,

In the   now and   then crowded

Platform, cold   as   shreds of

Creepiness  that   might capture you.

You  watch  the red liveried  coolies

Who  load on their heads, to  unload

their  burden of family sustenance.                         

Why not trolleys instead of coolies?

If we can’t erase the word ‘coolie’

In the dictionary of our life,

there is no end of strife.

What is the use of our Independence?

our  free education?

Their   looks don’t bend down

On the narrow steps, their eyes

Positioned  straight. What cold

Bugs  them? Rubs the   hardened,

Seasoned   skin  that lifts those

Luggage/baggage?

By my side, another child,

Herself   a   small  child of  hardly

Seven, holding another ,hanging bony,

 itches,Criss cross each other.

I  am  saddened ,when will India

Improve? On to the train,

‘mind the gap’ ,yet another  nightmare,

I  go on  in the tilt.

Soul's Agony.

     Soul’s  Agony.                                         

  I am coagulated  beyond  limit,

  break  the  barricade.

I   wear the accelerated  Wings,

The   flapping  and   craving

towards  a  silent  zone,

free   form toil  and  moil

of  reptiles   and  rigmaroles,

witnessing  puerile   motions  with 

little  constructive notions:

From  above  I  see,ply,

 many  crunch  the  feed

fodder,greenery, next day,

with  a  sickle to  uproot.

Earth  can  only  shake  and  tremble.

Not A Moron but A SIREN.

    Not  A   Moron but  A  SIREN.

 Not on the  Win  of war, but a wail

 on the   senseless killings,

 of painful   shouts and  wounded   screams .

 Not  a luminous   Glory,

 nor  a  Thumbing  Victory,

Nor a successful  pact of  treaty,

Endless volley of thunderstorm

Cannon on their Left,

Cannon on their Right,

A   common  ring of  Banality,

Undaunted  were those ignited

Into the hellish schemes of war,

Into the jaws of Death,

Not  cared to be in

 the throes of Death.

For, Certitude, someone had blundered,

Them, right thinking  hindered.

Honour lies in gunshot,

Honour lies not retreat,

How  to ingrain sanity

In them is out of clarity.

It is eerie/scary.

        It is eerie/scary.

Ropes  are no longer ropes,

 Spiralling  Algae  like,   

This thread of Yuga Dharma

Kali Yuga Dharma, its  features,

Its  knots, in  a  method of  fawn

tightening  my  neck, loose

 rope  hankering  around me.

Stare  at one  thing, think of

many  a bugging  moil.                 

Your  seasoned chair,

With  a look of  clairvoyance

Muses  at  the  happenings.

Kali  yuga  stands  for Dark Age, or times in which topsy turvy 
happenings take place. More so ,in the mindset of the  people,
with Agnsotic faith.

A Take or remake on Milton's On His Blindness.

A Take or remake on Milton’s On His Blindness.

( But not in the form of a sonnet.

When   I consider how my life is spent

In  full ignorance / connivance,          

In this dark world and wide  of

 Negation  and  sins  and  agnostic faith,

 And that one talent ( of creativity)

Lodged with me useless, slow

Though  my Soul  more inclined

To  serve my   Mentor,/ Maker,

I  fondly, unthinkingly  ask.

Does  God  deprive me of

His Gifts, if I don’t  acknowledge

His   Bounteous Grace. But  to

Prevent  this  hasty question,

Inward alertness, agility,

Replies,  ‘’ God   will not bemuse you,

nor forsake you.  There are innumerable

Struggling like you voiceless   and patient.

They  also serve who only chant, stand, wait.’’

                                                                   

If You See Me Lost In Wilderness.

If you see me lost in Wilderness.

If you  see me lost in wilderness,

Stumble upon, stubbles, thimbles,

Blood oozing on my cuticles,

The prick is less piercing, for

The  neglected greenery  voice

In   husky nod, ‘care to redeem

Us from extinct vile.’ The deer

and   antelope  dare  not

run  fast  on the marooned

bunches of dried leaves,

for starvation  half killed  them.

 Once upon a  time cool pond,

Now craves for the sky benevolent,

Flowers   don’t   have a carnival

For the  stem cells   were dead   long.

Birds migrate to a different   band.

I don’t go back to urban colony,

But  move to nurture,

 ancient rural,Agricultural   tillage

Otherness of the foetus.

Otherness of  the foetus.

Full  many a   six month  I was in  your womb,

My  hand folded, straight I sat, aplomb,

Cosy, the  blissful world would welcome me

With  affection and assured  protection:

 My parts were  tenderly, grown,

like a  blossoming Rose,

Skin was no skin, but a sponge.

Ere, woman ,how could you

wish hastily,  to rip me apart?

Is it penury or bland Sophistication

 that  Induced you for the

Crude negation? The  hard

Metallic  plonk put me

In  a tray, to be thrown

In  a    trash.  I  was  swept

aside by the sweeper.

Time passed on.

As shaping, reshaping

Is  His  document ,

God  took pity on my

Predicament, breathed

Life, I am breathing

In  some benign, matured,

Mother’s  cosy ,kind womb.

Walls of protection

Throb with Breath. Breath.

.

Be by yourself,your writing.

Be by  yourself, your  writing.

It is   biting cold, abominably cold,

Chill   creeps into your shrunken

Skin, hanging flesh. It creeps,

For the flesh is loose ,the wrinkles

Give  way helplessly.You fall on your

Flat bed, mind  sails  for   writing,

Though   the  body  is  already

For another  realm   of sleep,

You pull   off  the rug,

Fir  leaves   yonder still  show       

  affinity  to the tree, in winter .

 Tree’s   inherent Nature

to  hold  them steadfast.

Cold  in the silent  space

Booms  large, akin  to  the

ambulance siren. There is

another  cold  tapping in

the  coffin ,the  ICU darkened

by  white sheets. My quirky

pen  outwits  the cold,

and goes  on.              

               

Want Not The Glasses

           Want  Not  The  Glasses.

What   violets or myrtles,

with scented  rose  and colours

Purple  and  make us  purblind!

Oh! Bast, Goddess  of  Protection,

 Daughter of  sun God, Your  attention.

 Never  know  the Heart

Where  Roses linger not.

What  tackled vine

and  brewed  beer

can  give,  when purse

is  null,  Bun  is  Biscuit.

Rue  not  to transport  to

A world of  Sacred  peace 

and   Serenity Divine.

You sail steady.

      You   sail steady.

I wear the tegument

Of crustaceous  stint,

Shell   strong and steady,

Sailing   the  Blue 

Roughing  the  rough:

Dolphins and whales            

Skim  around ,customised.

The Blue, roars, rolls,

A cathartic ,incumbent

On your  ordeal.

Ever on your Karma.

Nonsense droppings.

Nonsense droppings

  A  jumper  I wore,

 for  I was going to   London.

Many mocked at my

London  Calling,

Still I heeded to that  Calling.

I double checked all my

Rooms and locked,

For  an established rumour

Ran,  Gold was gushing

Out of every Godrej

and   ornaments were

popping out of  cupboards.  

My eyes  count but

Synthetic   saris and silk woven

hanging  on the dresser.

I was going to  London,

For London was calling,

Calling and  ask not

How, how, now.

I came to the balcony

to close the doors,

Again double check

Lest any thief should

Plunder away all my gold.

How  strange! Some droppings

On my jerkin, from the crow

above, bad  omen?

No, no, it is a  good augury,

Droppings only on my

Jumper, not  my plan.