A Take on ''it Never entered my Mind '' from Guardian.

                        A  Take on  '  It Never  entered  my  Mind ' from Guardian 

                            It   never  entered my  Mind,

                           Until  after  much of cogitations,

                           I scratched  the cerebellum,

                           Cells   be  proactive,

                           Tap  the  vital  source  of

                          Introspection, it  is  an  agile

                         Fermentation  Magnet,

                         You  taste the filtered  decoction,

                         The Essence of  Memory,

                         Light  the  candle of   incandescence

                                 And  smile of  serenity .

                       

Lovelorn

      Love lorn

How  oft   I have  seen  the  wrinkled, marooned

Crammed  in    old  age   homes, their  beds ,

Bedspreads   more  caring   than  their eyesore 

The  warmth  of  share ,entwines

 More  than  the    uncomly, the kith  and kin.

These  ‘homes’  are  their  real    ‘homes’.

In their  own  homes,  they were  sunken  flesh, 

Bundle  to be  packed  and cordoned off.

Eyes   almost  closed ,deprived  of  sight,

Dried  all   tears. These  eyes  care  them  less,

 For  they  are   spent   force . The candelabra

Above   restrict  not   their  days,

Instead  increase   their longing   to live

On   this  beautiful   Earth. This  Earth  

Suffices, somewhere,   what is lost.

How   It holds    the lovelorn,

Earthbound, they   are unable

To   fly. They  cannot  be away

For   IT  holds  them good.

Janet The Gull

              1)     JANET   THE GULL.              

It  is  heavily built,

As heavy as a sea rock

Befriends    eagerly,   regular   on  the same,

Me   too, a loner, wondering  the  surf :

A mystical ,ceaseless  gyration.

 How  often  we   view  this  watery giant

With  its unending mouths,in  spectacular  awe.

I construed  it  as  something ,

Voicing,  not  dashing   and  receding,    

  The   aeons   of ageless ,unending process,

Augmenting    the impeccable  SHRISHTI   of   Creation,          

The    web   footed ,Spiralling  its  heavy wings,

 Shades , the, shimmering  pebble

Tossed   and  settled  on the  sand dunes.

Perhaps  the  whips,  might have brought

The pebble  to this  end. In  the  darkening

Scenario,   this pebble  is a  mover, Carter

Of   the    Charter of  realization.

Still ,how many , business like

On the edge  of  the  boundary,

I know  not. Now  the  roar

 Continues   To   silence  us .

Micro poems (set one)

Micro  poems. Set one

Rain

I stand  in the centre of my  garden,

Down pour of  Rain,

Splashes  on the  ground,

Some storage, much wastage,

Unless  there is   rainwater  scheme.

Mercy, I feel  on  Me.

------------------------------------------

 Micro poem  2

   The  Blind

All your sufferings

Setbacks  pale into

Insigficance, when

You  see  the Blind

Taps in front of you.

---------------------------------------------------

        Life and  Death.3

Death   taught  them

The    Meaning  of  life.

But  Life  failed  to  teach 

Them  the  pitfalls  

Of   existence  and  mystery.

-----------------------------------

 Parrot  and   its  Maker.  4

The   Bird  is  His  dutiful   Right

His  care    its   Bounteous  Gift,

It  chirps, pecks  and pours,

A hall  mark of   Gratitude

To   Shaper  of  Destiny.

----------------------

The  purple  hour.  5

   

  In the purple  hour,

 That  evening,  ambered 

 Sun  beckoned me

A  bright  dawn soon.

  Window.  6

  Window! Keep it open,

Wind   and whisper

Come and go, free ,unchecked,

What   stays    is

 Dust  and  Truth.

Dark  7.

      Dark   

Ever  since  Creation, Dark

Is  always  there, to vie  with. 

My  dark  is dovetailed   Innocence,

Darker is   Ignorance,

Bright  is   the  Boon

Fighting   The  Bane.

Black (theme)    8

Black is my pal crow ,
visits my balcony
regular and my console,
grains are my duty, charity.
its absence even a day,
tears my mood and am
lifeless clay

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.