An ( Imaginary) satirical elegy on the deaths of many

     An (imaginary) satirical elegy on the death of many .

  Alas! Countless  there are, closer  to Breathless  sleep,

   Nay,possibly, wriggling in  acute pain, wreath in  vain.

   Perhaps,  pretending, pining, ailing, counting coins  Gold ,

   Cut   Groining  and moiling ,wishing  for  some   more  hard work,

   More  luxury, more homes, more infrastructure.                                      

   Gripped  the victims  by hoops  of  praise   and  flattery.

    Hard  hearted, holding  their  hearts  coughing,

    Wishing for  more  Gold  and   Silver   in  their coffers,

    Do they  call  the  gods  to  aid  them?

    Hare  Krishna ,Hare Rama, where  are you?

     No  Rama ,or Krishna   comes  to  their  rescue,

    For  hitherto   those vile,  denigrated   Their existence.

    Nay!  every word  uttered

    Or muttered is   a  sly  curse  or  vituperation.

    Some  seem to  smile, or  awakened,

     Do  they  realize how  many they  would have

    Strangled, killed  alive  in  life span.

    A   sheer  sadism they  delighted in.

    A mighty  armour   for  them to wear.

    Gather   here, all  the  onlookers,

    Behold! how  arrogance   and ambition suffer,

    Harsh tongues, silent manoeuvres   

      Gain them  their  dues.

                                                                                                      

  

An Imaginary drunken situaion.

     An  imaginary  drunken situation.

She meticulously negotiates  a thin

Filmy layer of hair on the nozzle

Of  the  slick  oily bottle, transparent:

To keep it  intact  and  clean.

By the time eventide comes, she

has  to  hide  it  or  destroy  it,

for   her,  his  return is  a grim  disaster

 rum and gin  are  his  forte.

 She  has  to change  the  scenario  

Of   the sinister  drinks,

For  the  dysfunctional  lobby

Is   a  nightmare for  her,

For  her  sire, it  is  a  routine  thrill.

Clock Six strikes a  terror,

For  his  fond  craving of   the vial,

His staggering  and  volleying

are  the walls’   crescendo.

Her   throw of a  keychain

Her defensive protocol,

Dissolves the vial, know not

If  their  tussle  and  tempo too.

A close kith remembered

          A  close  kith  remembered.

   You  left us  some   five  years ago,

   Leaving  us pining  for you, you

   To merge  with  the  Galaxy,

  Every time  I look up, if  I could  see  your

   Face  by chance in any  one of the  stars,

   Stars  twinkle, as if  to make me wait,

   Finally  only to disappoint my expectations.

   Where  are you  now hidden?

   Each   time  I see  your undusted  books,

   Your  moth  eaten cupboard, I infer you are .

   You are  taken  away, ere  your   Ambition  unfulfilled .      

   Perhaps  you  are  a  tender  sapling  in  a  fertile  soil,

   Or  one  among  the  many  in a   hut,

  Or  still  in   the   calculative  scale  of  God

  Where  should  you  be  created, or  still  you 

  Are  travelling  to  Reach  Him, until  your

   Karma  is  exhausted   or  be  reborn 

  Or  to be  recreated  or  shaped  anew.

  Stars   shine  again  as if  to  re enter

   My  affliction   to  assuage  me

   With  a  mystic  positive clairvoyance.

     

Remember

             Remember

Remember  always   Sanctified  Dawn  and Dusk,

Illumined   stars, a  moiety of His cosmogony.

The first  call from your Mentor, Guru,                                                                 

 with  assured   Blessings  and  Protection

 Remember unto your last Breath.

Always   the  cotton  plant, serenading,

its sacrifice, Remember  in summer,

more of  its  shedding constructive foliage.   

Remember  the  fascinating  and  simple yarn

That  spins  and covers our  shame.               

Don’t  forget  to remember the miserable

Days, fighting, suffering  alone, not knowing

What for  you were suffering alone, until

Your worshipful  Guru came to slowly

Remove  the ignorance, while He solely

Bears the brunt of  all  sins of  humanity.

Staunchly   remember   this  forever.

Don’t  forget those  bread crumbs

Which were a luxury once, now

You throw for  birds, their  sustenance.

Remember the  Dusk is followed by

A  favourable   bounteous Dawn.

Bereft of Happiness,whyness.

Bereft of  whyness, happiness.

This  prying  business of  whyness

Is  stultifying . should  it be in all segments?

Should  this  blind questioning pervade

all  arena  without  conscience or reason?

This  is  a  rotten ,  wry/ spy system, bugging

Quite   a  many ruthless, thoughtless  and egoistic.

Is the   gift of   elocution, the power of articulation

That  induces  Man ,this pervert and poisoning veer

Contaminating one and all, hurting many, does this fetch

Real happiness? This  makes  the surroundings  morose,

 I am sure, those   adamant    will end up  comatose

Depriving   themselves  real happiness.

My happiness  sits  calm  and  jubilant over

The  beams of  gubernatorial Sun’s galore

Mocking  at  man’s folly .

                                                                                                                              

              

Happiness

         Happiness

Sheltered   in  my  sobered  cove  of

Rumination followed  by  writing,

My view catches  the sudden pirouette ,

 Frisk  and  swoop  on the  oval shaped  mound.        

The  orange  eyed, peacock   coloured

neck of  the  exotic  bird  shines  through

the  balcony, more  by its calls  for  its  clan,

pecking  at the  rice balls,  my   daily ritual

of  feeding   my  usual  visitors.

Each  careful   peck  at  the  particle ,

Is  the  gratification   I receive,

Suffice  of  hunger  for  the  birds,

They don’t distinguish  stale  rice

Or  fresh ones. A whiff  of  wind

throws  all the  food  particles

much to the  chagrin  of starved,

yet  my privilege  these  birds     are.

Their fond look of expectation,

My replenishing the  plastic   plate

 A  source of bonafide   Benediction   for me.

A  humble   take on  Guardian’s  An  Autumn’s sunset

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

In  the  eventide, she  construes her life’s   currents                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Are  dried now, yet sitting  by the riverbank, she purloins

Moves  of   ripples  to  suit  her  waves of    imagination,

Why should she purloin ? Is she  purblind   to the  happenings?

The  hoary past lingers still ,she is  now misery’s offspring.

She  sings  a  dirge of  directionless  stature.

Dead to  all shames, demoralising, forgotten  of  all glories,

Whereunto   doth the present lead, she introspects.

“not to sailless  seas”, this  river bank is enough

To alleviate   my pouring , she ruminates,

‘I  shall wander  here, a  shadow’s  shade,

 Colourful fins, cranes   as if in meditation,

  Possibly  soothe   my  angst .

 Perhaps, a  Moon shine  will  retrieve me soon.

Micro poem-Fern

Micro poetry-    Fern

In  the  fern of  a

Deep rooted  Tradition,

You live  and breathe,

No hurricane, nor hard blow

Can thwart this, you are

Sustained by  a  strong  Will .

A humble  take  on  Guardian’s   “Brief, brief, but inside me now,
which the stars could never be.” From  A Work of Fiction.

I read,re-read  the pages of  my life,

Turning  over and over again,

There is  no last page,

It is never-ending, looks  like.

It takes  me  to  a vague  beginning,

A  sad  unravelling,  a  wave of  sorrow,

Where  are those good  souls,

Afflicted, suffered for no fault of

Their own, where  have they gone?

It is silent suffering, merging

Themselves into  Silence.

Not one or  two,  but  myriad, countless.

I walked  out,  distracted,

Into  the night, looked up the

Pouring stars. For  whom?

By my side, a glow worm

Winks  at  my  distraught .

This tiny, shiny emits,

Many  a  brief, brief,

But  inside  my troubled self,

Stars  could  never be.

A take on Guardian’s “ The sea hath fish for every man”

A  take on Guardian’s  “ The  sea  hath fish for every man”

The  sea  hath fish  for  every man,

The  wind  blows  cool  for  all,

The  crabs  glide  in and out  the  sand dunes,

Gnarling  waves  pose  a  threat 

If  they  would  cross  the boundary

Swamp the  city  with  its  heavy  toll.

The frothy  foams  inculcate   a fear

In  every  man, whose   net  caught  a bite.

 I am  before  the  edge  of  the  beach,

 Dismayed  by the  breaking of   the waves

Tossing  up  and  down,

Luck  and  loss are  nothing 

Before  this   tricky  Dame  of   watery  Cove

Who  formulates, rings    the rickety

Move   of  our  life.  The  Blue  nourishes

The  fins  and  pearls  and  oysters.

Now  Never  and Then, each has

Its   meaning and mode.

A Moment With My Cupboard.

A  Moment   With My Cupboard.

Thursday  noon, without  a siesta,                

Ticked off   prominently  on a

nailed calendar, for  assortment.

 I stack up my wardrobe,

 Not post –modern  any more,

my laundered, folded,

pounded clothes,  hands go by

for  festive,  casual, cool  and

summer, Winter  and worn-out,

Varnished  aroma  on the exterior

 Vies with  the  hot permeating,

 The  colored  and  white

Join hands in giggling,

We  are  crushed,  still,

The pride of  morrow’s function,

Your promenade, your path.

You  are  white collared,

Pick up your collar, yet

Nearer to failure, if

Cant mix with your make.

The city is at peace

The  city is at peace.

It  is  eventide, the   Sun  goes  down

His   Orbit ,his  oranged  ambers

Still  hanging  on His Majestic  Abode.

There  is  a staunch bodied strong  willed,

He is  sniper, well marked for his

Ambit of  targets. Seated  at his  armchair,

At  the crossroads, he has a visionary gleam,

Papers, bottles,tattered  clothes, strewn all

Around him; many more numerous

and variegated, symbols of  war torn  atmosphere.

The  aroma  of  coffee shop is  enticing,

Poets  and writers’  promenade.

Hope of  public  activity,

Poets, writers   and club Walla’s

Will  throb  and  revive .

Full throng  of  public  worship .

A spark  in  his  eyes glows.

He  anticipates  life in both  sides.

A humble take on Guardian’s “ Look –out”.

A humble  take on  Guardian’s “ Look –out”.

For   now  the  city’s at peace .

No  noisy buses, no automobiles  plying,

It is  close  to  midnight, still and  soundless.

No cinema theatre, may be  a   vow

In honour of  veteran soldiers.

Still  is  terrifying, scarring now,

Excepting the clock ticking eerie.  

Do  you  wonder it is  an utopian dream?

May be it is  after math of  mighty

Celebrations of  War Memorial   events,

Televisions    channels  busy,   jubilant

 over  lively  broad casts. Independence

is indoors could be. May be  a mapping

envisaged  by  a playing  school   child,

efficient   and  drawing .

Only the  coffee  shop opened,

For  the  cops  who go on  night

Beats, vigilant and duty conscious,

Their  watchfulness  goes on, no matter,

Who comes and goes round.

I  recall  my grand mother,

Lonely saddened recollections,                                                      

In  a big house, when bereaved by the

Death  of my grandfather.            

you smirk at us, Water!

# You smirk   at us, Water!

Water! You glide,

Glow  and flow,

Flow, fall. Free Fall from                     

a  height and  above,

Froth and  foam

Below, holy bath                       

Water, You  Permeate  from

body  and  bougainvillea

from heart  to head

red blood ,watery  and warm,

yet  Oh!  Man, your

heart is dry most

of  the times! Why?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

A humble take on Guardian's Book by F.T.Prince.

Guardian’s " The  Book."

 It  is  the  Book  of  Timeless  philosophy,

 Dare  not  cross  the  periphery, my hand  is  not

Dead, for  browses  pages  of  density,  agile  and  eager.

At  times  re-reads  the life’s  intricacies    and  snapshots

Of   a  much  a  troubled  soul.The   Book  is  The  Making

Of   a   Saga’s   history, transmitted  down  to posterity

Dipped  in  sincerity,foayed  by a  visionary’s  appeal.

As   my drooping  eyes  don’t  move further,

My mind  ruminates   cosmogony distraught.

No  kissing,  no writing, it is  a sound sleep,

 Slowly darkness  recedes, wake up  morn  comes,

Wind   blows  through  the  curtained  window,

A plastic  flower   comes   as  a  go between

Me   and  the  cherished  Book :

A new  light  beyond  decay

Comes   and  unfolds  a  future of  Bliss       

To  enable  me  to see  a world of

Visible  growth of  phenomenon.

Take On Guardian's Virginia Woolf's Angels 1919.

Take on  Guardian’s  Virginia Woolf’s   Angels  1919.

I  am  not  here  to banish  the  Angel of  my house,

Neither   it is  Simpering  for  it  is  genuinely  

A guardian, Golden Angel  thwarting  inhibitions,

No  whimpering, no  sign  of  slither, also

 Assuaging  bugging  fears, dispelling   cold  trauma:                                                    

 Propelling  my imaginations flying  high.

 As   I bend  and write, the   angelic notations  

 Would  spread  far and wide, infusing  a

 Sense  of   authenticity  with a   swish  of  wings  

 Of   malleability   and  dipped  in  colourful 

 Inks  of   success  and  calibre.

Paper On MY Table

             Paper  On My Table.

  It   fritters, unable to be stable,

  heavy with  the concerns of  my import,

  freedom  it takes into its  flimsy hands,

  flies ,far  beyond  its boundaries, but,

  the   paper  struggles  out  with    rhythmic 

  notes  of    opposition, carrying  all heavily

  endorsed  outpourings and  pent up feelings.

  You sit there  tight on the  table, with  a  name            

  Paper  weight, the paper  defying  you still.

  I  indulge in tete-e –tete ,                

   I sit  there laughing  at your  tenacity, now

  weightless  sill, for  the  gush of  winds

  blew  form  my  window, sitting  nearby,

  my  much adored papers , the other end,

   closely eying, flying away, scarred,

  from you,  from  me  as well.

  My imaginative  output on the

  Paper is gone, you are no longer

  A  weight, you are now   feathery.