It Fell

          It  Fell

It  Fell  with  the  Biblical  warning like:

Pellets,   also  like   the   young, New Born  Calf,

With  the  thud  touching  the ground,

The  red blood  fell  on the  red oxide

Merge  with  the  heedless  base.

No  blood  counts,  now strangely.

It fell ! the  pain  fell !

Most   thought  not  of  gruesome  sacrifice,

But  of  lands  and  villages   lost .

Erewhile   ago the   soldiers  spoke

Through  their  ergonomics,

Not  of   ethics  of  life.

The   squadrons  on  the  air 

Too    voliate.

I am in the harteless maze.

       I am  in  the  hartleess    maze.

Your Face, bounteous  Grace, knit

With  patience ,so  faire  and so sweete,

So  Sharpe,  miraculously Timely

as   The  Supreme’s Intervention.

His  bounteous Boon,  a forethought

For  this  YUGA, or  ERA, however

 you  Call it, a predestined  mode,

myne   perception  always recall.

You came  to  share the pain

Of  devil’s doings, harte  cannot  sustain

 growing  misdemeanour,

your  meek affirmed  prediction,

a disdainful  taste  and    acceptance

for  many   a revolting  nutmeg :

for   them  a prick of  play,

For  Him,  a  pavilion  for  the next Birth.

Mine thoughts  and  precarious  journey,

Set right  by  your  wit  of  excellence

Kind understanding   nod:   your  face

And  will  doth feed  and solve my  angst.

In the Spring OF His Life

     In  the  Spring  of  Life.

It was mid April, the fresh  air

Like  rejuvenating   Mantra  touch

His  Soul  and  permeating  Body,

 Quite  far    he  sees  a   den.   

Nationalistic   vigour  tremor like

Upon His   heels   aims  and  arrows,

He becomes   Achilles  like,

The   young soldier  with  the

Ombudsman  like   walks  upon 

The   heath   of   breathless, flooding

Bleeding   and     vultures  marauding,

“With  the  blood and flesh of  Death in the spring  air”

He   takes   a  vow, if  this  is going  to

Get  us   Honour, pride  wealth

And peace, Geographic expansion,

Fie  upon  arms   and  armaments

Artillery   and weapons. Next 

Clean   burial  awaits .

Time,calculated,yet careless killer.

 Time ,calculated, yet  careless killer.

 From  sundial to  sunset,

Stop  watch  to alarm,

We  conscript  Time’s ringtones

and  ding dong  sounds.

Yet  Time  passes, duty conscious

 Free of its moves,

In its own  orbit   and  stipulated

Pathways. Surreptious, it kills

And  make inroads into our

Suffering  self  and  seamless

Ambitions. Yet  it passes off.

It  pierces  through  a  wrestling  match

Or  a matador  or  cavalry.

It passes  like  burning  embers

The  gasified   burial  ground

Or   mounds of  heaps of  wood

It  does  not  care or  stop,

Time  with  Eternity’s  self  passes.

                                                              

                                           

My Landscape-My Self.

    My  Landscape-my self.

   Self  is  the  introspective   Garden,                             

   of  landscape, serendipity,

   isolation   and  mounds of  Meditation

   and   meandering  into  blissful  pathways

  of  rejuvenation   after  doleful  moods. 

  At  times, which way to go, know  not.

  Look up, trees, birds and blooming parts,

  Total  self  abnegation. No questioning

  His Dictum, Ordinance, Decree.

  Surrender to  the Will of  God.

  Azure   sky teaches the garb of

   Contentment    and glitter.

  

A tete-tete with The Trinity.

A tete-e –tete  with  The  Tri nity        

                        

 Oh! Brahma! With  your  farsighted

Visionary   gleam   and multitask  and skills

Don’t  go on creating, lest  the influx should

Become  unaccountable  and unbearable :

Though we, the ordinary do not know 

Your  far-reaching  purport  and design.

Let   Vishnu also unfold His merciful

Umbrella of protection and ubiquitous

notation  of  solace  and security

to wean out  the  Karma  Ere Lord 

Shiva  blows  his  Conch  of

Caution  and incarceration.

Landscape-Life's Breath

   Landscape-Life’s Breath

Hot  hot boiling,  angrier emotions  blow

Your Self, turn towards  Exorcist like trees

Bending  far and wide, also  mesmerizing  like;

 while   cooler  winds  blow  from  afar;

Earth’s  inborn cove of  Eden like :

The  greenery, embodiment of serenity,

Cicadas  and  linguistically  repetitive

 Parrots  of   clarity   in  tone   and   gesture;

 From  your  balcony’s stretch, myriad

Planes  take off, landscape’s pride,

 Your  peace  and clairvoyance,

 Rivet  upon  man’s living  and lure.

The Blue  azure  with unfold able 

Carpet  of twinkle  and  merge,

Your  curtain drawings  who  can  gainsay ?

This Bewildering Bone

       This   bewildering   bone

In my  Not  gritty mood of determination

to  have  a full round of  walk hundred times

A  circle around  me, I sat on a  cement platform;

Afore concrete   took  possession  of construction  site.

Exhausted, chanced upon a Bone, Can’t  predict  the  

Age, still  nourished by Sun’s  ebullient  rays.

Methinks, it  is a child’s play to  prick it

With   a needle  or  piercing  slender  stick.

 But hardened  shell  like,  now  hints of 

How  in its  youthful  days, it was embalmed

Of  accolades of  blood  and flesh pouring in!

What  caused  the congealment? Age  or  history

Or  Time’s merciless  take, could  be  all.

Human  or  dog’s, it is cornered  now.               

Library is still alive.

             Library   is  still  alive

Agile  reading  is  alive,  avid  writing  is alive,

I perceive in the fresh, polished   racks,

Neatly  stacked  by  ebullient  hands.                                 

Charles  Lamb  gently  taps  to  relive

Those  days  of  Bodleian  library

Of my undergraduate  days:

At   times, moth eaten pages

 In  some  libraries of  underdeveloped ,

Still  fritter  by the impending

Disastrous  winds. Threat  for my thread.

Why?  there is  still   romping  Romance.

Impassioned speeches, feuds,

Cleopatra’s moods, Malvolio’s

Self love, Witty clown’s intelligent remarks,

All  in  some   gritty, hurried  notes

For  Annotations. What  is not  there

In the library? I share  the biblio-geography

In   superabundance  flowing.

 

                                     Rock  muses.

                            I am impenetrable,  ageless,

                            Like   Maya’s doings or undoing.

                           Every flashy  splash, frothy gear

                          Rolling  crab  and crank by  the

                           Sand  dunes, touch  and negate.

                           I see  Shiva  with  His wary  eyes

                           Move less  midst  the manes.

                           His  celestial  locks   playing  on

                           The  body of  curvatures.

The Twin Watching

                                 4)     The  Twin  watching

                            Time on His  winged Chariot,

                            Faith, the Healer, twine and inspect,

                            Let  things  go. Even  a  scrap has

                            To  see its  fate  and  deposit in tune;

                            Cornered   brambles fritter  proud

                             By the   speedy wind.

                           

                                  “What is wrong  with  you?”

                             What   is wrong  with  you?”

                             What is  wrong  with  you  abominably?

                            A conscious  query in the sub conscious  segment

                             Like  Zero  balance, the ignorance

                            Thumping  you  with  a  Victorian  banner,

                            Till  recently, stunning  events and  anecdotes,

                            Alarmingly move, yet move not the  arrogantly

                            Seditious, we move  on Challenging the times.

                            Clock  ticking  as if  to absorb everything

                            In its  tide.  The lolling    octogenarian musing;

                            If  the  Times  are challenging  or unthinking

                           In the  human, Challenges the Supreme.

                          

                            Who  cares? 

                      The epicurean   verve  once dashing

                     Now a dust, a sediment on the bowl.

                     A  crumbled  shirt hanging on the wall.

                     Speaks of  abuse  in its vintage.

                     Intermittent  cough. Phlegm  spat thoughtlessly

                     Mocking the moribund. Looks as if  it says

                    ‘Glad I came out.’  In short it is going to                

                     Die another   Death. Who  cares?                                        

The Blade on the Grass

                                        The  Blade  On the   Grass.

                    The glimmering, yet uncut ting  blade,

                     Lie  aslant, uncared for, 

                    The  edges wear  a  worried look;

                    Its  bluntness  from constant exposure

                    to fogginess, looks  as if unforgiving 

                    the  weather, for  the degradation  wrought.

                    While the Grass is  paying  Thanksgiving,

                     Dancing  with hue and sturdy,

                    Wintry  shield  pampers the bunch.

                    How  two lie on the  selfsame  bed!

                     

What 9/11 says!

                                          What 9/11 says!

                   Our heroic saga was kite bursting                

  No sea shore, no play by the beach, no trendy waves

To lure us ; as  we grow,  things do change.

A whisper with  authenticity of a  Gospel.

On   that  day   tremor is going to affect , a threat;

In the multi-storey   apartment, it is   only a   rumor,

Afore the tremor  ran down us,  a hellish fever strikes us.

Instantly how all of us came down

With  a  thud, holding our breath.

This was only an illusion, but sooner

News paper report on 9/11 turned the

Reality of  lives, an illusion.

Mid air diabolisms

       Mid  air  diabolisms

High lobby on the mid air.

Not  a  constructive, but   hellish,

Submerging all  real  Saga of lives

And  ancient Literature. Corporate

Raiding,  a  raid on the articulate,

Dumbfounding the world and onlookers.

What  could  elevators do? Before

You  and  I hovered there in the

Mid air, the devil’s disciple  took  hold,

Transparency was lost in

Man’s heart ever since going  against

Norms  of  life took place aided by

Rocking  skyline of money.

Until  God  descends  and consoles

“peace will come,wait”.

Those Calls of Birds!

       Those calls of  Birds!

 In  the  pristine  Dawn’s setting,

 Illumining horizon, slow  and sure,

Each bird is  a twitter, a  cardinal  voice,

Clarion  call  of  God’s Dictum.

In the plumage, I see  my ancestral lineage

Long  last  and  forgotten. Times’ duress,

of course. Though atop, Roof  often

Befriends   these  bosom pals:  Voices  are

The   Hudibras on the  fake attire 

Of  select .It is no small thing  to

Listen to these rising  and  scattering.

At   Times  Litany too. I  would

Like to listen to these.

           Wood  stories.                                                                    

  Wonder  If it is a  super polished   oblong,                

Mahogany  table or sturdy chair,

The Grand sire  reciting  The Mahabharata

Wheeling on it, every  now  and then looking

At the inmates  with  a  peremptory look ;

Or grandfather clock, tick ticking          

Every beat of  our  move, hope

And  happening around us;

Every piece,  a silent, kindling

Watcher  or  bearer, for  a  wood

 wall portrait  engraved specific

of  a maternal uncle, homeopathy

practitioner. How often the  playful

children   would  hide and seek

beneath the broad table, a spectrum

of  unbounded mirth  and glee.

The  wooden  articles   breathe,

Yet bemoan not their predicament

Nor  curse their  once   felling  sword,

For  but for the cruel fate  of

Those   hands, these would not

Be embellished here.                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                                                           

       Her  First Love.

Before  the fear  for the class room is gone,

The first  day of entry into the school begins,

Her  lure  for  the new uniforms  and  slate

Multiplies: for  in those days, slates ,pencils

And blades, the box were  the necessity

Of  a perfect class syndrome. The  blade,

The  sharpener in the geometry box, she  abhors,

For  Maths  was tough  to comprehend.

The  blade  that  shines, sharpens the pencil,

Draws  the  sketches, she folds meticulously

In the  slated  wrapper.  Now comes  her love

For the Rhymes and  English class.

“Baa  Baa  black sheep, have you any wool?”

Comes in  rich lore to  her  mouth’s brim.

The  blade lurks into nothing, the rhyme

Redoubles  with  vigour and trimmer.

      Tradition bound  post modern woman

 When penury draws the boundary line,

What is mascara, or  the  eyeliner?

The  flicker  of  the  candle

Tapers  into  nothing  and total  dim.

She  sees  the  golden  ribbons    and

Jazzing   bands  on the  pictures,

hanging  on the  walls  besmeared

with  cobwebs, still   a  Victorian

romantic  sentiment  preserved.

A pair of shoulders  not  strong  and  

Sturdy: yet  willed  into  hard  labour

By determination   and necessity.

No  perfume on her  skin, but

Long petticoat   to hide  her 

Snowy, delicate   Feet    and  skin.

A star  and  stud  on her  ears

Shining  with  the   glow  chin.

Lemon  rice  and   buttermilk 

In  a bowl  are her luxury.

Her  lovely mind   and

amiable  Nature, her asset.     

I come in Time and for Certitude.

           I come, in  time  and for  certitude.

     In times of  duress  and ignorance,

     You  are by  yourself in the garden,

     The  buds asleep in their

     cosy chambers .  Doubling  season pats on them.

      In  Wintry bed  the  seed crackling

    You see only in imagination ,yet

    The biting  cold sparing  none.

    Yet, come  as I  from  old,

    Or  era of  Golden  prosperity,

    Tapping  the  pyramids or talking 

    With the  sleeping  souls, resting;

    Perhaps  for  next  birth and  birthing.

    I  see the wood  and waste,

    Beast  and bestial,

   The  river  glideth,duty  bound,

   bank sings  along  the brooding

  crane   and  cawing   bird.    

  Unfailing,  I come from out

  The heart of  summer’s Joy.