All Silenced To why?

All   silenced to why?

   Shot  and  ghastly   sound

  Unusual  and  scary,

  Undoing  all good in  a second.

 The   jubilant music hall till now

Vibrant  with  Melody  is

Turned  into  Malady of frozen blood.

Peace  on Dove has flown now

to  a temporary distant mode.

 What you see unwittingly  now

Is   a   void  of  cacophony ;

 Your  Sudden Silenced  voice

holding  your  breath  and

pulse. Gunmen  induced not

pellets but hatred  and cruelty

in  their   instruments, their  aids,

to raid   their  surroundings.

You  are a  mute witness

To this volley of  bloodshed,

Know  not how long?

A Shot,a sound to terrify.

 A   shot, a  sound   to   terrify.

Bowls  of  milk ,orderly,

Neat in  white  melamine  cups.

In good segments. Cats  mew

And  come  closer  to  taste,

 Sparrows   from  their  ancient

Coves in houses, scatter   and chirp.

 Raindrops  from  roofs flood

The  pillar gates  and floor.

 No  more word of  drought

In the dictionary, at least

 this year Anymore.

Dark looms   large, blind  our

Vision. You  keep  writing  and

Continue  to  ruminate . The  life

You  witness, the  world you

 see  is not  the  same.

The  drama  enacted   is not what  it is  to be.

 Burst of  a  cracker ,sudden  and sound

Of  a  blast enough to scare all of us.

Real  fright is  elsewhere.

The  gates   are open.

Broccoli Wails

        Broccoli  wails.

Yesterday  I was  proud with  my crest on,

But today some crude hand chopped off

My fertile green head; my stem uncared for

Left behind. I was pot boiling with my spicy

Companion on the frying pan. I am construed

Such  a good hearted /wanted one for Cancer cure.

Does it mean I  should  dance here for  sure?

Look  at  my  brethren, there on the plants,

Some  are getting  dried, wither,

For  not being  watered. For the  lazy gardener

Away  for   short while, that is  the way

The world works now.

Sculpture speaks

           Sculpture  speaks

    Many inquisitive ones visited  us ;

    Recently, eager  and agile.

   Me  and my  brethren stay, live  here

  for long, though  splashy waves 

   and   battening  rains corrode  us  at  times,

  anvil  and  chisel  shape us inside  and out.

  A Saint  or  Shiva, Buddha  and

  Bohemian cult, Purohits   and pundits

   Pop out of  the  expertise  carve.

   Delve  is  systematic  and  serene.

   As hammering  goes on,

  We don’t   bemuse, but sturdy  and firm.

   Breeze  from  the Bunyan 

   Is  a  thrice fold  Boon for us.

At Many Cross Roads..

1)    At   many  cross roads..

  Mind  is restive, not  for

 a  dulcet moment now.

At the  hustle bustle cross roads,

Zebra  crossing and  signal sign posts,

Waiting  to read the automatic trans tile,

No chameleon  on the  wink,

But  the  peel of  a plantain

Irksome   and sticky on your

Fast   moving  heels.

A  thin  wire like your  eerie  fear

Might  camouflage your brave put up.

Thews and  sinews of  hands  shake

Behind the willed wallet you don.

You  want  to shake  the  storage

Of  Mind that  is  restless.

A thin  shadow, a  cat crossing,

Not  an  ill omen  now,

At this juncture. Move  on.

Cross  roads are  teasing  and trying.

You Do not Die

You do not die.

 She  too is a  tool of

Uncommon wish  for

A  petrified   cessation

Of this seamless Breath.

Torn between  Death wish 

and  desire for perpetuation of  life,

she  sways  with  uncertainty

and  emotion . Enacts the drama,

gruesome  and merciless

to grip the  clamps of  Death,

‘oh! God! When do you plan to

knock me down?’ God  nods.

The   Omniscient   admonishes

With   gentle smile, The Plant

Is mine, you have  no  right

To uproot the Tradition

And  Longevity. You have

To water  many plants.

On The Teeth Of Wheeling Death.

           On  The  Teeth  Of Wheeling  Death.

 On the twangs of  wheeling painful Death

Something sparks, silent and  steadfast,

What you call this painful paradox.

A rehearsal  of  mix of  pages, you revisit now.

Verdant broccoli, just  unpacked, now

In its  sauce pan,boiling  with  spices,

Now looks  as if keen on going back

To its stem  and  clan. A vain  yearning.

It is  the  gardener’s fault,

Owner’s treat, its angst.

Woe  to  the  Creator 

It  bemoans with certitude.

Take   break, go back  to this life

Of  fallen  foliage  and shrinkage.

Your  delve  into  philosophy

Continues  with  assemblage  of  facts.

There is reverberating Life, craves

 Not  For  reprisal, but  for  redress.

Many a   sages  and  many  a  saga

Have unleashed , encrypted  this

As Death Wish. Again   this is 

a  penitential   cry  for  a  feel

of  deeds, represented by your

dictates   of emotion  and empathy.

An Appeal by a Section of Antipodes.

    An  appeal  by  a  section of antipodes.

What can we term appropriately  ourselves?

We  are  creations  of antipodes

My Muse (here)  interprets this way,

In water as opposed  to  land.

Flora  and fauna, jet some  and float some,

Swim   and dive  and weather  the storm

And serenade and  snug  in the  slime.

Oh! Man and  beings on Land,

You can be proud of many global

Achievements, but when thirst

Afflicts you, or burns your throat,

You come to water, quench your

Thirst  and some even  take us

For  food.  By providential Will

 we  are destined thus: We  have no

indulgence in politics.  We are always

silent sufferers. You  fight  and  peace less,

no  cool, such is  the land life.

Claimant

      Claimant

We  live  in   an illusory

 world of  many claimants ;

eyes , looks  and  arguments  

cannot  bring out  The Truth.

Delve  deep  into  the hidden 

Matter, Only  the  visionary

Can  probe  the reality.

Truth  has  to  maintain  a

Low  profile, for  the fake

Is  vociferous  and  virile.

Tap  the  dormant  and 

Bring  the  claimant  to 

The  lore, I daresay.

A  Take  on  “vada That” by Adam Lowe

  No  Notchy  Munge to plunge him

Into  darkness. No internal  dark for  him

To  come out.He is  clear  headed  and  cool.

Somewhere  there,  brandy smell of  the  gang,

No  fear  for  the Charpering carsey: or police cell.

He  is  not  into  a  crave for  serious love or partner.

He  Worries   how  he  is going  to mend  the offending.

Pondering  for  an  answer. A royal  dignified  life of

Set pattern, he moulds  for  the  future and  wellbeing

Of  the society, he  is part of.

 He   abhors  this  world of  Patter  and pogey.

 His  troll  is  serious  and  meaningful.

In The Midst Of Thinking Herd

     In  the  midst of  thinking  herd

It was  neither a dream, nor  a passing  vision,

But   a  reality tinged with  emotion  and  sympathy.

You  prefer  to  walk to  have  a  reprieve

From  killing  chores and pressures.

These  days  you like  the company of

Serene  and secluded, minding  their own  way,

Harmless; in a  way dumb herds of  cows

And   deer, packed binds  to  that of

Sinister looking mankind who mostly

Thinks in ill  harbouring  way.

Ruminating  in their own way,

herd moves  on.

Looking  at   the slopes of mountains,

God  had created the flowers  and shrubs

For  the sake of  animal  ken. Ripples

By  which  they  rest a while

Always move on .This  is a better home.

Heather They Are.

   2)    Heather They  Are

 In  the  purpled  hour

Of  their  merry make,

After   exhaustion, and when

Awakening taps them,

In the  PURPLE Crying

Of  the Baby, those lessons

And messiah  hinge a  lot.

Heather surround  them

As well, making  them

Heather   and  great.

Could You Be All These?

     Could you  be all these ?

Could  you  be the glow worm

To emit bright  aura in pitch  dark?

Can  you become recharged torchlight

When am immersed in power cut

That  sinks  my  surroundings?

When dimmed  light  is  a  threat,

Could  you  become  my informative

Companion, via my Micromax mobile ?

Could  you  be  the remover of my

Countless  obstacles  when they  stem

around your neck  and  heart?

Could  you  be my All Time Guide ?

Above  all could  you  be  my  radiating

Boon  to shine  as Halo  for  ever  and ever.

Thank God ! I am literate.

         Thank God! I am literate.

I  thank God    and  my  Muse

For  ever. I need no scribe.

My choked  emotions  and

Pent up  feels    burst  into 

Transformed  configurations.

The  words  are no longer  choked,

They are double alive, for My

Muse  gives  shapes, serene  and

Sober expressions to them.

The  paper  or  book  is  Not

The  place of One  Language

For  it  is  a  multi Coloured,

Multicultural   Hub. I often

Delight, revel to be a  part

Of  this reflective  Hub.

Tracking The Lines.

           Tracking  the lines

The  dragon like wheels that are set,

Move  backwards  and  forwards,

Tracking  the lines along, miles

and  miles  far off, beyond your ken.

The onward  path serene   and  poetic ,

Free  from  panic, eager to  reach its goal,

Watching  through the window, each

And every station, pulse of humanity,

Move about, a mindless noise   and

Notation, mechanically devised.

Is it  noise or  Voiced Voice, you

Need  to ponder   and  prevaricate.

The  downward  journey, the  pitch  dark,

The  barking  of  the dogs on the 

Starless  night, the Dalila  like  arrival

On the platform,   awful  for you:

 You know,Dalaila  has   much  to  say.

All depends  upon how  to  foray .

The    arrival  on the platform  veers

On its reels, ready  to  take us .

It   has  to  track  miles and miles

Far  beyond  our  ken and  goods.

       On  the Sable  Mound of   Sand.         

On the sable stark mound of sand,                                                                                                       

Recline you  for  a  mood of  band                                                                                     

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 Of  Rock, rock  of singers, revel

and  roll like  roller coaster: Level

your  high rising  mind and  mood

in tune  with  the  roars of  black hood                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

of watery  sheets  off  fossils

 and rood like  avid gossips.                       

The  sea thrills in the company

Of lonely ,  meditative,  to  accompany               

Its  true, warm  friends  who  sail

In the  same  boat of  steady   mail.                           

        

He draws Inspiration

        He  draws inspiration.

  In the Frisbee  like  breadcrumb,

Layer of  yesterday  protection  of the thumb,

He  draws   a  typical  layout ,

Of his  dream   and dignity  tout.

He   refuses  to  put it

In the   Mouth, holds it

On the  artistic  brush

And to  breathe life  and blush.

                                                                                    

Every breaking wave..

  Every  breaking  wave

Every  breaking  wave has its  verve

For  the  frothy  foam is  the  recurrent

Breath of life’s   nodes .

The  watery  free play  has its

Roots   in the throb of  the Blue.

Ageless, ceaseless   and  fathomless,

It  nullifies  man’s  angst  less.

For   his  is  a   self-made  conflict.

The turgid flow of  man’s pride

Runs   behind   the  dashing  waves.

Ocean  is   a   huge  gyrating  hawk.

Love speaks

 Love  speaks.

Love tapped in my shoulders, then,

Slowly in my  dream, as if giving us

A wake up call.  I am  not  Dead , nor

A deadwood, but   a feeling not eschewed

But propagated in  all circles.  Poets,

Writers, thinkers and  artists embellished :

All enthroned me and some even condoned me

According  to their moods.  I did  not  wail,

For  I  know  the nature of  the world.

 They call me a  Red Rose, or  Blue

Or  white as serenity sometimes 

A  black rose or  deadly corroding evil.

I cannot define myself for  the concept

Itself is   conundrum. But  still I go on

Like  a  rivulet  or stream.

     In my own  house.

In my own  house, everywhere,

Every cupboard  overflows

With   books  of  ancient galore,

and  modernity ,both  for

Teaching   and  Research

And  Knowledge  to  update

With  the current  affairs.

Only  enough Time is  not

For  me. Why  Time  should

Care  for  my  avocations?

Occupations. It  flies  on its

Scheduled  Wings  and

Predestined  Chart.

 I sit   and  ruminate,

 In my yesteryear, in  my

Palatial  house of  grandparents

Books  were  there. Upanishads

Vedas   and Puranas  rich

In  grandsire’s   room  and

How  he  divided  his time

Between  cows   and milking

and greens   and  drawing  water

filling  tubs.  My grandmother

a  devout, patient  woman,

silent  sufferer. I read  her

example, a  notable   Book

for  me. This  book  lives 

with  me, going  before me.

  

Bards and places of Historic Grandeur.

       Bards  and  Historic  Grandeur.

In  every country, every history,

Every era, Bards  are revered  

With  laurels  and  honours

to  be  recognised.  With

Warp  and  weave of  fertile

Imagination, they work  the

Expertise  poetic  craft.

  London! the  pride of  great

 Bardic   poets and  rich  legacy

Of  Monarchy  and   Westminster

Abbey   and  tombs  and  monuments .

Ye!  also  preserve  the Glory

and   perpetuation of  victory

of  kings   and warriors   and 

queens   and  reigning  sceptres .

In  India  too,  the battlefield

Is the  celebrated  place of  Janana

Or  wisdom   and realization.

For   the  kings  like  Ashoka,

The  realization  of  loss of  blood

And necessity of abrogation of

Enmity   stuck in the   war field.

Batons   and   swords    admirably

Were  nullified  by Peace.

Bow  before  them  all.

Nourish   the  path 

And   hoist  the flag

Of  Victory.